The Red Mans Revenge | Page 9

'old y'r tongue."
Profound slumber stopped the conversation at this point, and the frogs
that croaked and whistled in the swamps had it all to themselves.
Deep tranquillity reigned on the shores of Lake Winnipeg during the
midnight hours, for the voices of the frogs served rather to accent than
to disturb the calm. Stars twinkled at their reflections in the water,
which extended like a black mirror to the horizon. They gave out little
light, however, and it was not until the upper edge of the full moon
arose that surrounding objects became dimly visible. The pale light
edged the canoe, silvered the rocks, tipped the rushes, and at last,
touching the point of Ian's upturned nose, awoke him. (See
Frontispiece).
He leaped up with a start instantly, conscious of his situation, and
afraid lest he had slept too long.
"Hi! leve! leve! awake! up!" he exclaimed in a vigorous undertone.
Victor growled, turned on his other side with a deep sigh, wanted to be
let alone, became suddenly conscious, and sprang up in alarm.
"We're too late!"
"No, we're not, Vic. The moon is just rising, but we must be stirring.
Time's precious."
Victor required no urging. He was fully alive to the situation. A few

minutes sufficed to get the canoe ready and roll up their blankets,
during the performance of which operations they each ate several
substantial mouthfuls of pemmican.
Looking carefully round before pushing off the canoe to see that
nothing was forgotten, Ian observed some chips of wood on the beach
close at hand.
"See, Vic!" he said eagerly; "some one has been here--perhaps the
Indian."
They examined the chips, which had been recently cut. "It's not easy to
make out footprints here," said Ian, going down on his knees the better
to observe the ground; "and so many settlers and Indians pass from
time to time, having little boys with them too, that--. I say, look here,
Vic, this little footmark might or might not be Tony's, but moccasins
are so much alike that--"
"Out o' the light, man; if you were made o' glass the moon might get
through you. Why, yes, it is Tony's moccasin!" cried Victor, in eager
excitement. "I know it by the patch, for I saw Elsie putting it on this
very morning. Look, speak, man! don't you see it? A square patch on
the ball of the right foot!"
"Yes, yes; I see it," said Ian, going down on his knees in a spirit of
semi-worship, and putting his nose close to the ground.
He would fain have kissed the spot that had been pressed by a patch put
on by Elsie, but he was "unromantic," and refrained.
"Now," he said, springing up with alacrity, "that settles the question. At
least it shows that there is strong probability of their having taken the
left shore of the lake."
"Come along, then, let's after them," cried Victor impatiently, pushing
off the canoe.
The moment she floated--which she did in about four inches of water--

they stepped swiftly yet gently into her; for bark canoes require tender
treatment at all times, even when urgent speed is needful. Gliding into
deep water, they once more dipped their paddles, deep and fast, and
danced merrily over the moonlit sea--for a sea Lake Winnipeg certainly
is, being upwards of three hundred miles long, and a gathering together
of many waters from all parts of the vast wilderness of Rupert's Land.
After two hours of steady work they paused to rest.
"Now, Ian," said Victor, leaning against the wooden bar at his back,
and resting his paddle across the canoe, "Venus tells me that the sun is
about to bestir himself, and something within me tells me that empty
space is a bad stomachic; so, out with the pemmican bag, and hand
over a junk."
Ian drew his hunting-knife, struck it into the mass of meat, and chipped
off a piece the size of his fist, which he handed to his comrade.
Probably our readers are aware that pemmican is made of dried buffalo
meat pounded to shreds and mixed with melted fat. Being thus
half-cooked in the making, it can be used with or without further
cookery. Sewed up in its bag, it will keep good for months, or even
years, and is magnificent eating, but requires a strong digestion. Ian and
Victor were gifted with that requisite. They fed luxuriously. A draught
from the crystal lake went down their unsophisticated throats like
nectar, and they resumed their paddles like giants refreshed.
Venus mounted like a miniature moon into the glorious blue. Her
perfect image went off in the opposite direction, for there was not the
ghost of a zephyr to ruffle the deep. Presently the sun followed in her
wake, and scattered the