After they had strolled about for a while they returned to the lodge, where the Indian women were preparing breakfast.
"You stay here, little one," Rutland said. "These women will give you something to eat. I must go away now, but I shall come back soon."
"No, no," the child cried, clinging close to him. "I don't want to stay. I want my mamma. Take me to my mamma. Where is my mamma?"
"She can't come to you now," Rutland replied. "But I promise you that I shall come back soon."
After much persuasion the child was induced to remain, but she watched her protector anxiously, with tears in her eyes, as he left her.
Rutland hurried at once toward the forest along an Indian trail, which led to a hill not far from the river. Here was a native burying ground where a new grave had been dug that morning. His companions were already assembled, and by the time Rutland arrived they had the body of the young woman lowered into the ground. This task was performed in deep silence, for the presence of death stilled the tongues of these usually garrulous men. No coffin had they in which to place the body. Instead, a grey blanket was used as a shroud, and this had been carefully wrapped around the stiffened form.
As Rutland stood by the grave and looked down upon all that remained of Nance's mother he thought of the dream which had come to him in the night, and he saw again the woman pointing silently to the child at his feet. Between him and the men standing by his side there was a great gulf fixed. They were rude and unlettered, while he was an educated man, capable of seeing things not always revealed to others. They saw only the shrouded form lying in the grave. He saw much more. He beheld a little home, which had been rudely shattered by the sudden death of husband and wife. He pictured loved ones far away waiting anxiously for news from the great northland, and then the sorrow when at last the tidings reached them, if ever they did, of the precious toll the wilderness had taken. He thought, too, of the little child so terribly bereaved, upon whom so much love and care had been bestowed. What would become of her? he asked himself.
He was roused from his reverie by the sound of shovels striking hard upon gravel. He looked quickly up and saw that the men were making ready to fill in the grave. For an instant only he hesitated and then straightening himself up he raised his right hand.
"Wait a moment," he commanded. "It is not right that we should lay this woman here without one word of prayer. Who will say it?"
At once every hat was doffed, and the men looked at one another.
"You go ahead, pard," said one at length. "You know best what to say."
Yes, Rutland knew very well what to say—the exact words—but why should he utter them? He had put everything connected with his Church away from him forever. He paused in an effort to think of something else. Twice he started, but each time floundered and stopped. He could not back down, for the men were watching him. He must say something over the body of Nance's mother. At length, pulling himself together, he repeated the words he had used so often in other days.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take to himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Here he paused, stooped, and seizing a handful of gravel sprinkled it three times upon the body. This done, he continued the prayer to the end. Then he stepped back and remained perfectly silent, watching the men as they rapidly filled in and rounded up the grave. In fact, he stood there until his companions had gone back to the river. Then he looked cautiously around to be sure that he was alone. Seeing no one in sight, he picked up two sticks lying upon the ground and fastened them together into the form of a cross, with a piece of a raw moose-hide thong he had in his pocket. This he placed at the head of the newly-made grave, thrusting it well down into the loose earth.
Rutland could not account for what he had done. If any one had told him when he awoke that morning that he would repeat that prayer and erect this rude cross, he would have scoffed at the idea. "I did it all for the child's sake," he said to himself, as an excuse for his temporary weakness. At once there flashed into his mind the words of the aged bishop. "Do you think that you can free yourself from the influence of the Church? I tell you that you are mistaken; it is impossible." Rutland's hands clenched hard as the memory of the past swept upon him. He reached down and laid his hand upon the cross he had just erected. He would tear it out and break it into a dozen pieces. But as he touched that symbol of redemption his outstretched arm dropped by his side, and his head drooped low. Though an outcast, and determined to have nothing more to do with his Church, he knew now that its influence was upon him still. It was harder than he had imagined to uproot the teaching which had been implanted in his heart and mind in early days, and carefully nourished throughout the years. But he would succeed. Never again would he allow such weakness to possess him. He would prove the bishop's words to be false.
When Rutland returned to the encampment he found that his companions were almost ready to depart. Nance saw him approaching, and with a cry of delight ran to meet him. He caught her in his arms, and his heart thrilled with joy at her confidence. Here was the one person in the whole world to greet him and look up to him for protection. He carried her to where several Indian women were squatting upon the ground.
"You stay here, little one," and he gently untwined her arms from around his neck as he spoke. "Be a good girl, and I shall come back to you some day."
For a few brief heart beats the child lifted her head, looked searchingly into his eyes, and then with a piteous wail of despair clung to him closer than ever.
"Don't leave me. Don't leave me," she sobbed. "Take me with you. Take me to my papa and mamma. I won't stay here. I won't."
Rutland did not know what to do. He seated himself upon a stump and placed Nance on his knee. He tried to reason with her, telling her how happy she would be with the Indian women, and how they would care for her. But his words were of no avail. The more he talked, the closer she clung to him, and begged him not to leave her.
A shout from the river warned Rutland that his companions were ready to depart. Quickly rising to his feet, he unloosened the child's arms, handed her to an old squaw, and moved rapidly away. At once wild shrieks of despair and terror filled the air. He endeavoured not to listen, and tried to steel his heart. But it was no use. He stopped and looked back. He saw the child where he had left her, her little hands stretched out appealingly toward him. The sight was more than he could endure. Hesitating no longer, he rushed back, seized her in his arms, bore her swiftly to the river, and placed her gently in one of the boats. In a few minutes they were speeding northward, and with them went Nance, the little waif of the wilderness.
CHAPTER IV
BY THE MIRRORING LAKE
Of all the sheets of water lying hidden in the great range of mountains sloping to the cold North Pacific Ocean, none was fairer than Lake Klutana. It was one of nature's most beautiful cameos. Tall, dark trees of spruce, fir, and jack-pine shouldered back from the margin and cast irregular silhouettes around the border. Lofty mountain peaks towered beyond and reflected their coronals of snow in the lake which they embosomed. To the north-east stretched a long wooded valley with crouching foot-hills on either side. Down through this opening flowed a small river, called by the Indians the "Quaska." Where this stream joined the lake the land was level, which from time immemorial had afforded an excellent camping ground for the natives of the locality.
In days long past the Tasko tribe had been a large one. Hundreds of them had come regularly