"I not doubt dat, m'sieu. You haf zee prize to watch for, but I——"
He turned away without finishing his sentence, and Stane resumed his sentry go, stopping from time to time to view the long expanse of the snow-covered lake, and to search the woods along the shore. As the time passed without bringing any change, and as the unbroken surface of the snow mocked him with its emptiness, he grew sick at heart, and a feverish anxiety mounted within him. He felt utterly helpless, and a fear that Chief George had lied, and had deliberately misled them, grew in him till it reached the force of conviction. Watching that empty valley of the lake, he felt, was a waste of time. To be doing nothing, when Helen was being hurried to be knew not what fate, was torture to him. It would, he thought, be better to go back on their trail, and endeavour to pick up that of the kidnappers, since that way they would at least be sure that they were on the right lines. So strongly did this idea appeal to him, that he turned down the trail to the camp to propose the plan to his companion. But when he turned the corner of the cliff, it was to find Jean Bènard fast asleep in front of the fire, and though his first impulse was to waken him, he refrained, remembering how tired the man must be, and how necessary it was that he should be as fresh as possible when the moment for action arrived.
"No," he whispered, as he looked at the bent form of the sleeping man. "I will wait one hour, and then we will decide."
He himself was beginning to feel the strain of the steady marching to and fro, and decided that it would be wise to spare himself as much as possible. Accordingly he seated himself by the fire, contenting himself by walking to the top of the trail to view the lake at intervals of from twelve to fifteen minutes. Twice he did this and the second time was made aware of a change in the atmosphere. It had grown much colder and as he turned the corner of the cliff a gust of icy-wind smote him in the face. He looked downwards. The surface of the lake was still barren of life; but not of movement. Films of snow, driven by the gusty wind, drove down its narrow length, were lifted higher and then subsided as the wind fell. Overhead the sky was of a uniform leaden hue and he knew that before long there would be snow. And if snow came——
His heart stood almost still at the thought. It might snow for days, and in the storm, when all trails would be obliterated it would be an easy matter to miss Helen and her captors altogether. As he returned to the fire, his mind was full of forebodings. He was afraid, and though Jean Bènard slept on, he himself could not rest. He made up the fire, prepared bacon and moose meat for cooking, set some coffee to boil. It would be as well to have a meal in case the necessity for a start should arise. These things done he went once more to the outlook, and surveyed the snow-covered landscape. The wind was still for the moment, and there were no wandering wisps of snow. His first glance was towards the creek opposite the island. There was nothing there to arrest attention. His eyes travelled further without any light of expectation in them. Creek by creek, bay by bay, he followed the shore line, then, in a second, his gaze grew fixed. The lake was no longer devoid of life. Far-off, at least ten miles, as he swiftly calculated, a blur of black dots showed on the surface of the snow. Instantly he knew it for what it was—a team of sled dogs. His heart leaped at the sight, and the next moment he was running towards the camp.
"Jean! Jean!" he cried. "Jean Bènard!"
The sleeping man passed from slumber to full wakefulness with the completeness that characterizes a healthy child.
"Ah, m'sieu," he said, standing upright. "Dey haf arrive?"
"I do not know. But there is a dog-train a long way up the lake."
"I weel tak' one look," said the trapper, beginning to walk quickly towards the head of the trail.