"I've got the flour inside of me, Thoreau—you've got the moose-bird.
Isn't that fair?"
The plate dropped between them. Over it their hands met in a great, clutching grip, and up from Jan's heart there welled words which almost burst from his lips in voice, words which rang in his brain, and which were an unspoken prayer—"Mélisse, I thank the great God that it is this man whom you love!" But it was in silence that he staggered to his feet and went out into the gloom.
"This may be only a lull in the storm," he said. "We must lose no time.
How long did you travel before you made this camp?"
"About ten hours," said Dixon. "I made due west by compass until I knew that I had passed Lac Bain, and then struck north."
"Ah, you have the compass," cried Jan, his eyes lighting up. "M'seur Dixon, we are very near to the post if you camped so soon! Tell me which is north."
"That is north."
"Then we go south—south and east. If you traveled ten hours, first west and then north, we are northwest of Lac Bain."
Jan spoke no more, but got his rifle from the shelter and put only the tea and two pails in his pack; leaving the remaining blanket upon the snow. The Englishman followed close behind him, bending weakly under the weight of his gun. Tediously they struggled to the top of the ridge, and as Jan stopped to look through the gray day about him, Dixon sank down into the snow. When the other turned toward him he grinned up feebly into his face.
"Bushed," he gasped. "Don't believe I can make it through this snow,
Thoreau."
There was no fear in his eyes; there was even a cheerful ring in his voice.