“He can’t walk,” she cried, a sudden tremble in her voice.  “Look, mon pere! Here is a terrible cut.  We must carry him.”

“I guessed that much,” replied Radisson.  “For that reason I brought the blanket. Mon Dieu, listen to that!”

From the darkness of the forest there came a low wailing cry.

Kazan lifted his head and a trembling whine answered in his throat.  It was Gray Wolf calling to him.

It was a miracle that Pierre Radisson should put the blanket about Kazan, and carry him in to the camp, without scratch or bite.  It was this miracle that he achieved, with Joan’s arm resting on Kazan’s shaggy neck as she held one end of the blanket.  They laid him down close to the fire, and after a little it was the man again who brought warm water and washed away the blood from the torn leg, and then put something on it that was soft and warm and soothing, and finally bound a cloth about it.

All this Was strange and new to Kazan.  Pierre’s hand, as well as the girl’s, stroked his head.  It was the man who brought him a gruel of meal and tallow, and urged him to eat, while Joan sat with her chin in her two hands, looking at the dog, and talking to him.  After this, when he was quite comfortable, and no longer afraid, he heard a strange small cry from the furry bundle on the sledge that brought his head up with a jerk.

Joan saw the movement, and heard the low answering whimper in his throat.  She turned quickly to the bundle, talking and cooing to it as she took it in her arms, and then she pulled back the bearskin so that Kazan could see.  He had never seen a baby before, and Joan held it out before him, so that he could look straight at it and see what a wonderful creature it was.  Its little pink face stared steadily at Kazan.  Its tiny fists reached out, and it made queer little sounds at him, and then suddenly it kicked and screamed with delight and laughed.  At those sounds Kazan’s whole body relaxed, and he dragged himself to the girl’s feet.

“See, he likes the baby!” she cried. “Mon pere, we must give him a name.  What shall it be?”

“Wait till morning for that,” replied the father.  “It is late, Joan.  Go into the tent, and sleep.  We have no dogs now, and will travel slowly.  So we must start early.”

With her hand on the tent-flap, Joan, turned.

“He came with the wolves,” she said.  “Let us call him Wolf.”  With one arm she was holding the little Joan.  The other she stretched out to Kazan.  “Wolf!  Wolf!” she called softly.

Kazan’s eyes were on her.  He knew that she was speaking to him, and he drew himself a foot toward her.

“He knows it already!” she cried.  “Good night, mon pere.”

For a long time after she had gone into the tent, old Pierre Radisson sat on the edge of the sledge, facing the fire, with Kazan at his feet.  Suddenly the silence was broken again by Gray Wolf’s lonely howl deep in the forest.  Kazan lifted his head and whined.