“He wants you to see the chief of the tribe, no doubt,” said Fred; “you’d better go in at once.”
A loud voice shouted something in the Esquimaux language from within the hut. At the sound Fred’s heart beat violently, and pushing past the mate he crept through the tunnelled entrance and stood within. There was little furniture in this rude dwelling. A dull flame flickered in a stone lamp which hung from the roof, and revealed the figure of a large Esquimaux reclining on a couch of skins at the raised side of the hut.
The man looked up hastily as Fred entered, and uttered a few unintelligible words.
“Father!” cried Fred, gasping for breath, and springing forward.
Captain Ellice, for it was indeed he, started with apparent difficulty and pain into a sitting posture, and, throwing back his hood, revealed a face whose open, hearty, benignant expression shone through a coat of dark brown which long months of toil and exposure had imprinted on it. It was thin, however, and careworn, and wore an expression that seemed to be the result of long-continued suffering.
“Father!” he exclaimed in an earnest tone; “who calls me father?”
“Don’t you know me, Father?—don’t you remember Fred?—look at—”
Fred checked himself, for the wild look of his father frightened him.
“Ah! these dreams,” murmured the old man, “I wish they did not come so—”
Placing his hand on his forehead he fell backwards in a state of insensibility into the arms of his son.