A sudden glow leaped into Jan's face.
"I know this ridge," he exclaimed. "It runs within a mile of Lac Bain.
You'd better leave your rifle behind."
Dixon made an effort to rise and Jan helped him. They went on slowly, resting every few hundred yards, and each time that he rose from these periods of rest, Dixon's face was twisted with pain.
"It's the flour and water anchored amidships," he smiled grimly.
"Cramps—Ugh!"
"We'll make it by supper-time," assured Jan cheerfully.
Dixon leaned heavily on his arm.
"I wish you'd go on alone," he urged. "You could send help—"
"I promised Mélisse that I would bring you back if I found you," replied Jan, his face turned away. "If the storm broke again, you would be lost."
"Tell me—tell me—" he heard Dixon pant eagerly, "did she send you to hunt for me, Thoreau?"
Something in the Englishman's voice drew his eyes to him. There was an excited flush in his starved cheeks; his eyes shone.