Encamped on the Islet.

It was with feelings of profound thankfulness and relief that Adolay landed on the first of the islets, and surveyed the chaotic though beautiful floes from which they had escaped.

And in truth Cheenbuk had required all his skill and experience more than once to avoid the dangers by which they had been beset, for, although the weather was perfectly calm and the ice nearly motionless, they had frequently to pass through channels so narrow that the slightest current might have caused a nip and obliged them to take hurried refuge on the floes, while, at other times, when compelled to pass rather close to the small bergs, lumps dropped into the water perilously near to them from the overhanging ice-cliffs.

“There has been some danger,” remarked the girl, turning to her protector.

“All is well when it ends well,” replied the Eskimo, nearly, but unconsciously, quoting Shakespeare. “But the danger was not very great, for if the ice had closed in we could have jumped on it, and carried the canoe to the nearest open water.”

“But what if a lump had dropped into the canoe and sunk it?” asked Adolay.

“We should have had to scramble on the floes and wait there till—till we died together.”

He said this with some degree of solemnity, for it was an uncomfortable reflection.

“I would prefer,”—she stopped suddenly, for in the haste of the moment she was going to have said—“that we should live together rather than die together,”—but maiden modesty, not unfamiliar even among savages, restrained her, and Cheenbuk, who was not observant in the matter of imperfect speech, took no notice of the abrupt pause.

The evening was far advanced, for it had taken them the whole day to reach the islet, owing to the windings of the lanes of water and the frequency with which they had to turn back in consequence of having run into what may be termed blind alleys. It was resolved, therefore, that they should rest there for the night.

As there was no fear, by that time, of their being pursued by Indians, Cheenbuk resolved that they should have a good warm supper to recruit their somewhat exhausted energies. Of course Adolay was only too glad to fall in with this arrangement, and said that she would go along the shore and collect small masses of drift-wood for the fire, while her companion lifted up the canoe and made the encampment.

“You will not find much drift-wood, I think,” said Cheenbuk, as she was about to set off, “for the currents don’t set upon this island much. The long point of the bigger island over there turns the currents off from this one, but perhaps you may find a little.”

Adolay found this to be true, for she wandered several miles along shore—indeed, went nearly round the islet, which was a low rocky one, almost devoid of verdure—before she had collected a good bundle of dry sticks.

Meanwhile the Eskimo set to work with characteristic enthusiasm to arrange the camp. Choosing a spot where a low wall of rock sheltered him from the north, he laid a few stones in a heap to mark the place for the fire. Then he carried up the canoe, and laid it down bottom up, so as to face the fire. Underneath it he made a snug nest of twigs and leaves for Adolay to rest in. Then, on the opposite side of the fire, he made another lair—a sort of open-air nest—for himself, after which he collected a good many of the small dead twigs among the scrub, which he piled up in readiness around a large piece of drift timber he had the good fortune to discover, not far from the spot where they landed.

This done, he stood back a few paces and admired his handiwork, his head on one side with quite the air of a connoisseur.

Presently he began to wish that Adolay would return, and then sat down to make fire by the slow and laborious Eskimo process of rubbing two pieces of stick rapidly together until the friction should ignite them. He was still absorbed in the work when the Indian girl returned with a bundle of wood which she threw down beside the rest.

“You have had better luck than I expected,” said Cheenbuk. “See, I have made you a nest to sleep in,” he added, pointing to the canoe.

“It is very nice,” she observed, with an appreciative smile. “What are you doing?”

“Making fire,” he answered, resuming his work and continuing it with such vigour that beads of perspiration stood on his brow.

Without speaking, the girl went to the canoe and opened a bundle wrapped in deerskin which formed part of its lading. She drew therefrom a fire-bag, richly ornamented with beads, such as Indian chiefs and braves are wont to carry under their belts. It contained the pipe, tinder-box, flint, steel, and tobacco which are usually supplied by the fur-traders to the Red men.

Cheenbuk was so interested in the proceedings of his companion that he ceased to carry on his own work, thereby allowing the sticks to cool and losing his labour.

“You need not work so hard,” said Adolay, taking a flint, steel, and piece of tinder from the bag and, beginning to strike a light, to the great interest of the Eskimo. “We manage to get fire differently and more easily.”

In a few seconds a spark caught on the tinder, which began to smoke, and the girl, wrapping it in a bundle of dry grass, whirled it round at arm’s-length until the draught caused it to burst into flame. Thrusting the burning mass into the heart of the twigs, which had been previously prepared, she glanced up at her protector with a look that said plainly, “Watch, now, the result.”

But Cheenbuk required no encouragement to do so. He had been watching all the time with mouth, as well as eyes, wide-open, and a loud “hoi! hoi! ho!” burst from him as the flame leaped up, suffusing the canoe and wall of rock and the near objects with a ruddy glow which paled everything else to a cold grey by contrast.

“I’ve seen that once before,” exclaimed Cheenbuk with delight, taking up the fire-bag tenderly, “and have often wished that I had these things for making fire.”

“Well, you may have them now. They belonged to my father. All our men carry bags with these things in them.”

“And I’ve seen this too—once,” continued the youth, smiling, as he pulled out a tobacco-pipe. Then he bent his head suddenly, put his nose to the bag, and made a face expressive of supreme disgust.

“Ho! and I’ve seen this too. I have tasted it, and after tasting it I was very miserable—so miserable that I hope never to be as miserable again!”

As he spoke he looked at Adolay with that extreme solemnity which was one of the characteristics of his face.

The girl returned the look, but did not smile. She did not speak, but waited for more.

“The man who showed me these things was a good man,” continued Cheenbuk. “I do not know his name, but I liked him much. Yet I think he was not wise to fill his mouth with smoke and his inside with sickness.”

“Was he sick?” asked Adolay.

“No—he was not, but—I was.”

While he was speaking he drew a long piece of Canada twist tobacco out of the bag, and looked at it sagaciously for some time, nodding his head as if he knew all about it.

“Yes, that is the thing he put in the pipe, and, after making a small fire over it, drew the smoke into himself. At first I thought he would die, or catch fire and burst—but he—he didn’t, and he seemed to like it.”