"Where's your mate--François?" asked Donald again. "And what's the matter with you--scurvy?"
"François," answered the Boy hesitatingly, for days of wound-fever had clouded his young brain,--"François? oh, yes, I remember--he went to The Landing long ago."
"And left a kid like that here alone!" cried Donald's companion.
"What's the matter with your leg--scurvy?" asked the leader again.
"My leg? yes, it's sore--awfully sore. Sometimes I dream that it's another person, and I talk to it."
"What's the matter with it?" the man reiterated huskily, pulling the roll of a fur cap down over his eyes to hide something, for the little, pale, pinched face, backed by a mass of yellow knotted hair, made him feel queer.
"My leg? oh, yes--yes, there was so much snow, and I slipped, and the axe cut it."
"Better get in the blankets, Laddie;" and standing his rifle against the wall Donald reached down with his strong arms to lift up Roderick.
The little fellow shrank away, and clasped the Moose's head closer. Mooswa's big ears were flipping back and forth nervously; he knew that something was being settled, and lay still, waiting.
"Come, Laddie," said the big man again, coaxingly, "don't be afraid; don't you remember me?--I worked for your daddy, old Factor McGregor, at Fort Resolution--Donald Bain is my name."