"In the morning I shall carry my wee Margot to the Indian woman. It is the only thing I can do. And then I shall strike North for gold. But first I must return to this cabin and bury my dead. God! Why did she have to die? She should be buried beside her mother in the little graveyard at Ste. Anne's. But it cannot be. Upon a high point that juts out onto the lake, I will dig her grave--upon a point where we used often to go and watch the sunset, she and I and the little one. And there she will lie, while far below her the booming and the thunder of the wind-lashed waters of the lake will rise about her like the sound of bells--her requiem--like the tolling of the bells of Ste. Anne's."
"Oh, where is he now--my father?" sobbed the girl, as he concluded.
Brent's arm tightened about her shoulders, "He is dead," he whispered, "He has been dead these many years, or he would have found you." He swept his arm toward the barrens, "Somewhere in this great white land your father met his death--and it was a man's death--the kind of death he would have welcomed--for he was a man! The whole North is his grave. And out of it, his spirit kept calling--calling. And the call was heard--by a drunkard in a little cabin on the Yukon. I am that drunkard, and into my keeping the spirit of Murdo MacFarlane has entrusted the life of his baby--his wee Margot." Brent paused, and his voice suddenly cut hard as steel, "And may God Almighty strike me dead if I ever violate that trust!"
Slender brown fingers were upon his lips. "Don't talk like that, dear, it scares me. See, I am not afraid. And you are _not_ a drunkard."
"Didn't I say we couldn't expect to win all the battles?"
"And, I carry my bottle with me." He reached into his blankets and drew out the bottle of rum.
"And the cork has not been pulled," flashed the girl, "And you have carried it ever since you left the whaler."
"Yes, darling," answered the man softly, "And I always shall keep it, and I never will pull the cork. I can give you that promise, now. I can promise you--on the word of a Brent that----"
"Not yet, sweetheart--please!" interrupted the girl, "Let us hold back the promise, till we need it. That promise is our heavy artillery. This is only the beginning of the war. And no good general would show the enemy all he has got right in the beginning."