“Seigneur,” said he, looking up at the sky, “where is Thy guerdon for what hath not been? Receive the soul of this man, and let the stars sing him welcome, and bid St. Michael make a place for him beside Thee; it was not his to seek the grails of pomp and power, for like Thee he knew how weak is strength, and how truth and justice fare not with the strong. Welcome him, Seigneur, for his sure faith in all the things that are not seen; and let the troublesome winds be hushed for him who was a better man than we here left behind. Curam teneamus.”
“Ay,” murmured Crawford. “We’ll remember you, Phelim—and so shall Maclish!”
So there slept Sir Phelim Burke na Murtha, and the long ululation of his Irishmen lifted in a doleful wail of mourning among the trees.
CHAPTER II
A KNIFE DOES DIFFERENT THINGS IN DIFFERENT HANDS
In the heart of this northland wilderness, set amid trees like a green crystal jewel, was a hard-frozen little lake, solidly rimmed in by heavy evergreens, its ice blown clear and smooth by the keen winds. To-day it was calm and deathly still; the very air seemed heavy, bitter with the doom of men, chilled by the unseen breath which struck so terribly. In the centre of the lake thrust up a tiny islet of bare and jagged rock, now blown partially grey and naked, now cloaked with masses of ice. About the edge of this islet the first ice of winter had been flung up to form fantastic ridges and caverns.
This was the Spirit Lake. In this spot, to-day, was being enacted a singular and frightful drama, the more terrible because of its uncanny certainty, its mystery, its silence and absolute precision. The lake and islet were not sacred to peace, for no spot in this land was untouched of blood; but the islet, being the abode of spirits, was shunned by common consent. The red men did not like the looks of it on general principles.
No canoe furrowed this lake in summer. Around it for league on league were to be seen neither lodge-poles of the living nor tree-scaffolds of the dead. To north and northwest roamed the Stone Men; when they came down into this country of lakes and streams to seek game, they encountered the parties of Dacotah upsurging from the south. To the east, yet keeping careful distance, roved the Crees. The Sauteurs or Chippewas also came up from the south, but these kept out of strife, standing neutral between Stone Men and Dacotah. While this islet in the Spirit Lake was a good place for young warriors to seek medicine and dream dreams, most of them preferred other quarters for this work.
It was still morning when the heavy green rim of the icebound lake gave birth to the figure of a man clad in wool capote and sash, short wide snowshoes slung over shoulder; he was followed by a second in like guise, both carrying French fusils. They were Sauteurs, belonging to a band out on winter hunt. They had no enemy to fear, yet approached the islet warily. Their reason for this approach was a faint trail across the smooth ice, a trail as of sharp caribou hooves which here and there had slipped or left distinct marks on the glassy surface.
These two hunters gradually drew closer to the islet, toward which ran the trail in a direct and undeviating line; that actual hunger drove them to follow such a trail was evident in their gaunt and famished aspect. Their eyes searched the jutting mass of ice and rock with sharp suspicion and wonder. To all appearance the islet was empty of life. Now the leading warrior drew near to the ice-rimmed shore, his brown features wrinkled by some indefinable perplexity, by a half-sensed warning. He came to the fantastic line of icy hummocks, looked down to be sure the caribou trail led into them, then slowly strode in among their masses. He vanished instantly. The second warrior stopped short, uttered a low word, put hand to fusil. Something flashed red in the air, a streak of vivid scarlet cutting athwart the blue sky. The Sauteur clutched at his throat and toppled over; he lay motionless, dead ere he struck the ice, the shaft of a crimson arrow protruding from his gullet.
Some little time elapsed. Then, although no sign of living men appeared, there was a movement at the islet’s verge—something uncoiled, mounted in the air. Out toward the prostrate figure shot a thin hide rope, unlooping and flying with the certainty of a darting snake. Its noose caught on the upturned foot of the dead man. The rope drew taut, the body slowly slid in toward the shore, still tightly gripping the fusil, and there vanished from sight. All was silent again, motionless, breathless.