"Mebbe you don' lak remembaire somet'ing lak dat in your own countree! Eh, dat so, M'sieu Burke?"
Terence frowned. Baptiste's smile grew more mischievous as he continued:
"Te souvient-il de cette amie,
Douce compagne de ma vie?
Dans les bois, en cueillant la fleur Jolie,
Hélène appuyait sur mon cœur. Son cœur.
Oh, qui rendra mon Hélène,
Et la montagne, et le grand chêne?
Leur souvenir fait tous les jours ma peine.
Mon pays sera mes amours. Toujours!"
The latter half of the day wore to a desolate grayness. The Hudson's Bay force was now in Nor'west country, and a strict lookout had to be maintained. Night approached quickly as the sun dipped. Maskwa, keeping closer to the main body, signaled that he had found something. Dunvegan ran up to him hastily.
The Indian stood pointing to the tracks made by a single person on snowshoes. The marks lay diagonally across their line of progress.
"Strong Father, see," Maskwa requested.
"Some trapper," commented the chief trader. "The shoes are Ojibway pattern."
"Yes," assented Maskwa, quietly. "I made the shoes."
Dunvegan scanned him sharply in the gathering dark.