The little blind girl moved quickly to the old chief’s side, passed her fingers over the hard bronze face. “I love my mother’s father,” she said gently, “and my mother’s people. You were all so good, so good to me. But—but——” here the tears ran down from the beautiful sightless eyes, “my mother gave me to Paul. I—I—oh! I must go with Paul.” The chief stood staring toward the spruce trees, his face fixed in every line. “It is good,” he said. “I shall go back to my people with my dead—alone! My heart is cold. Soon the light in my eyes will become night and in my ears will be no song of the Singing Water.” Then, with a sudden and stern solemnity, he turned to Paul. “They have given their hands to you. You are their chief. The chief hunts, fights, lives, dies for his people. Will you?” He thrust his eagle face into Paul’s, his fierce old eyes piercing to the young man’s very soul. Not for an instant did Paul flinch or falter, but, giving glance for glance, and yet with a grave and gentle courtesy, made answer, “I have promised.” For some moments the eyes of each held the other’s, then sweeping in one all-embracing gesture earth and sky, the old chief intoned as in a solemn ritual, “The sun, the sky, the earth, these have heard. These will remember. The eyes of the Great Spirit are never shut. They will follow the trail through the forests, over the mountains and down the valleys, while the winds blow and the rivers run.” For a moment he held Paul’s hand in his, then gave both hands to the boy Peter, kissing him on both cheeks. For a long time he stood, obviously striving to get hold of himself, then, in a voice that in spite of his iron control faltered and broke, he said, “Come, Singing Water.” With a cry the child sprang toward him. Lifting her in his arms he kissed her eyes, her forehead, her lips, while she clung sobbing. Then giving her to Paul he turned away. With stately grace he waved farewell to the group at the missionary’s door, and, followed by his six tall Chippewayans, he set his face toward his own North land, with never a look behind, taking his dead with him. CHAPTER XIX “How do you like your young cowboy, McConnell?” “Oh, all right, Starr. Seems a nice quiet young fellow.” The two men were smoking on the verandah of Sergeant Starr’s neat little house at the Mounted Police Headquarters. They were old friends, such friends as Western men become who have stood by each other when life and death were in the game. “He is all that. I owe him something,” said the sergeant. “Oh, that’s all right, Starr. I’ll straighten that out. How much?” said the big Irish rancher. “How much? Hot much,” replied the sergeant. “Only my life.” “Mother o’ Moses! Let’s have ut!” McConnell had a habit in moments of excitement of reverting to the speech of his childhood. “Well, it is something of a story. Have you time for it?”