It was dark when he came to the narrow plain
that lay between him and the river. The sky was brilliant with stars
when he slowly climbed the big, barren ridge at the foot of which was
his home. At the summit he stopped and seated himself on the edge of a
rock, with nothing but a thousand miles of space between him and the
pale glow of the northern lights. At his feet lay the forest, black
and silent, and he looked down to where he knew his cabin was waiting
for him, black and silent, too.
For the first time it came upon him that THIS was home--that the
forest, and the silence, and the little cabin hidden under the spruce
tops below held a deeper meaning for him than a few hours before, when
Kazan was a leaping, living comrade at his side. Kazan was dead. Down
there he would bury him. And he had loved Kazan;--he knew, now, as he
clutched his hands to his aching breast, that he would have fought for
Kazan--given up his life for him--as he would have done for a brother.
Down there, under the silent spruce, he would bury the last that had
remained to him of the old life, and there swelled up in his heart a
longing, almost a prayer, that Melisse might know that he, Jan
Thoreau, would have nothing left to him to-morrow but a grave, and
that in that grave was their old chum, their old playmate--Kazan.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245