‘Death lies yonder, I doubt not,’ he said, pointing to the forest, ‘while here there is the possibility—a mere possibility—that we may outlive our troubles; that some luckier band of emigrants may come this way to succour us before we expire. But I tell you frankly, my friends, that I can’t stand this sort of life three days longer—to sit down and wait for death, arms folded, without so much as a pipe of tobacco to lull the fever in one’s brain. _That_ needs a Roman courage which I possess not. I shall not trouble your hospitality much longer.’ ‘What will you do?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Push ahead. I have my chart here,’ touching his forehead. ‘I shall push on towards the Pacific with no better guide than the stars. I can but perish; better to be frozen to death on the march—like a team of sleigh-dogs I saw once by the Saskatchewan, standing stark and stiff in the snow, as their drivers had left them—than to sit and doze by the fire here till Death comes in his slowest and most hideous shape—death by famine.’ ‘You had better stay with us and share our chances,’ said Lucius; ‘our guide may even yet return.’ ‘Yes,’ answered Matchi, ‘at the general muster roll, with the rank and file of the dead.’ His words were strangely belied ere that brief day darkened into night. The four men were sitting huddled round the fire, smoking their final pipe—for Matchi had now shared among them the last remnant of his tobacco—when a curious hollow cry, like the plaintive note of a distressed bird, was heard in the distance. Lucius was the first to divine its meaning. ‘Kekek-ooarsis!’ he cried, starting to his feet. ‘He has come back at last. Thank God! thank God!’ The call was repeated, this time distinctly human. ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that’s the identical flute.’ He ran to the door of the hut. Lucius snatched up one of the blazing pine-branches from the hearth, and went out, waving this fiery brand aloft, and shouting in answer to the Indian’s cry. In this moment of glad surprise and hope the man’s return meant succour, comfort, plenty. Too soon were they to be undeceived. He emerged from among the shadowy branches, half limping, half crawling towards them across the snow, which was solid enough to bear that light burden without the faintest impression on its frozen surface. He came into the glare of the pine-branch, a wasted ghastly figure, more spectral than their own—the very image and type of famine. He came back to them empty-handed. No dogs or horses followed him. He came, not to bring them the means of life, but to die with them. The faithful creature crawled about them like a dog, hugged their knees, laid his wasted body at their feet, looked up at them with supplicating eyes, too feeble for words. They carried him into the hut, put him by the fire, and gave him food, which he devoured like a famished wolf.