Jean caught one of
his thin hands and laughed joyfully, for the spirit of him was French
to the bottom of his soul.
"I see it? No, neither I nor Iowaka; but there it was in the snow, as
plain as the eyes in your face. And did I not follow the trail that
staggered down the mountain, while Iowaka brought you back to life?
And when I came to the lake, did I not see something black out upon
it, like a charred log? And when I came to it, was it not the dead
body of the missioner from Churchill? Eh, Jan Thoreau?"
Jan sat up in his bed with a sharp cry.
"Sh-h-h-h-h!" admonished Jean, pressing him back gently. "There is no
need of telling what is out there on the lake. Only the Blessed Virgin
made me dream last night that you would like to see with your own eyes
that the missioner is dead. The thaw will open up the lake in a few
days. Then he will go down in the first slush. And"--Jean looked about
him cautiously again, and whispered low--"if you see anything about
the dead missioner that you do not understand--THINK OF JEAN DE
GRAVOIS!"
He rose to his feet and bent over Jan's white face.
"I am going the Athabasca way to-day," he finished. "Perhaps, Jan
Thoreau, you will hear after a time that it would be best for Jean de
Gravois never to return again to this Post Lac Bain.
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