Kazan's alert eyes saw Pierre start suddenly. He rose from his seat on the sledge and went to the tent. He drew back the flap and thrust in his head and shoulders. "Asleep, Joan?" he asked. "Almost, father. Won't you please come--soon?" "After I smoke," he said. "Are you comfortable?" "Yes, I'm so tired--and--sleepy--" Pierre laughed softly. In the darkness he was gripping at his throat. "We're almost home, Joan. That is our river out there--the Little Beaver. If I should run away and leave you to-night you could follow it right to our cabin. It's only forty miles. Do you hear?" "Yes--I know--" "Forty miles--straight down the river. You couldn't lose yourself, Joan. Only you'd have to be careful of air-holes in the ice." "Won't you come to bed, father? You're tired--and almost sick." "Yes--after I smoke," he repeated. "Joan, will you keep reminding me to-morrow of the air-holes? I might forget. You can always tell them, for the snow and the crust over them are whiter than that on the rest of the ice, and like a sponge. Will you remember--the airholes--" "Yes-s-s-s--" Pierre dropped the tent-flap and returned to the fire. He staggered as he walked. "Good night, boy," he said. "Guess I'd better go in with the kids. Two days more--forty miles--two days--" Kazan watched him as he entered the tent. He laid his weight against the end of his chain until the collar shut off his wind. His legs and back twitched. In that tent where Radisson had gone were Joan and the baby. He knew that Pierre would not hurt them, but he knew also that with Pierre Radisson something terrible and impending was hovering very near to them. He wanted the man outside--by the fire--where he could lie still, and watch him. In the tent there was silence. Nearer to him than before came Gray Wolf's cry. Each night she was calling earlier, and coming closer to the camp. He wanted her very near to him to-night, but he did not even whine in response. He dared not break that strange silence in the tent. He lay still for a long time, tired and lame from the day's journey, but sleepless. The fire burned lower; the wind in the tree-tops died away; and the thick gray clouds rolled like a massive curtain from under the skies. The stars began to glow white and metallic, and from far in the North there came faintly a crisping moaning sound, like steel sleigh-runners running over frosty snow--the mysterious monotone of the Northern Lights. After that it grew steadily and swiftly colder.