He began to walk to and fro, instinctively fighting the cold, with all his mind absorbed in Miskodeed's little tragedy; but presently the thought of Helen came to him, and he walked quickly to where Jean Bènard still knelt in the snow. The trapper's face was hidden in his mittened hands. For a moment Stane hesitated, then he placed a hand on the man's shoulder.
"Jean Bènard," he said quietly, "there is work to do."
Bènard rose slowly to his feet, and in the little light reflected from the snow Stane read the grief of the man's heart in his face.
"Oui! m'sieu! We must her bury; ma petite Miskodeed."
"That, yes! But there is other work."
"I could not endure to tink dat zee wolves get her——"
"I will help you, Jean. And then you will help me."
"Non! m'sieu. Help I do not need. I weel myself do zee las' duty for ma pauvre Miskodeed. My hands that would haf held an' fondled her, dey shall her prepare; an' I dat would haf died for her—I shall her bury. You, m'sieu, shall say zee prayer, for I haf not zee religion, but——"
"Call me when you are ready!" interrupted Stane, and turned away, finding the situation intolerably poignant.
He went to the hut, and busied himself with the meal which the trapper had been preparing, and presently Jean Bènard called him.