A slow illumination filled the cabin, first the yellow flare of a match and then the light of a lamp, and as Father John's waxen face grew out of the darkness Peter whimpered and whined and scratched with, his paws at the closed door.
Oosimisk, the Leaf Bud, stood like a statue, with her wide, dark eyes staring at Father John, but scarcely seeming to breathe.
In the old Missioner's face came a trembling smile and a look of triumph as he read the fear-written question in her steady gaze,
“All is well, Oosimisk,” he said quietly, speaking in Cree. “They are safely away, and will not be caught. Continue with your duties and let no one see that anything unusual has happened. Breault will come very soon.”
He straightened his shoulders, as if to give himself confidence and strength, and then he called Peter, and comforted the dog whose master and mistress were fleeing through the dark.
“They have reached the pool,” he said, seating himself and holding Peter's shaggy head between his hands. “They have just about reached the pool, and Breault must be entering the clearing on the other side. Roger cannot miss the canoe—twenty paces down and with nothing to shadow it overhead; I think he has found it by this time, and in another half minute they will be off. And it is very black down the Burntwood, with deep timber close to the water, and for many miles no man can follow by night along its shores.” Suddenly his hands tightened, and the Leaf Bud, watching him slyly, saw the last of suspense go out of his face. “And now—they are safe,” he cried exultantly. “They must be on their way—and Breault has not come across the clearing!”
He rose to his feet, and began pacing back and forth, while Peter sniffed yearningly at the door again. Oosimisk, with the caution of her race in moments of danger, was drawing the curtains at the windows, and Father John smiled his approbation. He did not want Breault, the man-hunter, peering through one of the windows at him. Even as he walked back and forth he listened intently for Breault's footsteps. Peter, with a sigh, gave up his scratching and settled himself on his haunches close to Nada's door.
Father John, in passing him, paused to lay a hand on his head.
“Some day it may please God to let us go to them,” he consoled, speaking for himself even more than for Peter. “Some day, when they are far away—and safe.”
He felt Peter suddenly stiffen under his hand, and from the Leaf Bud came a low, swift word of warning.
She began singing softly, and dishes and pans already clean rattled under her hands in the kitchen, and she continued to sing even as the cabin door opened and Breault the man-hunter stood in it.
The unexpectedness of his appearance, without the sound of a warning footstep outside, was amazing even to Peter. In the open door he stood for a moment, his thin, ferret-like face standing out against the black background of the night, and his strange eyes, apparently half closed yet bright as diamonds, sweeping the interior without effort but with the quickness of lightning.
There was something deadly and foreboding about him as he stood here, and Peter growled low in his throat. Recognition flashed upon him in an instant. It was the man of the snow-dune, away up on the Barren, the man whom he had mistrusted from the beginning, and from whom they had fled into the face of the Big Storm months ago. His mind worked swiftly, even as swiftly as Breault's in its way, and without any process of reasoning he sensed menace and enmity in this man's appearance, and associated with it the mysterious flight of Jolly Roger and Nada.
Breault had nodded, without speaking. Then his eyes rested on Peter, and his face broke into a twisted sort of smile. It was not altogether unpleasant, yet was there something about it which made one shiver. It spoke the character of the man, pitiless, determined, omniscient almost, as if the spirit of a grim and unrelenting fate walked with him.
Again he nodded, and held out a hand.
“Peter,” he called. “Come here, Peter!”
Peter flattened his ears a fraction of an inch, but did not move. Even that fraction of an inch caught Breault's keen eyes.
“Still a one-man dog,” he observed, stepping well inside the cabin, and facing Father John. “Where is McKay, Father?”
He had not closed the door, and Peter saw his chance. The Leaf Bud saw him pass like a shot out into the night, but as he went she made no effort to call him back, for her ears were wide open as Breault repeated his question,
“Where is McKay, Father?”
Peter heard the man-hunter's voice from the darkness outside. For barely an instant he paused, picking up the fresh scent of Nada and Jolly Roger. It was easy to follow—straight to the pool, and from the pool twenty paces down-stream, where a little finger of sand and pebbles had been formed by the eddies. In this bar was fresh imprint of the canoe, and here the footprints ended.
Peter whimpered, peering into the tunnel of darkness between forest trees, where the water rippled and gurgled softly on its way into a deeper and more tangled wilderness. He waded belly-deep into the current, half determined to swim; and then he waited, listening intently, but could hear no sound of voice or paddle stroke.
Yet he knew Jolly Roger and Nada could not be far away.
He returned to the edge of the pool, and began sniffing his way down-stream, pausing every two or three minutes to listen. Now and then he caught the presence of those he sought, in the air, but those intervals in which he stopped to catch sound of voice or paddle lost him time, so the canoe was traveling faster than Peter.
Half way between himself and the bow of that canoe McKay could dimly make out Nada's pale face in the star glow that filtered like a mist through the tops of the close-hanging trees.
Scarcely above his breath he laughed in joyous confidence.
“At last my dream is coming true, Nada,” he whispered. “You are mine. And we are going into another world. And no one will ever find us there—no one but Father John, when we send him word. You are not afraid?”
Her voice trembled a little in the gloom.
“No, I am not afraid. But it is dark—so dark—”
“The moon will be with us again in a few nights—your moon, with the Old Man smiling down on us. I know how the Man in the Moon must feel when he's on the other side of the world, and can't see you, Nada.”
Her silence made him lean toward her, striving to get a better view of her face where the starlight broke through an opening in the tree-tops.
And in that moment he heard a little breath that was almost a sob.
“It's Peter,” she said, before he could speak. “Oh, Roger, why didn't we bring Peter?”
“Possibly—we should have,” he replied, skipping a stroke with his paddle. “But I think we have done the best thing for Peter. He is a wilderness dog, and has never known anything different. Over there, where we are going—”
“I understand. And some day, Father John will bring him?”
“Yes. He has promised that. Peter will come to us when Father John comes.”
She had turned, looking into the pit-gloom ahead of them, so dark that the canoe seemed about to drive against a wall. Under its bow the water gurgled like oil.
“We are entering the big cedar swamp,” he explained. “It is like Blind Man's Buff, isn't it? Can you see?”
“Not beyond the bow of the canoe, Roger.”
“Work back to me,” he said, “very carefully.”
She came, obediently.
“Now turn slowly, so that you face the bow, and lean back with your head against my knees.”
This also, she did.
“This is much nicer,” she whispered, nestling her head comfortably against him. “So much nicer.”
By leaning over until his back nearly cracked he was able to find her lips in the darkness.
“I was thinking of the brush that overhangs the stream,” he explained when he had straightened himself. “Sitting up as you were it might have caused you hurt.”
There was a little silence between them, in which his paddle caught again its slow and steady rhythm. Then,
“Were you thinking only of the brush, Roger—and of the hurt it might cause me?”
“Yes, only of that,” and he chuckled softly.
“Then I don't think it nice here at all,” she complained. “I shall sit up straight so the brush may put my eyes out!”
But her head pressed even closer against him, and careful not to interrupt his paddle-stroke she touched his face for an instant with her hand.
“It's there,” she purled, as if utterly comforted. “I wanted to be sure—it is so dark!”
With cimmerian blackness on all sides of them, and a chaotic tunnel ahead, they were happy. Staring straight before him, though utterly unable to see, McKay sensed in every movement he made and in every breath he drew the exquisite thrill of a miracle. And the same thrill swept into him and through him from the softly breathing body of Nada. Light or darkness made no difference now. Together, inseparable from this time forth, they had started on the one great adventure of their lives, and for them fear had ceased to exist. The night sheltered them. Its very blackness held in its embrace a warmth of welcome and of unending hope. Twice in the next half hour he put his hand to Nada's face, and each time she pressed her lips against it, sweet with that confidence which so completely possessed her soul.
Very slowly they moved through the swamp, for because of the gloom his paddle-strokes were exceedingly short, and he was feeling his way. Frequently he ran into brush, or struck the boggy shore, and occasionally Nada would hold lighted matches while he extricated the canoe from tree-tops and driftwood that impeded the way. He loved the brief glimpses he caught of her face in the match-glow, and twice he deliberately wasted the tiny flares that he might hold the vision of her a little longer.
At last he began to feel the pulse of a current against his paddle, and soon after that the star-mist began filtering through the thinning tree-tops again, so that he knew they were almost through the swamp. Another half-hour and they were free of it, with a clear sky overhead and the cheering song of running water on both sides of them.
Nada sat up, and it was now so light that he could see the soft shimmer of her hair in the starlight. He also saw a pretty little grimace in her face, even as she smiled at him.
“I—I can't move,” she exclaimed. “UGH! my feet are asleep—”
“We'll go ashore and stretch ourselves,” said McKay, who had looked at his watch in the light of the last match. “We've two hours the start of Breault, and there is no other canoe.”
He began watching the shore closely, and it was not long before he made out the white smoothness of a sandbar on their right. Here they landed and for half an hour rested their cramped limbs.
Then they went on, and in his heart McKay blessed the deep swamp that lay between them and Breault.
“I don't think he can make it without a canoe, even if he guesses we went this way,” he explained to Nada. “And that means—we are safe.”
There was a cheery ring in his voice which would have changed to the deadness of cold iron could he have looked back into that sluggish pit of the Burntwood through which they had come, or could he have seen into the heart of the still blacker swamp.
For through the swamp, feeling his way in the black abysses and amid the monster-ghosts of darkness, came Peter.
And down the Burntwood, between the boggy mucklips of the swamp, a man followed with slow but deadly surety, guiding with a long pole two light cedar timbers which he had lashed together with wire, and which bore him safely and in triumph where the canoe had gone before him.
This man was Breault, the man-hunter.
“The swamp will hold him!” McKay was saying again, exultantly. “Even if he guesses our way, the swamp will hold him back, Nada.”
“But he won't know the way we have come,” cried Nada, the faith in her voice answering his own. “Father John will guide him in another direction.”
Back in the pit-gloom, with a grim smile now and then relaxing the tight-set compression of his thin lips, and with eyes that stared like a night-owl's into the gloom ahead of him, Breault poled steadily on.
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