“Sing us a song, Defago, if you’re not too tired,” he asked; “one

of those old voyageur songs you sang the other night.” He handed his

tobacco pouch to the guide and then filled his own pipe, while the

Canadian, nothing loth, sent his light voice across the lake in one of

those plaintive, almost melancholy chanties with which lumbermen and

trappers lessen the burden of their labour. There was an appealing and

romantic flavour about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of

the old pioneer days when Indians and wilderness were leagued together,

battles frequent, and the Old Country farther off than it is to-day.

The sound travelled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their

backs seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp that permitted

neither echo nor resonance.

It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed

something unusual — something that brought his thoughts back with a

rush from far-away scenes. A curious change had come into the man’s

voice. Even before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and

looking up quickly, he saw that Defago, though still singing, was

peering about him into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something.

His voice grew fainter — dropped to a hush — then ceased altogether.

The same instant, with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his

feet and stood upright — sniffing the air. Like a dog scenting game,

he drew the air into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning

quickly as he did so in all directions, and finally “pointing” down the

lake shore, eastwards. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and

at the same time singularly dramatic. Simpson’s heart fluttered

disagreeably as he watched it.

“Lord, man! How you made me jump!” he exclaimed, on his feet beside

him the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of

darkness. “What’s up? Are you frightened — ?”

Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was

foolish, for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the

Canadian had turned white down to his very gills. Not even sunburn and

the glare of the fire could hide that.

The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees.

“What’s up?” he repeated quickly. “D’you smell moose? Or anything

queer, anything — wrong?” He lowered his voice instinctively.

The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer

tree-stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that -blackness, and, so far as he could tell, a silence of death. Just

behind them a passing puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it,

then laid it softly down again without disturbing the rest of the

covey. It seemed as if a million invisible causes had combined just to

produce that single visible effect. Other life pulsed about them — and

was gone.

Defago turned abruptly; the livid hue of his face had turned to a

dirty grey.

“I never said I heered — or smelt — nothin’,” he said slowly and

emphatically, in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch

of defiance. “I was only — takin’ a look round — so to speak. It’s

always a mistake to be too previous with yer questions.” Then he added

suddenly with obvious effort, in his more natural voice, “Have you got

the matches, Boss Simpson?” and proceeded to light the pipe he had half

filled just before he began to sing.

Without speaking another word they sat down again by the fire,

Defago changed his side so that he could face the direction the wind

came from. For even a tenderfoot could tell that. Defago changed his

position in order to hear and smell — all there was to be heard and

smelt. And, since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it

was evidently nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden

a warning to his marvellously trained nerves.

“Guess now I don’t feel like singing any,” he explained presently

of his own accord.