Beyond those flashes of light there was no other movement, and no
sound. Dark figures stood motionless. The lonely howl of a sledge-dog
ended in a wail of pain as some one kicked it into terrified silence.
The hollow cough of Mukee's father was smothered in the thick fur of
his cap as he thrust his head from his little shack in the edge of the
forest. A score of eyes watched Cummins as he came out into the snow,
and the rough, loyal hearts of those who looked throbbed in fearful
anticipation of the word he might be bringing to them.
Sometimes a nation ceases to breathe in the last moments of its dying
chief, and the black wings of calamity gather over its people,
enshrouding them in a strange gloom and a stranger fear; and so,
because the greatest of all tragedies had come into their little
world, Cummins' people were speechless in their grief and their
waiting for the final word. And when the word came to them at last,
and passed from lip to lip, and from one grim, tense face to another,
the doors closed again, and the lights went out one by one, until
there remained only the yellow eye of the factor's office and the
faint glow from the little cabin in which John Cummins knelt with his
sobbing face crushed close to that of his dead.
There was no one who noticed Jan Thoreau when he came through the door
of the factor's office.
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