"Kay! Look!" she gasped.
For the response had been instant. Down through the tree-tops sheered the huge bird, the air shrilling through his pinions, and struck the solid ground and set his yellow claws in it, grasping the soil of the Old World with mighty talons. Then he turned his superb head and looked fearlessly upon his two compatriots.
"Manitou! Manitou!" whispered the girl. And crept toward him on her knees, nearer, nearer, until her slim outstretched hand rested on his silver crest.
"Good God!" said McKay in the low tones of reverence.
McKay had drawn a duplicate of his route-map on thin glazed paper.
Evelyn Erith had finished a duplicate copy of his notes and reports.
Of these and the trinkets of the late Sir W. Blint they made two flat packets, leaving one of them unsealed to receive the brief letter which McKay had begun:
"Dear Lady Blint—
It is not necessary to ask the wife of Sir W. Blint to have courage.
He died as he had lived—a fine and fearless British sportsman.