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Updated: May 26, 2025
The trail was not an easy one, and the dogs whined as they bent to the collars, but Jean Bènard, with a frame of iron and with muscles like steel-springs marched steadily on, for what to Stane seemed hours, then in the shelter of a cliff crowned with trees he called a halt. "We rest here," he said, "an' wait for zee daylight. Den we look down on zee lak' of zee Leetle Moose.
"We weel tak' one look more, m'sieu, before we harness zee dogs." They went up to the outlook together. The lake once more showed its white expanse unbroken; the little blot of moving dots having withdrawn. Stane stared on the waste, with an expression of blank dismay upon his face, then he turned to his companion. "Zee man, he camp," explained Bènard.
It might snow for days, and in the storm, when all trails would be obliterated it would be an easy matter to miss Helen and her captors altogether. As he returned to the fire, his mind was full of forebodings. He was afraid, and though Jean Bènard slept on, he himself could not rest. He made up the fire, prepared bacon and moose meat for cooking, set some coffee to boil.
She must have guessed that he loved Helen; yet in the greatness of her love, she had risked her life without hope, and died for him without shrinking. He began to walk to and fro, instinctively fighting the cold, with all his mind absorbed in Miskodeed's little tragedy; but presently the thought of Helen came to him, and he walked quickly to where Jean Bènard still knelt in the snow.
As they did so a gust of wind brought a scurry of snow in their faces, and Bènard looked anxiously up into the sky. "By-an'-by it snow like anythin', m'sieu. We must race to catch Chigmok b'fore it come." Without another word he stepped ahead, and began to make the trail for the dogs, whilst Stane took the gee-pole to guide the sledge.
After a little while Stane, in spite of his consuming anxiety for Helen, under the genial warmth of the fire and the fatigue induced by the strenuous march, began to nod, and at last fell sound asleep. But Jean Bènard watched through the night, a look of hopelessness shadowing his kindly face. The cold Northland dawn had broken when Stane was roused from his sleep by the voice of his companion.
Stane pronounced the benediction, waited a few moments, then again he put a hand on the other's shoulder. "Bènard, we have done what we can for the dead; now we must think of the living." "Oui, m'sieu!" "You must eat! I have prepared a meal. And when you have eaten and the dogs are ready we must start on the trail of Miss Yardely." "Oui, m'sieu."
They will end by getting dirty, and then your people won't take them back." This stout woman was a certain Madame Joseph, a widow of forty and a charwoman by calling, whom Benard, the husband, had at first engaged to come two hours every morning to attend to the housework, his wife not having strength enough to put on a child's shoes or to set a pot on the fire.
You not dead, so I pour hot whisky in your mouth an' you return from zee happy-huntin' grounds. Dere you have zee whole narrative." "But Helen?" cried Stane, looking round. "Where " "I haf seen not any mees!" answered the trapper. "I did not know dat dere was " "Then they have taken her," exclaimed Stane, staggering to his feet, and looking round. Jean Bènard also looked round.
... They waited an hour, two hours, saying little, neither trying to hide from the other the anxiety each felt, and then through the mist of snow between the trees came Anderton and Jean Bènard. Stane flashed a question at the policeman, who shook his head. "Thank God!" said Stane, whilst Jean Bènard looked at Helen. "Zee deaths een zee snow, eet ees nodings! I know. I haf seen a man die so.
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