All the same, he was uneasy. He stared from ice to islet, paused now and again to touch a medicine bag at his throat, examined the open ice around him as a fox scrutinizes the openings about a bait. He slowly drew in toward the islet, showing on this side the naked rock to face the wind-blown north. He was taking no chances, either on angry spirits or maddened beasts. As he approached the shore he primed his musket afresh, narrowly examining the rocks. Little by little he drew closer, and presently leaped up to the nearest rock. One instant he stood there peering around, his figure sharply outlined against the sky--then he was gone, dragged down by some sinuous, uncoiling thing. A long cry started up, the death-yell of a chief; it was quenched midway. After that, the islet was silent again. For some time the three white men waited about their built-up fire, which now sent a goodly column of smoke drifting upward. They were not at ease, however. Frontin was dark and snarling, Crawford moody and depressed; this contact with the man who had murdered Phelim Burke was something hard to endure. Maclish knew this, and watched them narrowly, and after a bit rose. He went to the lake shore and stood gazing out at the island. The other two exchanged a glance, then joined him. “Shall we have a look at it?” asked Frontin. “I’d like to see the spirits there.” “Ay, let’s have a look,” grunted Maclish. Crawford assented silently. The three men started off across the smooth, glistening ice. All three were bareheaded, having doffed their furs, for now the winter chill was out of the air. If this were gone, there was another sort of chill which reached them before half the distance to the islet was covered. Crawford, in the lead, felt it and knew that the others were also touched by the same perturbation. Perhaps it came from the tales of the red men, perhaps from some sixth sense; at all events, that silent mass of rock and ice imparted a strangely weird and uncanny impression. The feeling that unseen eyes watched them was acute. Two-thirds of the way to the island, Frontin suddenly halted. “Me, I do not like this,” he exclaimed. “If the trail were covered, it were better. Prime your gun, cap’n.” Crawford half turned. His moccasined foot slipped on the ice, and he fell heavily on hands and knees. Maclish grunted with swift malice. “A bad omen for ye.” Then the words died in a gasp of surprise. Crawford rose. He fumbled at his breast, where a splendid thing now glittered. That fall had shaken from inside his coat the star which he wore there on a thong. He held it up, examining it to see if the jewel had suffered; the raw gold, the massy emeralds, glinted and glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Maclish stared in speechless wonder; it was his first sight of the thing, his first indication that Crawford bore such a treasure.