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Updated: June 10, 2025
Nor was their uneasiness lessened when they beheld Aim-sa standing directly behind them, gazing out across the woodland hollow with eyes distended with a great fear. So absorbed was she that she did not observe the men's scrutiny, and only was her attention drawn to them when she heard Nick's voice addressing her. Then her lids drooped in confusion and she hastily turned back to the house.
Then, through the blazing doorway, the great form of Nick Westley rushes headlong, shouting as he comes. "Aim-sa! Aim-sa!" The cry echoes and reëchoes, giving fresh spirit to the baying of the wolves that wait in the cover of the woodland. On rushes the man heedless of the excoriating roughnesses of the ground beneath his bare and battered feet.
Each day they set out for the forest and hills with hope buoying their hearts; and each night they returned with downcast looks, despair in their hearts, and with their brooding anger against each other a dark flame leaping within them. Sometimes, in stolen moments, they visited the place Aim-sa had lived in.
With the return of Ralph to the camp the day progressed in sullen silence. Neither of the men would give way an inch; neither would return to the forest to complete his day's work, and even Aim-sa found their morose antagonism something to be feared. Each watched the other until it seemed impossible for the day to pass without the breaking of the gathering storm.
And the lonely giant, Jean Leblaude, slept the light slumber of the journeyer in the wild; the slumber that sees and hears when danger is abroad, and yet rests the body. He dreamed not, though all his schemes had gone awry, for he was weary. "Aim-sa! Aim-sa! I come!"
She returned his look with a fearlessness which still had some power to check his untutored passion. Her smile, too, was not wholly devoid of derision; but that was lost upon him. "Aim-sa beautiful. Ah! yes yes, I know. You speak love to me. You speak love to White Squaw." "Ay, love," cried Nick, the blood mounting with a rush to his strong face. "Guess you don't know love, my girl. Not yet.
Aim-sa had been left within the hut. A gentle breeze, like the icy breath of some frozen giant on the peak above the hut, came lazily down the hillside. It broke the fog into a turmoil of protest. The heavy vapour rolled in huge waves, sought to return to its settled calm, then slowly lifted from the flustered tree-tops.
Aim-sa saw the sudden change, but she still smiled in her soft way. "An' you?" The voice of the man was choking with suppressed passion. His whole body trembled with the chaos of feeling which moved him. The woman shook her head. "An' what did ye say?" he went on, as she remained silent. "Nick is great. No, Aim-sa not loves Nick."
"Aim-sa loves not. She must not. The Moosefoot she is Queen." "Curses on the Moosefoot, I say," cried Nick, with passionate impulse. Aim-sa put up her hand. "The man 'The Hood. Fear the Spirit." A chill shot down through Nick's heart as he listened. But his passion was only checked for the moment.
The caribou pauses in his headlong race to listen; only, a moment later, to speed on the faster. "Aim-sa! Aim-sa! Wait, I come!" The cry is more muffled. The dark canopy of forest deadens it, till the sound is like a voice crying out from the depths of the earth. For the man is travelling with the fierce directness of one who is lured on by the haunting vision of that which is his whole desire.
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