As he gave vent to the exclamation, he pointed excitedly up the lake, two miles beyond the island, the neighbourhood of which Stane had gazed at so often and hopelessly during the last three hours. A dog-train had broken from the wood, and taken to the surface of the lake, three men accompanying it.
"Chigmok! Behold, m'sieu!"
On a mutual impulse they turned and running back to the camp, began hurriedly to harness the dogs to the sledge. A few minutes later they were on the move, and turning the corner of the cliff began the descent towards the lake. As they did so both glanced at the direction of the sled they were pursuing. It was moving straight ahead, fairly close in shore, having evidently sought the level surface of the lake for easier travelling. More than that they had not leisure to notice, for the descent to the lake was steep, and it required the weight and skill of both to keep the sled from overrunning the dogs, but in the space of four minutes it was accomplished, and with a final rush they took the level trail of the lake's frozen and snow-covered surface. As they did so a gust of wind brought a scurry of snow in their faces, and Bènard looked anxiously up into the sky.
"By-an'-by it snow like anythin', m'sieu. We must race to catch Chigmok b'fore it come."
Without another word he stepped ahead, and began to make the trail for the dogs, whilst Stane took the gee-pole to guide the sledge. Bènard bent to his task and made a rattling pace, travelling in a bee-line for their quarry, since the lake's surface offered absolutely no obstructions. Stane at the gee-pole wondered how long he could keep it up, and from time to time glanced at the sled ahead, which, seen from the same level, now was half-hidden in a mist of snow. He noted with satisfaction that they seemed to be gaining on it; and rejoiced to think that, as Jean Bènard's dogs were in fine mettle and absolutely fresh, they could not be long before they overhauled it. Presently the trapper stopped to rest, and Stane himself moved ahead.
"I will take a turn at trail-breaking," he said, "and do you run behind, Jean."
It was a different matter going ahead of the dogs on the unbroken snow. In a little time his muscles began to ache intolerably. It seemed as if the ligaments of the groin were being pulled by pincers, and the very bone of the leg that he had broken, seemed to burn with pain. But again, as on the previous night, he set his teeth, and defied the dreaded mal de roquette. New hope sustained him; before him, within sight as he believed, was the girl, whom, in the months of their wilderness sojourn, he had learned to love, and who on the previous night (how long ago it seemed!) in the face of imminent death, had given herself to him unreservedly. His blood quickened at the remembrance. He ignored the pangs he was enduring. The sweat, induced by the violent exertion froze on eyebrows and eyelashes, but he ignored the discomfort, and pressed on, the snow swirling past his ankles in a miniature storm. Twice or thrice he lifted his bent head and measured the distance between him and the quarry ahead. It was, he thought nearer, and cheered, he bent his body again to the nerve-racking toil.
Half an hour passed, and though the wind was rising steadily, blowing straight in their teeth and adding greatly to their labours, the snow kept off. They were still gaining slowly, creeping forward yard by yard, the men with the train ahead apparently unaware of their pursuit. Then they struck the trail made by their quarry and the work became less arduous and the pace quickened.
"By gar!" cried Bènard as they hit the trail, "we get dem now, dey make zee trail for us."
"Yes," answered Stane, his eyes ablaze with excitement.