He spoke in a strange, quiet voice that made David turn.  The Little Missioner was facing the moon.  He was gazing off into that wonder-world of forests and snow and stars and moonlight in a fixed and steady gaze, and it seemed to David that he aged, and shrank into smaller form, and that his shoulders drooped as if under a weight.  And all at once David saw in his face what he had seen before when in the coach—­a forgetfulness of all things but one, the lifting of a strange curtain, the baring of a soul; and for a few moments Father Roland stood with his face turned to the light of the skies, as if preoccupied by an all-pervading and hopeless grief.

CHAPTER X

It was Baree who disturbed the silent tableau in the moonlight.  David was staring at the Missioner, held by the look of anguish that had settled so quickly and so strangely in his face, as if this bright night with its moon and stars had recalled to him a great sorrow, when they heard again the wolf-dog’s howl out in the forest.  It was quite near.  David, with his eyes still on the other, saw Father Roland start, as if for an instant he had forgotten where he was.  The Missioner looked his way, and straightened his shoulders slowly, with a smile on his lips that was strained and wan as the smile of one worn out by an arduous toil.

“A splendid night,” he repeated, and he raised a naked hand to his head, as if slowly brushing away something from before his eyes.  “It was a night like this—­this—­fifteen years ago....”

He stopped.  In the moonlight he brought himself together with a jerk.  He came and laid a hand on David’s shoulder.

“That was Baree,” he said.  “The dog has followed us.”

“He is not very far in the forest,” answered David.

“No.  He smells us.  He is waiting out there for you.”

There was a moment’s silence between them as they listened.

“I will take him a fish,” said David, then.  “I am sure he will come to me.”

Mukoki had hoisted the gunny sack full of fish well up against the roof of the cabin to keep it from chance marauders of the night, and Father Roland stood by while David lowered it and made a choice for Baree’s supper.  Then he reentered the cabin.

It was not Baree who drew David slowly into the forest.  He wanted to be alone, away from Father Roland and the quiet, insistent scrutiny of the Cree.  He wanted to think, ask himself questions, find answers for them if he could.  His mind was just beginning to rouse itself to the significance of the events of the past day and night, and he was like one bewildered by a great mystery, and startled by visions of a possible tragedy.  Fate had played with him strangely.  It had linked him with happenings that were inexplicable and unusual, and he believed that they were not without their meaning for him.  More or less of a fatalist, he was inspired by the sudden and disturbing thought that they had happened by inevitable necessity.