In those moments his brain painted for him swiftly and vividly the things he was losing.  Tomorrow or next day he would be dead, and the river brigade would still be sweeping on—­on into the Grand Rapids of the Athabasca, fighting the Death Chute, hazarding valiantly the rocks and rapids of the Grand Cascade, the whirlpools of the Devil’s Mouth, the thundering roar and boiling dragon teeth of the Black Run—­on to the end of the Athabasca, to the Slave, and into the Mackenzie, until the last rock-blunted nose of the outfit drank the tide-water of the Arctic Ocean.  And he, James Kent, would be dead!

He uncovered his eyes, and there was a wan smile on his lips as he looked forth once more.  There were sixteen scows in the brigade, and the biggest, he knew, was captained by Pierre Rossand.  He could fancy Pierre’s big red throat swelling in mighty song, for Pierre’s wife was waiting for him a thousand miles away.  The scows were caught steadily now in the grip of the river, and it seemed to Kent, as he watched them go, that they were the last fugitives fleeing from the encroaching monsters of steel.  Unconscious of the act, he reached out his arms, and his soul cried out its farewell, even though his lips were silent.

He was glad when they were gone and when the voices of the chanting oarsmen were lost in the distance.  Again he listened to the lazy hum of the sawmill, and over his head he heard the velvety run of a red squirrel and then its reckless chattering.  The forests came back to him.  Across his cot fell a patch of golden sunlight.  A stronger breath of air came laden with the perfume of balsam and cedar through his window, and when the door opened and Cardigan entered, he found the old Kent facing him.

There was no change in Cardigan’s voice or manner as he greeted him.  But there was a tenseness in his face which he could not conceal.  He had brought in Kent’s pipe and tobacco.  These he laid on a table until he had placed his head close to Kent’s hearty listening to what he called the bruit—­the rushing of blood through the aneurismal sac.

“Seems to me that I can hear it myself now and then,” said Kent.  “Worse, isn’t it?”

Cardigan nodded.  “Smoking may hurry it up a bit,” he said.  “Still, if you want to—­”

Kent held out his hand for the pipe and tobacco.  “It’s worth it.  Thanks, old man.”

Kent loaded the pipe, and Cardigan lighted a match.  For the first time in two weeks a cloud of smoke issued from between Kent’s lips.

“The brigade is starting north,” he said.

“Mostly Mackenzie River freight,” replied Cardigan.  “A long run.”

“The finest in all the North.  Three years ago O’Connor and I made it with the Follette outfit.  Remember Follette—­and Ladouceur?  They both loved the same girl, and being good friends they decided to settle the matter by a swim through the Death Chute.  The man who came through first was to have her.  Gawd, Cardigan, what funny things happen!  Follette came out first, but he was dead.  He’d brained himself on a rock.  And to this day Ladouceur hasn’t married the girl, because he says Follette beat him; and that Follette’s something-or-other would haunt him if he didn’t play fair.  It’s a queer—­”