Now came something which has ever left a great wonder in my mind—one of those turns of chance which come in the most desperate straits. For, when my bonds had been removed, Ruth took from its skin wrappings a little book and showed it to me.
"I found this in the lodge," she said slowly. "Look upon the title-page, Davie, and see if I have been dreaming or not. It seems very hard to believe."
The book was a little leather-bound Bible. As the Cree woman put a flare of birch on the fire, I held it to the light and opened it. There in faded ink were words written, and I copy them from the Book which lies before me as I write. They were in the Dutch tongue, and as follows:
"To Hendrik, to bear with him always in the desert places, that he may make straight in the wilderness a highway for our God. From his beloved wife. A.D. 1605."
And under this, in a firm writing that bespoke strength, were the English words, "Henry Hudson, his book." I stared again, scarce crediting the thing, then looked up to meet the grave, fearful eyes of Ruth. We had both heard the story many a time—how the bold sailor had been set adrift in an open boat, with his son and a few faithful ones, and how they had vanished. Just a century since, 1610, had this thing taken place, and no word had ever come to England of Henry Hudson, through all the years between.
"Then," I almost whispered, "think you that this was really his? How came it here?"
"It speaks for itself," and Ruth dropped beside me and fingered the Book reverently. "Think of it, Davie! In the midst of the wilderness, in the midst of foes, to come into an empty lodge and find this thing! Does it not seem like a message of faith and hope?"
"As to that," I responded, "like enough. But I was thinking on the marvel of it, Ruth. It must even be that Hudson, who was thought to have perished in the waters of the Great Bay, escaped to land. Else how could this Bible have come here? How could Gib have obtained it? Perhaps from the Indians."
With this I turned to Laughing Snow and questioned her closely. But she disclaimed all knowledge of the Book, and said that never before the coming of Radisson had white faces been seen in the northern lands.
For a time we discussed the wonder, failing to gain any information from the Cree woman, but my bandaged head hurt painfully, and after the first surprise I leaned back, faint and weak. Then Ruth took the little volume, warped and stained with time and sea-water, and read to us aloud. As she read, she translated into Cree for the benefit of the other.