"You think so?" Natsatt questioned.
"Ah, ah. Klitonda knows what the Chilcats would do."
"But the white men have come. They have built a Post at the mouth of the Segas River. They have goods, and will trade with the Ayana. They will give fair prices for their skins."
Klitonda started at these words, and looked keenly into Natsatt's face.
"Does the white man speak true?" he demanded. "Does he mean all he says?"
"Yes, yes; it is true. The Post has been built, and the white men are there. I was sent out with another trader to visit some of the Indian camps, to invite them to bring their furs to the Post. My companion went more to the right, while I followed the river and got lost in the storm. I hope nothing has happened to him."
Slowly Klitonda shook his head.
"Let the white men beware," he replied. "The Chilcats are fierce."
And yet within his own heart Klitonda rejoiced at what he had just heard. He himself could take his furs to the white men, and he determined to get as many as possible of his own people to do the same. He would let them know of the new Post, and he felt quite sure that they would visit the place out of mere curiosity at least as soon as the ice moved out of the river.
Natsatt pondered carefully what Klitonda had told him. The news was disturbing. He thought of the trading Post down the river, devoid of defence, should the Chilcats make trouble. It was his duty to return as speedily as possible, and report what he had heard. And yet he did not wish to leave the lodge. He longed to stay, to be near this beautiful maiden. He leaned comfortably back against a pile of skins, and watched her busy fingers as they ran the beads upon the slender sinew thread. The storm still roared outside, the fire crackled, and the heat made him drowsy. Yes, he must hasten away; he must not delay. But those hands fascinated him. How little they were, and yet how strong. And that thread upon which the beads were slipping brought to his mind a quaint fancy. It was his life, bare and lonely, stretching out through more than a score of years. But how changed it had become of late. What a transformation had taken place. Various colours, red and blue, green and orange, all blending so naturally. And it was she who did it. Yes, his life was like that thread, and she was working the change, transforming bareness into beauty, sweet peace and harmony for the spirit of restlessness. He wished to stay there forever, to be close to her side, to look into her eyes, and to watch those wonderful fingers. Far away now she seemed—fading from his sight—and as she moved there floated upon his ears the sound of singing, sweeter than the song of a bird, and more entrancing than any thing he had ever heard. Was it a dream?