Westward from Pierre's
cabin there stretched the lifeless Barren, illimitable and void,
without rock or bush, and overhung at day by a sky that always
made Raine think of a terrible picture he had once seen of Dore's
"Inferno"--a low, thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always
threatening to pitch itself down in terrific avalanches. And at
night, when the white foxes yapped, and the wind moaned--
"As I have hope of paradise I swear that I saw him--alive,
M'sieu," Pierre was saying again over the table.
Raine, of the Fort Churchill patrol of the Royal Northwest Mounted
Police, no longer smiled in disbelief. He knew that Pierre Breault
was a brave man, or he would not have perched himself alone out in
the heart of the Barren to catch the white foxes; and he was not
superstitious, like most of his kind, or the sobbing cries and
strife of the everlasting night-winds would have driven him away.
"I swear it!" repeated Pierre.
Something that was almost eagerness was burning now in Philip's
face.
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