“On’y a big stone i’ m’ ribs.”
“Shove’t out o’ y’r ribs ’en an’ ’old y’r tongue.”
Profound slumber stopped the conversation at this point, and the frogs that croaked and whistled in the swamps had it all to themselves.
Deep tranquillity reigned on the shores of Lake Winnipeg during the midnight hours, for the voices of the frogs served rather to accent than to disturb the calm. Stars twinkled at their reflections in the water, which extended like a black mirror to the horizon. They gave out little light, however, and it was not until the upper edge of the full moon arose that surrounding objects became dimly visible. The pale light edged the canoe, silvered the rocks, tipped the rushes, and at last, touching the point of Ian’s upturned nose, awoke him. (See Frontispiece).
He leaped up with a start instantly, conscious of his situation, and afraid lest he had slept too long.
“Hi! lève! lève! awake! up!” he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone.
Victor growled, turned on his other side with a deep sigh, wanted to be let alone, became suddenly conscious, and sprang up in alarm.
“We’re too late!”
“No, we’re not, Vic. The moon is just rising, but we must be stirring. Time’s precious.”
Victor required no urging. He was fully alive to the situation. A few minutes sufficed to get the canoe ready and roll up their blankets, during the performance of which operations they each ate several substantial mouthfuls of pemmican.