While Cabot felt very bitter against the young Indian whom he had named "Arsenic," on account of the base ingratitude with which the latter had repaid the kindness shown him, and was determined to punish him for it in some way, he had not the slightest idea what form the punishment would take. Of course he did not intend to kill Arsenic, nor even to severely injure him, but he had thought of giving the rascal a sound thrashing, and only hoped he could make him understand what it was for. In the excitement of the past two weeks he had forgotten all about Arsenic, but the sight of those ragged children had awakened his animosity, and he had followed them, hoping that they would lead him to the object of his just wrath. It was only when he reached the sorry-looking tent that he remembered the other savages whom Arsenic had brought with him on his second visit to the schooner, and wondered if some of them might not be concealed behind the canvas screen ready to spring upon him.
With this thought he stepped nimbly to one side as he threw open the flap, and stood for a moment waiting for what might happen. There was no rush of men and no sound, save only a faint cry of terror, hearing which Cabot peered cautiously around the edge of the opening.
A poor little fire of sticks smouldered on the ground in the middle, filling the place with a pungent smoke. Through this Cabot could at first make out only a confused huddle at one side, from which several pairs of eyes glared at him like those of wild beasts. As he entered the tent a human figure detached itself from this and strove to rise, but fell back weakly helpless. In another moment a closer view disclosed to Cabot the whole dreadful situation. The huddle resolved itself into a woman, hollow-cheeked and gaunt with sickness and hunger, two children in slightly better plight, and a little dead baby. There was no other person in the tent, and it contained no furnishing except the heap of boughs, rags, and scraps of fur that passed for a bed, and a broken kettle that lay beside the fire. On the floor were scattered a few bones picked clean, from which even the marrow had been extracted; but otherwise there was no vestige of food.
"I believe they are starving to death!" cried Cabot, as he made these discoveries.
"It certainly looks like it," replied White, who had followed his friend into the tent. "I wonder what they did with all the provisions they stole from us."
"Probably they were taken from them in turn to feed those other Indians. At any rate, they are destitute enough now, and we can't leave them here to die. Go and bring Yim with the sled as quick as you can, while I wake up this fire."
"All right," replied White, "only I'm afraid he won't come."
"He must come," said Cabot decisively.
The hatred between Eskimo and Indian is so bitter that it took all White's powers of persuasion, together with certain threats, to bring Yim to the tent, but once there even he was sufficiently roused by its spectacle of suffering to bestir himself most actively.
During the next hour, while the starving, half-frozen Indians were warmed and fed, the rescuers discussed the situation and what should be done. They could not leave the helpless family as they had found them, neither could they carry them away, and it would be folly to remain with them longer than was absolutely necessary. They could not gain a word of information from the woman or children as to how they had arrived at such a pitiable plight, what they had done with the stolen provisions, why their friends had abandoned them, or what had become of Arsenic.
"I'll tell you what," said Cabot at length; "we'll provide them with a supply of wood and leave all the provisions we can possibly spare. Then we will hurry on to Indian Harbour, send back some more provisions from there by Yim, and get him to report the case to Mr. Mellins."
As there seemed nothing better to be done, this plan was carried out, though dividing the provisions made each portion look woefully small, and by noon the sledge was again on its way southward.
The head of the fiord having been reached, the trail now left the sheltering timber and struck across an open country, which was also extremely rugged, abounding in hills and hollows. Over these the sledge pulled heavily, in spite of its lightened load, because one of the ice shoes, with which its runners were shod, had broken and could not be repaired until camp was made.
When they had gone about three miles, and while our lads were still talking of the suffering they had so recently witnessed, they were attracted by an exclamation from Yim, who was pointing eagerly ahead. Looking in that direction, they saw a line of dark objects, that had just topped a distant ridge, running swiftly towards them.
"Caribou!" shouted White, in great excitement, at the same time seizing his rifle from the sledge and hastily removing it from its sealskin case. In another minute sledge and dogs were concealed in a bit of a gully, with Cabot to watch them, while Yim and White, lying flat behind the crest of a low ridge, were eagerly noting the course of the approaching animals. When it became evident that they would pass at some distance on the right, White, crouching low, ran in that direction.
The caribou appeared badly frightened, pausing every few moments to face about and cast terrified glances over the way they had come. All at once, during one of these pauses, a shot rang out, followed quickly by another, and, as the terrified animals dashed madly away in a new direction, one of their number dropped behind, staggered, and fell.
"I've got him! I've got him!" yelled White, wild with the joy of his achievement.
"Hurrah for us!" shouted Cabot. "Steaks and spare-ribs for supper to-night."
"Yip, yip, yip!" screamed Yim to his dogs, and with a jubilant chorus of yells and yelpings, the entire outfit streamed over the ridge to the place where the unfortunate caribou lay motionless.
In his broken English Yim gave the lads to understand that it would be advisable to camp where they were, in order to prepare their meat for transportation, and also to mend their broken sledge shoe. This latter, he explained, could be done much better with a mixture of blood and snow than with any other available material. He furthermore intimated that he feared they might be overtaken by a blizzard before morning, in which case they could best defy it in a regularly built igloo.
All these reasons for delay seemed so good that the others accepted them, and the work outlined by Yim was immediately begun. In cutting up the caribou, as in building the snow hut, Cabot, from lack of experience, could give but slight assistance, and, realising this, he made a proposal.
"Look here," he said. "The wood we have brought along won't last long and I want a good fire to-night. I also want to carry some of this meat to those poor wretches we have just left. We have got more than we can take with us, anyhow. So I am going back with a leg of venison, and on my return I'll bring all the wood I can pack."
"But you might lose the way," objected White.
"No one could lose so plain a trail as the one we have just made," replied Cabot, scornfully.
"Suppose it should be dark before you got back?"
"There will be three hours of daylight yet, and I won't be gone more than two at the most. Anyhow, I must get some of this meat to those starving children."
White's protests were ineffectual before Cabot's strong resolve, and, as soon as a forequarter of the caribou could be made ready, the latter get forth on his errand of mercy. Although he had no difficulty in finding the trail, it was so much harder to walk with a heavy load than it had been without one that a full hour had passed before he again came within sight of the lonely tent in the forest.
One of the children who was outside spied him and announced his coming, so that when he entered the tent he again found a frightened group huddled together and apprehensively awaiting him. But they were stronger now, and the children uttered little squeals of joy at sight of the meat he had brought, while even the haggard face of their mother was lighted by a fleeting smile.
For the pleasure of seeing the children eat Cabot toasted a few strips of venison over the coals, and these smelled so good that he cut off some more for himself. In this occupation he spent another hour without realising the flight of time, and had eaten a quantity of meat that he would have deemed impossible had it all been placed before him at once.
As he was bending over the fire toasting a strip that he said to himself should be the last, a slight cry from one of the children caused him to look up. He barely caught a glimpse of a face at the entrance as it was hastily withdrawn, but in that moment he recognised the features of Arsenic. At sight of the ill-favoured young Indian all of Cabot's former resentment flamed up, and springing to his feet he dashed from the tent, determined to give Arsenic the thrashing he deserved.
Of course Cabot had removed his snowshoes, but, as the young Indian had done the same thing, both were compelled to readjust these all-important articles, without which they would have floundered helplessly in the deep snow.
Arsenic was off first, and though Cabot chased him hotly he could not overcome the advantage thus gained. Being also much less expert in the management of snowshoes, he tripped several times, and finally pitched headlong. When he next regained his feet Arsenic had disappeared in the timber, and our lad realised the futility of a further pursuit. Now, too, he noticed that the sky had become heavily overcast, and that a strong wind was soughing ominously through the tree tops.
"It must be later than I thought," he reflected, "and high time for me to be getting back to camp." With this he hastily gathered a bundle of sticks to be used as firewood and started, as he supposed, towards the open; but so confused was he, and so many turns did he make, that more than half an hour was wasted before he finally emerged from the timber. Here he was dismayed to find that snow was falling, or rather being driven in straight lines by the wind, which had increased to the force of a gale.
"I've got to hump myself to reach camp before dark, but I'll make it all right," he remarked to himself, as he set forth across the white plain.
He took a diagonal course that he hoped would lead him to the trail, but by the time all landmarks were obliterated by the descending night he had failed to find it. In looking back he could not even distinguish the timber line from which he had come. Then the awful conviction slowly forced itself upon him that he was lost in a trackless wilderness, swept by the first fury of an Arctic blizzard.
So numbed was our poor lad by the shock of his discovery that, for a few moments, he stood motionless. Of course it would be of no use to continue his hopeless struggle. Even if he had come in the right direction he must ere this have passed the place where his companions were encamped. If he could only regain the timber there might be a slight chance of surviving the night; but even its location was lost to him, and a certain death stared him in the face. At any rate it would be a painless ending, for he had only to lie down to be quickly covered by a soft blanket of snow. Then he could go to sleep never again to waken. He was very weary, and already so drowsy that the thought of sleep was pleasant to him. Such a death would certainly not be so terrible as drowning after a hopeless struggle with black waters.
With this thought every incident of that awful night after the loss of the "Lavinia" flashed into his mind. How utterly hopeless had seemed his situation then and how desperately he had fought for his life. But he had fought, and had won the fight. What was the use of learning a lesson of that kind if he could not profit by it? Was not his life as well worth fighting for now as then? Of course it was; nor was his present position any more hopeless than that one had been. Then he had drifted with the wind, and now he would do the same thing. If he could hold out long enough he would fetch up somewhere sometime. It was merely a question of endurance. Even in that howling wilderness, with death on all sides, there were still three chances for life. The drift with the wind might take him to the igloo that Yim must have built ere this. How bright, and warm, and cosey its lamplighted interior would be. How glad they would be to see him, and how he would laugh at all his recent fears. But of course there was not one chance in a million of his finding the igloo. It was not at all unlikely, though, that the drift might take him to a belt of timber, into which the bitter wind could not penetrate; and where he could crawl under the thick, low-hanging branches of some tent-like spruce. Even such a shelter now seemed very desirable, and would be accepted with thankfulness. If he failed to reach timber, the wind might blow him to some region of cliffs and rocks that would shelter him from its cutting blasts. If he missed all these chances, and if worse came to worst, he could always go to sleep beneath the snow blanket, and it would be better to do that with the consciousness of having made a good fight than to yield now like a coward.
All these thoughts flashed through Cabot's mind within the space of a minute, and, having determined to fight until the battle was either won or lost, he flung away his now useless burden of firewood and started off down the wind. Tramping through that newly fallen snow, even with the support of racquets, was exhausting work, but the effort at least kept him warm, and, before he came to the end of his strength, some hours later, he had covered a number of miles. He had also come to the least promising of the three places he had hoped for, and found himself in a region of cliffs, precipices, and huge rocks, among which he could no longer make headway, even though he had not reached the limit of endurance.
But he had reached that limit, and now only sought a spot in which he might lie down and go to sleep. Of course the snow would quickly cover him, and doubtless he would be buried deep ere the fury of the storm was past. But he had a vague plan for putting his snowshoes over his head like an inverted V, and hoped in that way to be kept from smothering. At the same time he had little thought that he should ever see the light of another day.
"Only a bit further and then I can rest," he muttered, as he pushed into the blackness of a rift between two tall cliffs, and experienced a partial relief from the furious wind. It seemed as though he ought to penetrate this as far as possible, and so he struggled weakly forward. Then he stumbled over something that lay across his path and fell heavily. As he lay wondering whether an attempt to regain his feet would be worth while, he seemed to hear the distant but strenuous ringing of an electric bell, and almost smiled at the absurdity of such a fancy in such a place. The thought carried him back to the electrical laboratory of the Institute, and he began to dream that he was still a student of ohms, volts, and amperes.
In another moment his consciousness would have been wholly merged in dreams, but suddenly the place where he lay was filled with a blaze of light that apparently streamed from the solid rock on either side. So intense was this light that it penetrated even Cabot's closed eyes, and aroused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. He lifted his head, and, still bewildered, wondered why the laboratory was so brilliantly illuminated.
Then, through the glare, he saw the driving snow-flakes with their dancing shadows magnified a hundred fold, and, all at once, he remembered. Staggering to his feet, and groping with outstretched arms, he pushed forward along the narrow pathway outlined by the mysterious light. He no longer heard the sound of bells, but in its place came strains of music that blended weirdly with the shrieking wind, and irresistibly compelled him forward. The pathway sloped downward and then took a sharp turn. As Cabot passed this the light behind him was extinguished as suddenly as it had appeared, the wild music sounded louder than ever, and directly in front of him gleamed two squares of light like windows. Between them was a dark space, towards which he instinctively stumbled. It proved to be as he had hoped, a door massive and without any means of unclosing that his blind fumblings could discover. So he beat against it feebly and uttered a hoarse cry for help. In another moment it was opened, and Cabot, leaning heavily against it, fell into a room, small, warm, and brightly lighted.
For a few minutes he lay with closed eyes, barely conscious that his struggle for life had been successful, and that in some mysterious manner he had gained a place of safety. Gradually he became aware that some one was bending over him, and opening his eyes he gazed full into a face that he instantly recognised, though it had sadly changed since he last saw it. At that time it had expressed strength in every line, but now it was haggard and worn by suffering.
"The Man-wolf!" gasped Cabot, in a voice hardly above a whisper.
A slight smile flitted across the man's face, and then, without warning, he sank to the floor in a dead faint. His mighty strength had been turned to the weakness of water, and the iron will had at length relaxed its hold upon the enfeebled body. As the man-wolf fell, a stream of blood trickled from his mouth, and he choked for breath as though strangling.
There is nothing so effective in restoring spent strength as a demand upon it from one who is weaker, and at sight of the big man's helplessness Cabot was instantly nerved to renewed effort. He sat up, cut loose his snowshoes, closed the open door, and rid himself of his snow-laden outer garments. Then, by a supreme effort, he managed to drag the unconscious man to a bed that was piled with robes and lean him against it. His eyes had already lighted on a jug of water, and fetching this he bathed the sufferer's face, washed the blood from his mouth, and finally had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes unclose. Then he helped him on to the bed, and though during the operation the man's face expressed the most intense pain, he uttered no sound. But the movement was accompanied by another hemorrhage, so severe that it seemed to our distressed lad as though the man must surely bleed to death before it was checked. When it finally ceased the exhausted sufferer dropped asleep, and, for the first time since entering that place of mysteries, Cabot found an opportunity for looking about him.
Although the room was small it was comfortably furnished with a table, chairs—one of which was a rocker—a lounge, and the bed on which the man-wolf lay. There were no windows nor doors except those in front. The ceiling was of heavy canvas tightly stretched, while the walls were hung with the skins of fur-bearing animals, and the floor was covered with rugs of the same material. At first Cabot paid no attention to these details, for his eyes were fixed upon the most astonishing thing he had seen in all Labrador. It was a lamp that, depending from the ceiling, gave to the room an illumination as brilliant as daylight.
"Electric, as I live!" gasped the young engineer. "A regular incandescent, and those lights out on the trail must have been the same. That was an electric bell too. I know it now, though I couldn't believe my ears at the time. The light he scared the Indians with must have been an electric flash, worked by a storage battery. But it is all so incredible! I wonder if I am really awake or still dreaming?"
To assure himself on this point Cabot went to the light, and, as he did so, came upon another surprise greater than any that had preceded it. He had wondered at the comfortable temperature of the room, for there was nowhere a fire to be seen, and the blizzard still howled outside with unabated fury. Now, on drawing near to the lamp, he found himself also approaching some heretofore unobserved source of heat, which he discovered to be a drum of sheet iron. It stood by itself, unconnected with any chimney, and apparently had no receptacle for any form of fuel, solid, liquid, or gaseous.
"A Balfour electric heater," murmured Cabot, in an awe-stricken tone, "and I didn't even know they had been perfected. I don't suppose there are half-a-dozen in use in all the world, and yet here is one of them doing its full duty up here in the Labrador wilderness, a thousand miles from anywhere. It is fully equal to any tale of the Arabian Nights, and Mr. Homolupus must, as the natives say, be either a god or a devil. I do wonder who he is, where he came from, what has happened to him, where he gets his electricity, and a thousand other things. I wish he would wake up, and I wish he could talk."
Cabot's curiosity concerning the weird music that had drawn him to that place had been partially satisfied by the discovery of a violin on the floor beside the sick man's bed. Now, as he flung himself wearily down on the lounge for a bit of rest, he became conscious of the muffled b-r-r-r of a dynamo. That accounted in a measure for the electric lights, but still left our lad in a daze of wonder at the nature of his surroundings.
When Cabot threw himself down on that lounge he fully intended to remain awake, or at most to take only a series of short naps, always holding himself in readiness to assist the sufferer on the opposite side of the room. But exhausted nature proved too much for his good intentions, and he had hardly lain down before he fell into a dead, dreamless sleep that lasted for many hours. When he next awoke it was with a start, and he sat up bewildered by the strangeness of his environment. Daylight was streaming in at the frost-covered windows and the storm of the night before had evidently spent its fury.
Almost the first thing he saw was the tall form of his host bending feebly over the electric stove. His face was drawn with pain, and he was so weak that he was compelled to support himself by grasping the table with one hand while with the other he stirred the contents of a simmering kettle.
"Let me do that, sir!" cried Cabot, springing to his feet. "You are not fit to be out of your bed, and I am perfectly familiar with the management of electrical cooking apparatus, though I don't know much about cooking itself."
The man hesitated a moment, and then permitted the other to lead him back to his bed, on which he sank with a groan. Here Cabot made him as comfortable as possible before turning his attention to the stove. On it he found two kettles, each having its own wire connections, in one of which was boiling water while the other contained a meat stew. On the table was a box of tea, a bowl of sugar, and a plate heaped with hard bread. Finding other dishes in a cupboard, Cabot made a pot of tea, turned off the electric current, and served breakfast. Before eating a mouthful himself he prepared a bowl of broth for his patient, which the latter managed to swallow after many attempts and painful effort.
Cabot ate ravenously, and, after his meal, felt once more ready to face any number of difficulties. First he went to the bedside of his host and said:
"Now, Mr. Homolupus, I want to find out what is the trouble and what I can do for you. Are you wounded, or just naturally ill?"
The man looked at his questioner for a moment, as though he were on the point of speaking. Then he seemed to change his mind, and, reaching for a pencil and pad that lay close at hand, he wrote:
"I am shot in the chest."
"Who—I mean how——" began Cabot, and then, realising that his curiosity could well wait, he added: "But, with your permission, I will examine the wound and see if there is anything I can do."
With this he sought and gently removed a blood-soaked bandage, thereby disclosing a sight so ghastly that it almost unnerved him. The wound was so terrible, and the loss of blood from it had evidently been so great, that how even the giant frame of the man-wolf could have survived it was amazing. Having no knowledge of surgery, Cabot could only bathe and rebandage it. Then he said:
"Now, I am going to be your nurse, and you must lie perfectly still without attempting to get up again until I give you leave."
Seeing an expression of dissent in the man's face, he continued:
"It's all right. I am under the greatest of obligations to you, and am only too glad of a chance to pay some of it back. So I shall stay right here just as long as you need me. Fortunately I know something about both electricity and machinery, having been educated at a technical institute, so that I shall be able to manage very well with your plant. But I do wish you could explain a few things to me. Is your name really 'Homolupus'?"
The sufferer smiled and wrote on his pad:
"My name is Watson Balfour."
"My name is Watson Balfour."[Illustration: "My name is Watson Balfour."]
"My name is Watson Balfour."[Illustration: "My name is Watson Balfour."]
"Of London?" queried Cabot.
The man nodded.
"Is it possible that you can be Watson Balfour, the celebrated English electrician, who is supposed to have been lost at sea some years ago?"
Again the man smiled and made a sign of assent.
For a moment Cabot stared, well nigh speechless with the wonder and excitement of this discovery. Then he broke into a torrent of exclamations and questions.
"Why, Mr. Balfour, I know you so well by reputation that you seem like an old friend. Your 'Handbook of Electricity' and your 'Comparative Voltage' are text books at the Institute. The whole scientific world mourned your supposed death. But how do you happen to be up here, and how have you managed to establish an electric plant in this wilderness? Why are you masquerading as a man-wolf? How did you lose the power of speech? How did you become so severely wounded? Can't you tell me some of these things?"
For answer Mr. Balfour wrote: "Perhaps, some time. Tell first how you came here."
So Cabot, forced to curb for the present his own overpowering curiosity, sat down and told of all that had happened since the departure of the man-wolf from Locked Harbour. When he had finished he said:
"And now, I ought to go outside and see if I can discover any trace of my companions, who must be awfully cut up over my disappearance. But don't be uneasy, Mr. Balfour, I shan't go far, and whether I find them or not I shall certainly come back to stay just as long as you need me. I hope you will sleep while I am gone, and I wish you would promise not to leave your bed, or move more than is absolutely necessary, before my return."
When Cabot first stepped outside the shelter that had proved such a haven of safety to him, he was dazzled by the brilliancy of the day. After becoming somewhat accustomed to the glare of sunlight on new-fallen snow, he turned to see what sort of a house he had just left. To his surprise there was no house; the only suggestion of one being two windows and a door set in a wall of rock that was built at the base of a cliff.
"It is a cavern," thought Cabot, "and that is the reason the room is so easily kept warm. Mighty good thing to have in this country, especially when it is lined with furs."
The snow lay unbroken, and there was no sign of the trail he had made the night before. For a short distance, however, he could go in but one direction, for the only way out was through the narrow defile by which he had entered. At its mouth he found the wire over which he had fallen, and thereby given notice of his approach by causing the ringing of an electric bell.
"When he heard it he turned on the lights," said Cabot to himself. "It's a great scheme for scaring off Indians and attracting white men. I wonder if any other person ever found the place? What a marvellous thing my stumbling on it was, anyhow. Now, which way did I come?"
Gazing blankly at the surrounding chaos of snow-covered rocks, our lad could form no idea of the route by which he had been led to that place, through the storm and darkness of the preceding night, nor of how he might leave it.
"There is no use wandering aimlessly," he decided at length, "and I'll either have to gain a bird's-eye view of the country or get Mr. Balfour to make me a map. To think that I should have discovered him, and here of all places in the world. What a sensation it will make when I tell of it. Of course I shall do so, for I'll get out of this fix all right somehow. What a state of mind poor White must be in this morning. I know I should be in his place. He's all right, though, with Yim to pull him through, and they'll make Indian Harbour easy enough. Then I shall be reported lost, and after a while Mr. Hepburn will hear the news. Wonder what he thinks has become of me anyhow? I am following out instructions, and wintering in Labrador fast enough. Only I don't seem to have much time to investigate mining properties, and of course it's no use trying to find 'em buried under feet of snow. Perhaps Mr. Balfour has discovered some while roaming around the country as a man-wolf. How absurd to think of 'Voltage' Balfour as a man-wolf! Wonder why he did it? How I wish he could talk! Wonder why he can't?"
While thus cogitating, Cabot had also been climbing a nearby eminence that promised a view of the outlying country, but from it he could see nothing save other hills rising still higher and an unbroken waste of snow.
"It's no use," he sighed. "I don't believe I could find them, even if I had plenty of time. As it is, I don't dare stay away from Mr. Balfour any longer. I'm afraid he's a very sick man, with a slim chance of ever pulling through."
So Cabot, after an absence of several hours, turned back towards the snug shelter so providentially provided for him, and for which he was just then more grateful than he could express. He was thinking of the many wonders of the place when he reached its door; but, as he opened it and stepped inside the room, he was greeted by a greater surprise than he had yet encountered. Nothing was changed about the interior, and the wounded man lay as Cabot had left him, but with the appearance of the latter he exclaimed:
"Thank God, dear lad, that you have come back to me! It seemed as though I should go crazy if left alone a minute longer."
Cabot stared in amazement. "Is it a miracle?" he finally asked, "and has your speech been restored to you, or have you been able to speak all the time?"
"I have been able, but not willing," was the reply. "I had thought to die without speaking to a human being. I even avoided my fellows, believing myself sufficient unto myself. But God has punished my arrogance and shown me my weakness. Until you came no stranger has ever set foot within this dwelling, to none have I spoken, and not even to you did I intend to speak, but with your going my folly became plain. I feared you might never return; the horror of living alone, and the greater horror of dying alone, swept over me. Then I prayed for you to come. I promised to speak as soon as you were within hearing. Every moment since then I have watched for you and longed for your coming as a dying man longs for the breath of life. Promise that you will not leave me again."
"I have already promised, and now I repeat, that I will not leave you so long as you have need of me," replied Cabot. "But tell me——"
"I will tell you everything," interrupted the wounded man, "but first you must look after the dynamo. It has stopped, and if you cannot set it going again we must both perish."
An accident to the dynamo in that place where there was no fuel, and electricity must be depended upon for light and heat, was so serious a matter that, for a moment, even Cabot's curiosity concerning his host was merged in anxiety.
"Where shall I find it?" he asked.
"In the cavern back of this room. The doorway is behind that bearskin. This upper row of keys connects with the storage battery, and the second key controls the lights of the dynamo room. If there is a bad break I can manage to get to it, but I wouldn't try until you came, because I promised not to move."
All this was said in a voice that faltered from weakness, and a wave of pity surged in Cabot's breast as he realised how dependent upon him this man, so recently a mental as well as a physical giant, had become.
"I expect I shall be able to attend to it all right," he said decisively, as he turned on the stored current that would light the unknown cavern. "At any rate, I shall be able to report the condition of things, so that you can advise me what to do, or else my training is a greater failure than I think."
With this he lifted the bearskin, opened a door thus disclosed, and found himself in a small, well-lighted cavern that was at once a dynamo room, a workshop, and a storehouse for a confused miscellany of articles. Without pausing to investigate any of these he went directly to a dynamo that had been set up at one side and examined it carefully. It appeared in perfect order, and the trouble must evidently be sought elsewhere.
Cabot had wondered by what power the dynamo was driven, and now, hearing a sound of running water, he stepped in that direction. A short distance away he discovered a swift-flowing subterranean stream, in which revolved a water wheel of rude, but serviceable, construction. As nothing seemed wrong with it, he was obliged to look further, and finally found the cause of trouble to be a transmitting belt, the worn-out lacing of which had parted. As portions of the belt itself had been caught in the pulleys and badly cut, it was necessary to hunt through the pile of material for a new one, and for leather suitable for lacing. Then the new belt must be accurately measured, laced together, and adjusted to its pulleys.
Although the temperature of the cavern was many degrees above that of the outside air, it was still so low that Cabot worked slowly and with numbed fingers. Thus more than an hour had elapsed before the dynamo was again in running order, and he was at liberty to return to the living room. In the meantime his curiosity concerning this strange place of abode and its mysterious tenant was increased by the remarkable collection of articles stored on all sides. There was no end of machinery, tools, and electrical apparatus of all kinds, including miles of copper wire and chemicals for charging batteries. Besides these, there were ropes, canvas, furniture, boxes, barrels, and other things too numerous to mention.
"What a prize this place would have been for the Indians if they had ever discovered it," reflected the young engineer. "I wonder that he dared go off and leave it unguarded."
When he finally returned to the outer room, he found it even colder than the cavern in which he had been working, and realised, as never before, the value of the knowledge that had enabled him to restore the usefulness of that electric heater. After getting it into operation, and making his report to the sick man, who had impatiently awaited him, there was another meal to prepare.
So, in spite of Cabot's overwhelming desire to hear Mr. Balfour's story, there was so much to be done first that the short day had merged into another night before the opportunity arrived. When it came, our lad drew a chair to the bedside of his patient and said:
"Now, sir, if you feel able to talk, and are willing to tell me how you happen to be living in this place, I shall be more than glad to listen."
"I am willing," replied the other, "but must be brief, since talking has become an exertion. As perhaps you know, I was a working electrician in London, where, though I had a good business, I had not accumulated much money. Consequently I was greatly pleased to receive what promised to be a lucrative contract from a Canadian railway company for supplying and installing a quantity of electrical apparatus along their line. I at once invested every penny I could raise in the purchase of material and in the charter of a sailing vessel to transport it to this country. On the eve of sailing I married a young lady to whom I had long been engaged, and, with light hearts, we set forth on our wedding trip across the Atlantic.
"The first two weeks of that voyage were filled with such happiness that I trembled for fear it should be snatched from me. During that time we had fair weather and favouring winds. Then we ran into a gale that lasted for days, and drove us far out of our course. One mast went by the board, the other was cut away to save the ship, and, while in this helpless condition, she struck at night, what I afterwards learned to be, a mass of floating ice. At the time all hands believed us to be on the coast, and the crew, taking our only seaworthy boat, put off in a panic, while I was below preparing my wife for departure. Thus deserted, we awaited the death that we expected with each passing moment, but it failed to come and the ship still floated. With earliest daylight I was on deck, and, to my amazement, saw land on both sides. We had been driven into the mouth of a broad estuary, up which wind and tide were still carrying us.
"For three days our helpless drift, to and fro, was continued, and then our ship grounded on a ledge at the foot of these cliffs. Getting ashore with little difficulty, we were dismayed to find ourselves in an uninhabited wilderness, devoid even of vegetation other than moss and low growing shrubs. One of my first discoveries was this cavern with its subterranean stream of water, and two openings, one of which gives easy access to the sea. Knowing that our ship must, sooner or later, go to pieces, and desirous of saving what property I might, I rigged up a derrick at the mouth of the cavern, and, with the aid of my brave wife, transferred everything movable from the wreck; a labour of months.
"Winter was now at hand, and, foreseeing that we must spend it where we were, I walled up the openings and made all possible preparations to fight the coming cold. We burned wood from the wreck while it lasted, and in the meantime I labored almost night and day at the establishment of an electric plant. But the awful winter came and found it still unfinished, and before the coming of another spring I was left alone."
Here the speaker paused, overcome as much by his feelings as by weakness, and, during the silence that followed, Cabot stole away, ostensibly to see that the dynamo was running smoothly. When he returned the narrator had recovered his calmness, and was ready to continue his story.
"She had never been strong," he said, "and I so cruelly allowed her to overwork herself that she had no strength left with which to fight the winter. She died in my arms in this very room, and I promised never to leave her. Also, after her death, I vowed that my last words to her should be my last to any human being, and, until this day, I have kept that vow, foolish and wicked though it was. I have talked and read aloud when alone, but to no man have I spoken. I have also avoided intercourse with my fellows, selfishly preferring to nurse my sorrow in sinful rebellion against God's will. Now am I justly punished by being stricken down in the pride of my strength. At the same time God has shown his everlasting mercy by sending you to me in the time of my sore need. And you have promised to stay with me until the end, which I feel assured is not far off."
"I trust it may be," said Cabot, "for the world can ill afford to spare a man of your attainments."
"The world has forgotten me ere this," replied Mr. Balfour, with a faint smile, "and has also managed to get along very well without me. Whether it has or has not I feel that I am shortly to rejoin my dear one."
"How did it happen? I mean your wound," asked Cabot, abruptly changing the subject. "Was it an accident?"
"It may have been, but I believe not. Dressed in wolf skins, I was creeping up on a small herd of caribou two days ago, when I was shot by some unknown person, probably an Indian hunting the same game, though I never saw him. I managed to crawl home, and as I lay here, filled with the horror of dying alone, the ringing of my alarm bell announced a coming of either man or beast. I found strength to turn on the outer lights and to sound a call for aid on my violin that I hoped would be heard and understood."
"It was fortunate for me that you did both those things," said Cabot, "for I should certainly have remained where I fell after stumbling over the wire if it had not been for the combination of light and music. But tell me, sir, why have you masqueraded as a man-wolf?"
"For convenience in hunting, as well as to inspire terror in the minds of savages and keep them at a respectful distance from this place."
"Have they ever troubled you?"
"At first they were inclined to, but not of late years."
"Not of late years! Why, sir, how many years have you dwelt in this place?"
"A little more than five."
"Five years alone and cut off from the world! I should think you would feel like a prisoner shut in a dungeon."
"No, for I have led the life of my own choice, and it has been full of active interests. I have had to hunt, trap, and fish for my own support. I have tried to redress some wrongs, and have been able to relieve much distress among the improvident natives. I have busied myself with electrical experiments, and have explored the surrounding country for a hundred miles on all sides."
"Have you discovered any indications of mineral wealth during your explorations?" asked the young engineer, recalling his previous thought on this subject.
"Quite a number, of which the most important is right here; for this range of cliffs is so largely composed of red hematite as to form one of the richest ore beds in the world."
Deeply interested and affected as Cabot had been by the electrician's story, his excitement over its conclusion caused him momentarily to forget everything else.
"Does the ore show anywhere about here?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes. Lift one of the skins hanging against the wall and you will find it. It is better, though, in the lower portions of the inner cavern, for the deeper you go the richer it gets."
In another moment our young engineer was chipping bits of rock from the nearest wall, and then he must need explore those of the storeroom, where, on a bank of the subterranean stream, he found ore as rich as any he had ever seen, even in museums. Returning with hands and pockets full of specimens, he said:
"This is the very thing for which I came to Labrador, but have thus far failed to find. Of course I have discovered plenty of indications, for the whole country is full of iron, but nowhere else have I found it in quantity or of a quality that would pay to work. Here you have both, and close to a navigable waterway."
"On which the largest ships may moor to the very cliffs," added Mr. Balfour.
"It means a fortune to the owner, and I congratulate you, sir."
"My dear lad, I don't want it! I am an electrician, not a miner. Even if I were inclined to work it, which I am not, I should not be permitted to do so, for my earthly interests are very nearly ended. Therefore I cheerfully relinquish in your favour whatever claim I may have acquired by discovery or occupation. If you want it, take it, and may God's blessing go with the gift. Also, under this bed, you will find a bag containing more specimens that may interest you. Of them we will talk at another time, for now I am weary."
With this the man turned his face to the wall, while Cabot, securing the bag, quickly became absorbed in an examination of its contents. Among these he found rich specimens of iron and copper ores, slabs of the rare and exquisitely beautiful Labradorite, with its sheen of peacock-blue, and even bits of gold-bearing quartz. For a long time he examined and tested these; then, with a sigh of content, he laid them aside and went to bed. His mission to Labrador was at length accomplished, and now he had only to get back to New York as quickly as possible.
But getting to New York from that place, under existing circumstances, was something infinitely easier to plan than to accomplish. To begin with, he had promised to remain with the new-found friend, who was also so greatly his benefactor, so long as he should be needed, and he meant to fulfil the promise to the letter. But to do so taxed his patience to the utmost; for, in spite of the electrician's belief that he had not long to live, the passing of many weeks found his condition but little changed. At the same time, in spite of Cabot's best nursing and ceaseless attention, he failed to gain strength.
Having once broken his years of silence, he now found his greatest pleasure in talking, and Cabot had frequently to interrupt his conversation on the pretence of taking outside exercise, to prevent him from exhausting himself in that way. He hated to do this, for Mr. Balfour's words were always instructive, and he so freely yielded the established secrets of his profession, as well as those of his own recent discoveries, to his young friend that Cabot acquired a rich store of valuable information during the short days and long nights of that Labrador winter.
With the apparatus at hand, he was able to conduct many experiments and put into practice a number of his newly acquired theories. The sick man followed these with keenest interest, and aided his pupil with shrewd suggestions. At other times they discussed the mineral wealth of Labrador, and Mr. Balfour drew rough diagrams to show localities from which his various specimens had been brought. He also gave much time to a sketch map of the surrounding country, especially the coast between the place where the "Sea Bee" had been left and Indian Harbour, beyond which his knowledge did not extend.
With these congenial occupations, time never hung heavily in the wilderness home of the Man-wolf, and, though bitter cold might reign outside, fierce storms rage, and driving snows pile themselves into mountainous drifts, neither hunger nor cold could penetrate its snug interior, warmed and lighted by the magic of modern science. With the passing weeks the old year died and a new one was born. January merged into February, and days began noticeably to lengthen. Through all these weeks Cabot kept up his strength by frequent exercise in the open, where, in conflict with storm and cold, he ever won some part of their own ruggedness. At the same time, his patient grew slowly but surely weaker, until at length he could converse only in whispers, and experienced such difficulty in swallowing that he had almost ceased to take nourishment. One evening while affairs stood thus, he roused himself sufficiently to inquire what day of the month it was.
"The thirteenth of February," replied Cabot, who had kept careful note of the calendar.
Instantly the man brightened, and said, with an unexpected strength of voice: "Six years to-morrow since we were married. Five years to-day since she left me, and to-night I shall rejoin her. Wish me joy, lad, for the long period of our separation is ended. Good-night, good-bye, God bless you!"
With this final utterance, he again lapsed into silence, closed his eyes, and seemed to sleep. Several times during that night Cabot stole softly to his patient's bedside, but the latter was always asleep, and he would not disturb him. Only in the morning, when daylight revealed the marble-like repose of feature, did he know that a glad reunion of long parted lovers had been effected, and that it was he who was left alone.
Although the position in which our lad now found himself was a very trying one, he had anticipated and planned for it. He had no boards with which to make a coffin, but there was plenty of stout canvas, and in a double thickness of this he sewed the body of his friend. Before doing so he dug away the snow beside a cairn of rocks that marked the last resting place of her who had gone before, and placed the electric heater, with extended wire connections, on the ground thus exposed. Within a few hours this soil became sufficiently thawed to permit him to dig a shallow grave, to which, by great effort, he managed to remove the shrouded body. After covering it, and piling above it rocks as large as he could lift, he returned to the empty dwelling, having completed the hardest and saddest day's work of his life.
So terrible was the loneliness of that night, and so anxious was Cabot to take his departure, that he was again astir long before daylight, completing his preparations. He had previously built a light sled that he proposed to drag, and had planned exactly what it should carry. Now he loaded this with a canvas-wrapped package of cooked provisions, a sleeping bag, a rifle together with a few rounds of ammunition, a light axe, his precious bag of specimens, and the Man-wolf's electric flashlight with its battery newly charged.
With everything thus in readiness he ate a hearty meal, threw the dynamo out of gear, closed the door and shutters of the place that had given him the shelter of a home, adjusted the hauling straps of his sled, and set resolutely forth on his venturesome journey across the frozen wilderness.
In his mittened hands Cabot carried a stout staff tipped with a boathook, and this proved of inestimable service in aiding him down the face of the cliffs to the frozen surface of the estuary; for, by Mr. Balfour's advice, he had determined to follow the coast line rather than attempt the shorter but more uncertain inland route.
Although the distance to be covered was but little over one hundred miles, the journey was so beset with difficulties and hardships that only our young engineer's splendid physical condition and recently acquired skill, combined with indomitable pluck, enabled him to accomplish it. While he sometimes met with smooth stretches of snow-covered ice, it was generally piled in huge wind-rows, incredibly rugged and difficult to surmount. Again it would be broken away from the base of sheer cliffs, where stretches of open water would necessitate toilsome inland detours over or around lofty headlands. He was always buffetted by strong winds, and often halted by blinding snowstorms. He had no fire, no warm food, and no shelter save such as he could make by burrowing into snowdrifts. During the weary hours of one whole night he held a pack of snarling wolves at bay by means of his flashlight. But always he pushed doggedly forward, and after ten days of struggle, exhausted almost beyond the power for further effort, but immensely proud of his achievement, he reached the goal of his long desire.
Indian Harbour—with its hospital, its church, its two or three houses, and score of native huts, seemed to our lad almost a metropolis after his months of wilderness life, and the welcome he received from its warm-hearted inhabitants when he made known his identity was that of one raised from the dead. White Baldwin and Yim had been there many weeks earlier, and had reported his disappearance under circumstances that left no hope of his ever again being seen alive. Then the latter had set forth on his return journey, while White had joined a mail carrier and started for Battle Harbour.
Now occurred what promised to be a serious interruption to Cabot's southward advance, for no one was proposing to travel in that direction, and, in spite of their hospitality, his new acquaintances were not inclined to undertake the arduous task of guiding him to Battle Harbour, 250 miles away, without being well paid for their labour, and our young engineer had no money. Nor, after his recent experience, did he care to again encounter the perils of the wilderness alone.
But fortune once more favoured him; for while he was chafing against this enforced detention, Dr. Graham Aspland, house surgeon of the Battle Harbour Hospital, who makes a heroic sledge journey to the far north every winter, arrived on his annual errand of mercy. He would set out on his return trip a few days later, and would be more than pleased to have Cabot for a companion.
Thus it happened that one bright day in early March the music of sledge bells and the cracking of a dog driver's whip attracted the inmates of the Battle Harbour Hospital to doors and windows to witness an arrival. Two fur-clad figures followed a great travelling sledge, and one of them dragged a small sled of his own. As he came to a halt, and began wearily to loosen his hauling gear, he cast a glance at one of the upper windows, and uttered an exclamation of amazement. Then, with a joyful cry, he shouted:
"Hello! White, old man! Run down here and say you're glad I've come!"