It was now the 20th of September, and the poplar boughs were bare.  Every morning now the grass was covered with rime, and to-day a flurry of snow fell.  Winter would increase the difficulties of escape tenfold.

Ambrose speculated endlessly on what might be happening at Fort Enterprise.  He thought, too, of Peter Minot who was relying on him to steer the hazarded fortunes of the firm into port—­and groaned at his impotence.

As with all solitary prisoners, throughout the long hours Ambrose’s mind preyed upon itself.  True, he had Job, who was friend and consoler in his dumb way, but Job was only a dog.

To joke or to swear at his jailers was like trying to make a noise in a vacuum.  Not to be able to make himself felt became a positive torture to Ambrose.

On the night of this day, lying in bed, he found himself wide awake without being able to say what had awakened him.  He lay listening, and presently heard the sound again—­the fall of a little object on the floor.

The chinks of the log walls were stopped with mud which had dried and loosened; nothing strange that bits of it should fall—­still his heart beat fast.

He heard a cautious scratching and another piece dropped and broke on the floor.  Now he knew a living agency was at work.  Job growled.  Ambrose clutched his muzzle.

Suddenly a whisper stole through the dark—­in his amazement Ambrose could not have told from what quarter.  “Angleysman!  Angleysman!”

Awe of the supernatural shook Ambrose’s breast.  He had come straight from deep slumber.  A fine perspiration broke out upon him.  It was a woman’s whisper, with a tender lift and fall in the sound.

Job struggled to release his head.  Ambrose sternly bade him be quiet.  The dog desisted, but crouched trembling.

The whisper was repeated; “Angleysman!”

A man must answer his summons.  “What do you want?” asked Ambrose softly.

“Come here.”

“Where are you?”

“Here—­at the corner.  Come to the foot of your bed.”

Ambrose obeyed.  Reaching the spot he said:  “Speak again.”

“Here,” the voice whispered.  “I mak’ a hole in the mud.  Put your ear down and I spik sof’.”

Ambrose identified the spot whence the sound issued.  He put his lips to it.  “Who are you?” he whispered.

“Nesis,” came the softly breathed answer.  “I your friend.”

Friend was always a word to warm Ambrose’s breast, and surely at this moment of all his life he needed a friend.  “Thank you,” he said from a full heart.

“I see you at the tea-dance,” the voice went on.

Ambrose had an intuition.  “Were you the girl—­”

“Yes,” she said.  “I sit be’ind you.  I think you pretty man.  When we run out I squeeze your hand.”

Ambrose grinned into the darkness.  “I thought you were pretty, too,” he returned.