“Huh! Something! Indian think,” grunted Thomas, sniffing like the dogs. “Indian, eh?” said the missionary sharply. “By Jove, it couldn’t be——” he paused, looking at Paul. Quickly the boy’s hands went to his lips, he threw back his head and flung out into the storm a long weird call. Thomas glanced quickly at him. “Chippewayan,” he grunted. Faintly and as if from a long way to the lake side came a similar call. “Peter!” exclaimed Paul, setting off in the direction of the call. The missionary caught and held him fast. “Hold on! Let’s be sure! Call again.” Once more, Paul with his hands to mouth uttered his call and again from the lake came the faint response. “From there, eh?” said the missionary, pointing north-west. “_Oui!_” said Thomas, pointing a little farther north. “Indian there!” But already the boy was off into the blinding drift. “Hold up, you young fool! We must keep together,” cried the missionary, dashing after him. “Follow up, Thomas, with the dogs,” he shouted. Not a sign of the boy could he get, but keeping the line of direction carefully he ran with all his speed, listening intently as he ran. Again there came on the storm wind the long weird call. “More to the left,” he muttered, swinging off in that direction, but keeping up his pace. A few minutes of hard running, and through a break in the drifting storm he caught a glimpse of a huddled group of snow-sheeted spectral figures, and in the midst of them Paul holding in his arms a woman, tall and swaying in the storm like a wind-blown sapling. Clinging to the young man was a child, a little girl, and near by a boy stood, sturdily independent. Instantly the missionary took command. “Here, Thomas!” he shouted, starting back on his tracks. Soon he met the Indian with the two dog teams, coming along at a gallop. “We have them here, Thomas. Let us make camp at the big headland. Quick! Quick!” Round the little group the Indian swung the teams. “Get her on to the toboggan, Paul,” ordered the missionary. “We camp at the headland. Good shelter and good wood. Only hurry, for God’s sake, and follow me.” The woman sank without a word onto one of the toboggans, the little girl upon the other, the boy scorning to ride. And rescued and rescuers made for camp. Dazed, stupid, devoid of sensation or emotion, Paul trolled after the last toboggan, but through his head the words kept time to his feet: “He maketh the clouds His chariot; He rideth upon the wings of the wind.” And he knew that they were true. CHAPTER XVII