I'm going to leave it to you to learn Celie's language and get the
details first-hand from her. But she's a right enough princess,
old man. And her Dad's a duke. It's up to you to Americanize 'em.
Eh, what's that?"
Celie had come from the cabin and was standing at Philip's side,
looking up into his face, and the light which Olaf saw unhidden in
her eyes made him laugh softly:
"And you've got the job half done, Phil. The Duke may go back and
raise the devil with the people who put him in cold storage, but
Lady Celie is going to like America. Yessir, she's going to like
it better'n any other place on the face of the earth!"
It was late that afternoon, traveling slowly southward over the
trail of the Coppermine, when they heard far behind them the
wailing cry of Bram Johnson's wolves. The sound came only once,
like the swelling surge of a sudden sweep of wind, yet when they
camped at the beginning of darkness Philip was confident the
madman and his pack were close behind them. Utter exhaustion
blotted out the hours for Celie and himself, while Olaf, buried in
two heavy Eskimo coats he had foraged from the field of battle,
sat on guard through the night.
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