in september a sinister and foreboding gloom seemed to creep out of the wilderness surrounding five fingers.

the golden autumn, with its soft indian summer and its radiance of color, died almost before it was born. the birch leaves did not turn yellow and gold but stopped at a rusty brown; the poplar leaves curled up and began to fall from their stems before the first frost; mountain ash berries were pink instead of red, and heavy fogs settled like wet blankets between the ridges, while in the swamps the rabbits were dying in hundreds and thousands of the mysterious "seven years' sickness."

the men at five fingers, and especially pierre gourdon and dominique beauvais, who read the wilderness as if it were a book, regarded these matters with anxious eyes. it was pierre who called attention to the going of the bluebirds a month before their time, and noted first that the red squirrels were gathering great stores of cones, and that the robins were restless and uneasy and were assembling in the flocks which presaged sudden flight.

then, one sunset, a great flock of wild geese went[156] honking south. they were high and flying very fast.

pierre gourdon pointed up. "when the wild geese race like that in september—it means a bad winter. only twice have i seen it. the last time was two years before we came to five fingers—a year of starvation and plague; and the other time——" he shuddered, and shrugged his shoulders, for that other time was in boyhood, when his mother and father had died back in the forests, and he had dragged himself starving and nearly dead to ste. anne de beaupré.

colder nights came, filled with moaning winds, and the days were darkened by ash-gray skies through which the sun seldom shone warmly, and more and more frequently came the honk of geese racing south. peter could hear them at night, in darkness and when the stars were shining, coming from the north, crying down their solemn notes of passage from the high trails of the air.

and these same nights he heard the wolves howl back in the hollows and ridges and deeper hunting grounds of the forests, and pierre gourdon listened uneasily to the cold, hard note in their voices, and said to dominique:

"the wolves will run lean this winter, and when hunger trails the wolves, famine is not far behind."

but it was the dying of the rabbits more than the crying of the wolves that worried them at first. the plague-stricken animals were lying everywhere, even[157] up to the steps of the cabins, and one day peter counted so many in a corner of the swamp that simon mcquarrie's eyes widened a little with doubt when he told his story. once every seven or nine years had the rabbit plague swept on its devastating way through the wilderness, but never had pierre or dominique or simon seen it so destructive as this year, and the nearer howling of the wolves and the strange, clammy nights with their deathlike fogs roused in pierre gourdon's heart the ghosts of old superstitions and old fears put there in tragic days when he was a boy.

and then came a night when the world seemed filled with wet smoke, and on that night the gray canada geese came down from the north in a multitude so great that they filled the sky over five fingers with a winged deluge, and thousands of them dropped into the inlet and the clearing to rest. their honking was a bedlam which made sleep impossible, and with the dawn peter could see them darkening the fields and the water of middle finger inlet. when the various companies and regiments began taking wing the sound they made was a steady thunder that sent a weird and thrilling shudder through earth and air. there were ten thousand pair of wings in that southward moving host, pierre gourdon said. peter had never thought there were so many wild geese in the world and it puzzled him that not one of them was killed by the men at five fingers.

"a wild goose mates but once," pierre explained.[158] "if his mate dies, he does not take another, but lives alone for the rest of his life. memory and loyalty like that men do not have, and so it is a crime to kill them." then he added, looking up thoughtfully at one of the winged triangles racing through the sky, "and the gray goose lives a hundred years!"

in october what were left of the big snowshoe rabbits began to turn white, and the wind kept steadily in the north. snow fell early. all through november the big lake was lashed by fierce gales; the pit roared and whipped itself into furies, and the gulls were gone entirely from middle finger inlet. in a single night, it seemed to peter, winter came. and from the beginning it was a black, ominous winter. for days at a time there was no sun. the sky was shut in by a gray canopy of cloud. when snow fell it was hard and biting, and riding with the wind, it stung the flesh like fine shot.

in december came a change. the winds died, the skies cleared a little, and day and night it snowed until the wilderness was smothered and the evergreen forests bent to the snapping point under their burden. trails were closed and the hollows between ridges were filled. one day poleon dufresne snowshoed in from the railroad settlement, half dead from exhaustion and bearing the news that all the world was shut out by snow, and that it lay twenty feet deep in the open places. and quietly he gave other news to pierre gourdon and dominique and simon mcquarrie. the dreaded[159] plague of the wilderness—the smallpox—had already begun to stalk through the northland.

following the deep snows came a cold so intense that the men no longer ran the hazard of frosted lungs by working in the woods, and all wild life seemed to have become extinct. between the lake and the settlements along the line of steel one could scarcely have found the trail of a cloven hoof, for the deer and moose were yarded deep and struggled breast-high against snow for the bush-browsing that kept them alive, while the caribou, milling against wind and storm, had left the snow-smothered country for feeding grounds farther north. it was a winter that began—first of all—with starvation. the icy coating of the trees left no budding for the grouse; small creatures smothered in thousands under the hardening snow crust which could soon bear the weight of a man; foxes and ermine gnawed bark in their hunger; with the rabbits gone, owls died of a sickness which ravages them in times of forest famine—and the empty stomachs of wolves brought them nearer and nearer to the clearing until frightened horses broke halters in their stalls and cattle bellowed in their terror.

peter had never heard wolves as they cried out now. sometimes their wail of hunger was almost a sobbing in the night, and again it was bitter and vengeful as hoof and horn beat them back from some yarded stronghold of moose and deer.

each day and week peter came to understand more[160] of the tragedy through which he was passing. it was one of the "black years." father albanel came to the settlement early in january; he was thin and haggard, his eyes deep-set, the rosy color gone from his face. in the little church he asked the people of five fingers to offer up prayer for the thousands who were sick and the hundreds who were dying through all the great wilderness from hudson bay to the athabasca and from big lake to the barren lands. over all that country the plague was raging, sweeping like a forest fire from tepee to cabin, until in certain far places the great hudson bay company could no longer bury its dead, and masterless dogs ran with the wild things in the forests. pierre gourdon's face was almost as haggard as father albanel's, and mona called peter's attention to it, with a tense and strange look in her eyes.

"i overheard uncle pierre and aunt josette when they were talking last night and they said they weren't afraid for themselves but that they were afraid for me," she said. "why should they be, peter? i don't get sick easily."

"you're a girl, that's why," he explained.

"but if i should get sick—what would you do? would you dare to come and see me?"

"i'd come."

"even if it was the plague?"

"i'd still come."

old simon held peter off at arm's length

old simon held peter off at arm's length, his

stern face working in a strange way

peter mcrae had come home

peter mcrae had come home and a whisper

of gladness ran among the crowd

[161]

"i'd like to have you, peter. if i was sick and you didn't come, i think it would make me feel so badly i wouldn't get well."

and that night, with the wolves wailing at its doors, the blighting hand of the red plague fell upon five fingers!

it touched geertruda poulin first, and jeremie, her husband, nailed a red cloth over his cabin door to keep the children at a distance, and that rag, fluttering in the winds, soon filled their hearts with a greater terror than if they had seen a loup-garou haunting the edge of the forest or the grim hunters of the chasse-galerie riding through the gloomy sky, for they were told that to go near it meant death. and then, three days later, little tobina fell ill, and with a pale, brave face and eyes in which there was no sign of fear marie antoinette went into the plague-stricken cabin to nurse them. after that joe gourdon's face was like a mask carven out of stone until the night when jame clamart pounded at his door and cried out the terrible news that adette was down with the fever. and that midnight josette calmly kissed pierre and mona good-by and went to her. until she was gone pierre held back the sob in his throat—then it escaped him, and he held mona close, so close that it hurt her. it was on a sunday morning, bitterly cold and filled with gusty winds, that jeremie poulin staggered out from his door and flung up his arms to the sky, and the word passed from cabin to cabin that geertruda was dead.

[162]

alone, barring all others from their company, simon mcquarrie and father albanel dug with picks and grub-hoes the first new grave in the little cemetery. chunk by chunk they broke out the frozen earth, and when it was dark—so dark no eyes could see them—they helped jeremie poulin carry his dead over the clearing and upon their knees prayed with him at the grave-side. after that they lived in one of the barns, visiting only the sick and the dead, and each morning and evening simon would shout to peter through the megaphone of his hands, asking him if he felt pain or dizziness or fever, and warning him to stay in the cabin. then sara dufresne and two of her three children were stricken and jean croisset died so suddenly that the shock of it stopped every heart in five fingers. pounding of hammers came from the barn, and the next morning there was another mound of brown and frozen earth in the cemetery. a day later dominique beauvais, with his house full of children, nailed up the red badge of sickness over his cabin door.

each day peter saw mona. they spent their hours together, and pierre gourdon watched them as a hawk watches its young. at night they sat at their windows, for after jean's death the skies cleared and a glorious moon filled the world with light. and one night peter heard the hammers pounding again, and in the gray of dawn—still sleepless and wide-eyed—he saw father albanel and simon and jeremie poulin come from dominique beauvais's cabin bearing a long, grim thing[163] among them; and when they had reached the burial slope he saw them turn back, and enter the cabin again, and come forth once more with their shoulders bent under a burden. peter's heart choked him. he sobbed and clutched his hands at his breast. it was félipe and dominique, the two youngest of the beauvais children, whom he had seen carried to the burial plot.

sobbing, he ran toward mona's home. the door opened and pierre gourdon came out. peter stopped a few paces away, for there was something in pierre's face that frightened him. at first he thought it must be the madness of the fever; then his ears caught words, strange, hard words that froze his blood and that seemed to come with a mighty effort from pierre's ghastly face. mona was sick! she was in bed—and he must return to simon mcquarrie's cabin and not come again within breathing distance of the house! peter moved closer to the door, powerless to speak, and pierre thrust him back so roughly that he fell to the ground.

"go away!" he commanded, raising a hand as if to strike the boy.

through the open door peter had a glimpse of josette's face looking out at him, so white and haggard that for a moment he thought it was an old woman's face. he cried out to her but in the same moment she was gone and there came no answer.

then he spoke half defiantly to pierre.

[164]

"i want to see mona," he said. "i promised her i'd come if she was sick."

"go!" said pierre again, pointing sternly toward simon mcquarrie's cabin. "you can come halfway to learn how mona is, but if you come this near again i shall have you taken from five fingers!"

peter drew slowly away, staring in horror at pierre and the cabin behind him. he slumped down on the doorstep at simon's place and did not feel the bitter cold. he saw pierre enter the cabin, and then he watched the gray figures in the distant cemetery as they moved slowly about, piling the last of the frozen clods upon the burdens they had carried through the dawn a few minutes before. and mona was down with that same sickness—which meant death!

in his torment he picked and twisted at his clothes until his thin fingers were blue with the cold. pierre came out again and put up the red cloth, and then he went to intercept the three men who were on their way from the cemetery to their quarters in the barn. father albanel and simon mcquarrie returned with pierre and entered the cabin where mona was sick. in a few minutes simon came out and seeing peter huddled on the doorstep, approached as near to him as he dared. he asked the same questions, and gave the same warnings, and assured peter that mona was only slightly ill, and that she would get over it very quickly. but there was in his face the same look that had been in pierre's, and peter knew he was lying.

[165]

"she is going to die," his heart kept crying, and he dragged himself into the cabin and flung himself upon simon's bed, and when joe gourdon came in he was crying, his head buried in his arms. with his beloved marie antoinette keeping guard in jeremie poulin's house of death, joe was making a courageous fight. "tobina poulin is past all danger, and if things go well aunt marie antoinette will come home in a few days, and then you can come to us," he comforted peter. "meanwhile i'm going to stay with you."

but joe's cheerfulness was mostly forced. news came early in the day that adette clamart was very close to death, and that jame and father albanel were constantly at her bedside.

that night sheer exhaustion brought sleep to peter. he was awakened by a pounding at the door. joe's voice called out below and another answered it from outside. it was jame clamart, going from cabin to cabin in a madness of joy, telling the people of five fingers that the crisis was over and adette would live.

peter could hear the running crunch of jame's boots in the hard snow as he hurried on to the next neighbor and for a long time after that he lay awake in the cold darkness of his room, thinking of mona. fear of death had not gripped him so terribly before. in the tragedy of others he had felt shock; its suddenness and horror had stunned him and filled him with dread, but the physical grief of it had not touched him deeply until now. he was sick, but the sickness was in his heart, as[166] if something had been cut out of it, leaving in its place an emptiness which made breath come to his lips in smothered sobs. and that something which had been taken away from him was mona.

when he closed his eyes he could see her clearly on her white bed, her long hair streaming about the pillow, her face pinched and thin, and all the time she was wondering why he did not come. she was going to die; he could think of nothing but that, and after a little one thing persisted in traveling through his brain so frequently and so terribly that he called aloud for joe. the maddening picture was that of father albanel and simon and jeremie poulin marching through the gray dawn to the burial plot with the bodies of félipe and dominique beauvais.

joe came up, and for the rest of that night peter lay in the shelter of his arm and fell asleep again.

the next day came with good omen. a bright sun rose over the forests, clearer and warmer than it had been for many weeks. herman vogelaar, whose laughter had gone with the death of his daughter, geertruda, came at breakfast time with the word that adette was entirely out of her fever, and that poleon dufresne's wife and three children were much better than yesterday. father albanel, he said, had spent the last half of the night with mona. mona was very sick. she was worse than adette had been, or even geertruda, in the same length of time. he was afraid——but joe gave him such a fierce scowl he did not finish.[167] peter saw the scowl and the nervous twisting of herman's fingers at the lapels of his coat as he tried to think of something with which to cover his blunder. he wanted to ask herman to speak what had been on his lips, but instead he put on his coat and cap and heavy mittens and went out into the day, hoping that somewhere he would see father albanel.

as if his hope were a prayer quickly answered, father albanel came from the gourdon cabin. the little missioner advanced, keeping the wind well in his face, and when he was fifty paces from peter he stopped and called to the boy to stand where he was. peter tried to speak bravely when he asked if mona was going to die.

"she is very sick," said the missioner. "we must pray for her, and believe with all our might that she is going to get well. i think god will let her live."

"i promised i'd come if she was sick. i got to keep my word. i'm not afraid."

father albanel shook his head.

"it is impossible, peter. there are too many of us down now."

"i won't get sick," said peter doggedly.

father albanel spoke sharply. "keep to your cabin, my boy, and be as brave as jame clamart has been. if mona grows worse, i will tell you."

each morning after this he brought news of mona to peter. for a week there seemed to be no change. on the eighth day she was worse; on the tenth pierre and[168] josette and father albanel were fighting desperately to save her life.

the tenth night came. it was past midnight when peter crept softly to his window and opened it. with as little sound as he could make he drew himself through and dropped to the ground. he ran away quickly, the brilliance of the stars sending his shadow along with him. he did not stop until he reached the gourdon cabin, and there he hugged closely against the log wall, his heart beating wildly as he waited. above him a light glowed feebly against the curtain in mona's room. he wanted to call to her; he puckered his lips and almost gave the whistling signal which she knew. then he heard a sound, a movement of some kind, and stealthily he approached a lower window. he could see josette very clearly. she was seated in a chair with her face bowed in her hands, and pierre was standing at her side, gently stroking her hair. father albanel was behind them, his face white and torn with grief. then peter saw that josette was crying.

a terrible fear gripped him as he drew away from the window. what he had seen could mean only one thing. mona—was gone. he looked up at the dim light above him again, and in that moment his soul cried out against all those who had kept him away from her. he went to the kitchen door, opened it, and entered. this time he would scream and fight if they tried to keep him back. but no one heard him.[169] father albanel's voice came to him faintly. he was praying.

peter reached the stair and went up quietly. the door of mona's room was open. a lamp, turned low, was burning on the table.

he approached the bed, scarcely knowing that he was moving toward it. his heart was crushed, his world crumbled and gone, for mona must be dead or they would not leave her like this, and josette would not be crying down below. even his father could not have helped him now. nothing could help him, with mona gone. he stumbled to his knees beside her and his cold fingers twined themselves about the soft braid of hair that fell over the side of her bed.

a stifled, despairing sob broke from him then as he stared at the thin face that lay so still and lifeless in the pale light of the room. he had a great desire to touch it but a moment of dread made him hesitate. then his hand crept slowly over the coverlet until it rested against mona's cheek, and the sobbing in his throat was choked back, for the flesh he touched was hot. his heart thumped until the sound of it seemed to fill the room. mona's eyes were opening! they were looking at him! and then——

two thin, white arms reached up and encircled peter's neck, and very faintly he heard his name whispered. he pressed his face down close to mona's.

"i'd have come sooner," he apologized, "but they wouldn't let me in!"

[170]

and somehow, in that great moment of their lives peter's lips touched mona's, and as the girl's flagging spirit came at last in triumph back from the edge of death father albanel entered the room; and when he saw what had happened he spoke no word, but in silence made the sign of the cross upon his breast and stood with his gray head bowed in voiceless prayer.