“It is so!” agreed the corporal.
“And tomorrow comes the spring and new life,” said the Indian thoughtfully. “That is the way, always death on the heels of life, and life on the heels of death.” He jerked his head towards the camp. “The woman nurses the man who dies, what is she to him?”
“She is his wife.”
“But she loves him not. I have watched her, I have seen the light in her eyes.” He broke off abruptly, and again waved his hand towards the river. “But the spring comes, and with the spring comes life and the kindling of the heart.”
Roger Bracknell looked towards the river. He knew that the Indian’s words were true, but he offered no comment on them. Instead he watched the water running on the ice, and after a minute he asked abruptly, “How long will the ice hold, Sibou?”
The Indian shook his head.
“That is not to be told.” He pointed across the river to where a tributary stream flowed into the main river. “The water comes down there and adds to the strength of this. It may break the ice here, and spread over the surface. Listen.”
The corporal listened. The air was full of an indescribable sound, a moaning and growling, quite different to the sound of the soft wind in the trees.
“Already the water fights for the mastery,” said Sibou, “and tomorrow it may have won.”