CHAPTER V
The night was so bright that the spruce trees cast vivid shadows
on the snow. Overhead there were a billion stars in a sky as dear
as an open sea, and the Great Dipper shone like a constellation of
tiny suns. The world did not need a moon. At a distance of three
hundred yards Philip could have seen a caribou if it had passed.
He sat close to his fire, with the heat of it reflected from the
blackened face of a huge rock, finishing the snare which had taken
him an hour to weave. For a long time he had been conscious of the
curious, hissing monotone of the Aurora, the "music of the skies,"
reaching out through the space of the earth with a purring sound
that was at times like the purr of a cat and at others like the
faint hum of a bee. Absorbed in his work he did not, for a time,
hear the other sound. Not until he had finished, and was placing
the golden snare in his wallet, did the one sound individualize
and separate itself from the other.
He straightened himself suddenly, and listened.
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