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Feeling his way carefully round the walls of his prison, the Indian ascertained that it was not much more than about twelve feet long by three or four broad. On one side was the comparatively smooth wall of the berg, but for the hollow in which he would have been crushed; in front was the rugged heap of confused masses which had thoroughly closed him in. There was no outlet anywhere; he felt assured of that after three careful examinations of the chamber, and how many thousand tons of ice lay between him and liberty of course he could not guess.

There was only one course open to him now, and that was to cut his way out with his hatchet. Before beginning to act he unstrapped his bundle and sat down to eat, having previously relieved Attim of his load and given him some food. Everything he did had to be done by feeling, for he could not see his hand even when held only an inch from his face.

Then he set to work. It was difficult at first, for he had to strike out at random, sometimes hitting a lump of ice unexpectedly, sometimes just tipping it, and occasionally missing it altogether, when the axe would swing round behind him, to the great danger of Attim, who insisted on keeping close to his master’s heels wherever he went. By degrees, however, he learned to guess more correctly the position of the walls, especially after he had advanced a few feet and cut a tunnel, with the shape and dimensions of which he soon became familiar. For hours he laboured with unflagging diligence, clearing back the ice débris into the cavern from which he had started. But no sign of open air rewarded him.

At last, when almost exhausted, he made preparations for passing the night where he was. Before lying down he ate a hearty meal and fed the dog, who indicated his satisfaction by an occasional whine and the usual wag of the tail, which could be faintly heard though not seen.

A pipe of course followed, and during the process of lighting it he and Attim obtained a fleeting glimpse of their abode. As his materials could not produce a flame—only a dull red glow—the glimpse was not cheering, or of much value.

Then Nazinred spread a deerskin on the ice, rolled himself in his blanket, pillowed his head on the dog, who seemed to be perfectly satisfied with the arrangement, and went to sleep till—we cannot say morning, for pitch darkness still prevailed, but till that point of time when the stomachic chronometer awoke them.

After another feed the chief again set to work with indomitable perseverance, and extended the tunnel during many hours; yet when he had accomplished what appeared to him a long and severe day’s work, it seemed as if he were as far off as ever from deliverance. Just as he was giving way to weary disappointment, however, a rush of cold air came against his face, and with an irrepressible exclamation of satisfaction he found that his last blow with the axe had opened a way to the outer world. A few more strokes, delivered with unwonted vigour, set him free, to find that the gale was over, that a profound calm prevailed, and that the faint grey light of the Arctic noon was illuminating the ghostly scene.

He also discovered that during his imprisonment a heavy fall of snow had taken place, so that he sank a full foot into it—if not more—at every step. Congratulating himself on having brought his snow-shoes with him, he at once put on those useful implements, and, having secured the pack on his back, he once more set forth on his journey, beating a track as he went on which the dog followed him with ease, though without such a track the poor thing could not have travelled at all until the surface of the snow had hardened.

But although our Indian’s heart was lighter after his deliverance, the toil which he had undergone, and the cold which he had experienced in the berg, had told somewhat severely even on his hardy frame, and when he built his hut that night it was with a feeling of despondency, for he became aware of a considerable diminution of strength. An unusually keen frost on the following day increased this feeling, and when he was about to encamp at night, Nazinred said to himself, as well as to his dog, that he feared they would never complete their journey.

But “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” On looking round for a sheltered spot on which to build the snow-hut he observed three objects in the distance which bore a strong resemblance to Eskimo dwellings. Pushing forward eagerly, he soon reached them, and found that they were indeed huts of these children of the ice, but that they were deserted. The disappointment was very great, yet our chief bore up against it manfully. He made use of one of the huts as a resting-place for the night. Next morning he found that the prolonged strain had rendered him much weaker than he had believed to be possible. Diminishing provisions, also, had increased the evil, and a still further fall in the temperature induced a feeling of feebleness which the hitherto vigorous man had never before experienced.

The idea of giving in, however, had never once entered his mind. To persevere in the search until success or death should arrest him had been his fixed resolve from the beginning.

“Come on, pup,” he said, patting the head of his faithful friend, as he fastened on his snow-shoes and set forth.

To his surprise he found that he staggered a little at first, but as he warmed to the work his vigour increased and his powers of endurance seemed almost as strong as ever.

Chapter Nineteen.
The Eskimos again, and a Great Discovery and Rescue

While Nazinred, under the influence of strong affection, was thus fighting with the unfamiliar difficulties and dangers of the polar sea, Cheenbuk and his Eskimo friends were enjoying life in what may be called their native element.

“Will Adolay come for a drive?” said our gallant Eskimo one day when the sun had risen near enough to the eastern horizon to almost, but not quite, extinguish the stars. “We go to seek for walruses.”

The Indian maiden was sitting at the time in the snow residence which belonged to Mangivik. Mrs Mangivik was sitting opposite to her mending a seal-skin boot, and Cowlik the easy-going was seated beside her, engaged with some other portion of native attire. Nootka was busy over the cooking-lamp, and old Mangivik himself was twirling his thumbs, awaiting the result of her labours. Oolalik was there too—he was frequently there—courting Nootka in the usual way, by prolonged silent staring. The process might have been trying to some women, but Nootka did not mind. Like many young damsels, she was fond of admiration, and could stand a good deal of it, no matter how peculiar the mode in which it was expressed.

“I don’t care to go,” said Adolay, with a sigh.

Cheenbuk did not repeat the invitation or press for a reason. He was a considerate as well as a gallant youth. He knew that the poor girl was pining for her parents, and that she regretted having left them—even although remaining in her native village might have involved her being wed against her will to the hated Magadar, or subjected to his persecutions during her father’s absence. Cheenbuk did his best to comfort her with the assurance that he would take her back to her home with the very first of the open water. But when Adolay began to realise what a very long time must elapse before the ice would reopen its portals and set the waters free, her heart sank and she began to mope.

“We may as well have some women with us,” remarked Oolalik, with a pointed glance at Nootka, but Nootka took no notice of either the observation or the glance. Even Eskimo girls understand how to tease!

“Will Cowlik go?” asked Cheenbuk.

“Yes.” Cowlik smiled, and was quite ready to go.

“No, she won’t,” said Mrs Mangivik, with a positiveness almost European in its tone.

“Very well.” Cowlik smiled, and was equally ready to remain.

Mangivik himself expressed no opinion on the subject, but twirled his thumbs faster as he expressed a hope that the cooking would be soon completed.

It was finally arranged that only young men should go, with sledges and teams of dogs to fetch the meat home.

The little town in which this scene was being enacted was composed of between twenty and thirty whitey-brown bee-hives of snow, of the usual shape, ranged on the ice near the shore of a large island. The scene presented was a lively one, for while some of the inhabitants were creeping into the small tunnels which formed as it were porches before the doors, others were creeping out. Men and dogs were moving about—the former harnessing the latter to sledges in preparation for the approaching hunt, while hairy little balls of children were scampering about in play, or sitting on the tops of the snow bee-hives, watching the proceedings with interest.

The Eskimo sledge is a contrivance of wood capable of accommodating five or six men, and usually drawn by a team of from six to ten dogs, each dog being fastened to it by means of a separate line of tough walrus-hide. In a short time the long-lashed, short-handled, powerful whips cracked, the teams yelped, the men shouted, and away they all went with much noise over the frozen sea.

After a short run the parties separated and went in different directions. Cheenbuk and his men drove in a southerly direction. Soon they came to a place which had been kept open by walruses as a breathing-hole. Here they got out, hid the sledge and dogs behind a hummock, and, getting ready their spears and harpoons, prepared for an encounter. After waiting some time a walrus thrust its ungainly head up through the young ice that covered the hole, and began to disport itself in elephantine, or rather walrusian, gambols.

Tiring of this in a few minutes, it dived, and the natives ran to the edge of the hole to be ready when it should come up again. The animal was a female, and a small one. When it re-appeared harpoons and lances were at once driven into it, and it was killed almost immediately. This is not always the result of such an encounter, for this elephant of the polar seas is naturally a ferocious brute, and when bulls are attacked they are prone to show fight rather than take fright.

Leaving the young men to skin and cut up the meat, Cheenbuk went on, with only Anteek to keep him company, in search of another breathing-hole.

“You must harpoon the next one all alone, and kill him without help,” said Cheenbuk to his companion soon after they had started.

“I’ll try,” returned the boy, with the air of confidence befitting a knight who had already won his spurs, yet with the modesty of a youth who was aware of his fallibility.

But Anteek was not destined to distinguish himself that day, for, about three miles beyond the place where the walrus had been slain, they came across a track so singular that, on beholding it, they were stricken dumb with surprise.

Stopping the dogs, they gazed at it for a few moments in speechless wonder.

“I am not an old man,” said Cheenbuk at length in a solemn tone, “but I have seen most of the wonderful things in this world, yet have I never seen a track like that!”

He pointed to the track in question, and turned a look of blazing inquiry on Anteek.

“And I am not an old boy,” returned the other, “but I too have seen a good many of the wonderful things of this world, yet have I never even dreamed of the like of that!”

It will doubtless strike the reader here, as an evidence that Eskimos are under similar delusions to the rest of the human family, that these two referred to that world of theirs as equivalent to the world at large!

“What can it be?” murmured Cheenbuk.

“The very biggest bear that ever was, come to frighten the wisest people that ever lived, out of their wits,” suggested Anteek.

The face of the elder Eskimo underwent a sudden change, and an intelligent expression flitted over it as he said—

“I know now—I remember—I guess. You have often heard me talk of the Fire-spouters, Anteek? Well, the snow where they live is very deep and soft—not at all like the snow here, except when our snow is new-fallen—so that they cannot travel in the cold time without great things on their feet. That,”—pointing downward—“must be the track of those great things, and there must be a Fire-spouter not far off.”

“Perhaps a number of Fire-spouters—a war-party,” suggested Anteek, becoming excited.

“I think not, for there is only one track.”

“But they may have walked in a row—behind each other.”

“That is true. You notice well, Anteek. You will be a good hunter soon.”

He stooped as he spoke, to examine more carefully the track, which was indeed none other than that made by the snow-shoes of Nazinred on his weary and well-nigh hopeless journey over the frozen sea.

“Look here, Cheenbuk,” cried the boy, whose excitement was increasing. “Is there not here also the track of a dog, with a strange mark on each side of it, as if it were drawing two lines as it went along?”

“You are right again, boy. There is here the track of a dog, but there is only one man. Come, we will follow it up.”

Jumping on the sledge again, the Eskimo cracked his whip and set the dogs off at full gallop.

For some time they advanced, looking eagerly forward, as if expecting every minute to come in sight of the man and dog who had made the tracks, but nothing appeared for some hours. Then they arrived at the three huts where the Indian had received such a disappointment on finding them deserted. A close examination showed that the stranger had spent a night in one of them, and, from various indications, Cheenbuk came to the conclusion that he had been much exhausted, if not starving, while there.

Getting on the sledge again, he continued to follow up the trail with renewed diligence.

They had not gone far when an object was seen lying on the ice not far ahead of them.

Anteek was first to catch sight of it, and point it out to his companion, who did not speak, but let out his lash and urged the dogs on. As they approached, the object was seen to move, then there came towards them what sounded like a prolonged melancholy howl.

“The dog is alive,” whispered Anteek.

“I hope the man is—but I fear,” returned his comrade.

In a few moments more they were alongside, and the dog started up with a snarl as if to defend its master, who was lying motionless on the ice; but the snarl was feeble, and the poor beast was obviously in a state of exhaustion.

“He is not dead,” said Cheenbuk, putting his hand over the Indian’s heart, while Anteek caught poor Attim by the nose and held him gently back.

It turned out as the Eskimo had said. Nazinred was not dead, but he was very nearly so, and it is probable that another hour of exposure and inaction would have ended the career of both himself and his dog.

He had walked on persistently until that peculiar feeling of an irresistible desire to lie down and sleep overcame him. No one knew better than himself the danger of his condition, yet the fatal lethargy is such that no resolution is sufficient to overcome it. Lying, or rather falling, down, he had remained still for a few moments—then the state of quiet, but deadly repose had supervened and he would never have risen again if succour had not been sent.

As it was, the Eskimos set to work with tremendous energy to chafe and resuscitate him, but it seemed at first that they were too late. By dint of untiring perseverance, however, they became successful. A slight effort to exert himself was observable in the Indian, and then, getting him on his feet, Cheenbuk on one side and Anteek on the other, they forced him to stagger about until vitality began to revive.

“Now, boy, we’ll get him into the sledge, and away back to the igloes.”

Without delay they led Nazinred to the sledge, rolled him in a large white bearskin, and tied him on. While thus engaged Anteek observed that Cheenbuk gazed for a few moments intently into the Indian’s face, and then became much and strangely excited.

“Is he going to die?” asked the boy anxiously.

“No, it is not that—but—but, I have seen this Fire-spouter before. I know him! Quick, we must save his life!”

If the life of Nazinred had depended on the speed of the Eskimo dogs there would have been much hope of it, for Cheenbuk made them fly like the wind until he regained the three igloes. As for Attim, having, with prompt sagacity, perceived that the strangers were friendly, he resigned himself to his fate. Indeed, his master had, in a dazed sort of way, adopted the same course, and willingly submitted to whatever was done to him.

Arrived at the deserted huts, the Indian was allowed to lie in his white bearskin until the Eskimo had kindled a lamp, cooked some food, warmed some water, and prepared a comfortable couch. Then he went out to unlash the sleeper.

“Now, Anteek, I’m going to send you away, and will expect you to be quick and act like a man. Drive the sledge back to where we killed the walrus. Let the men pack the meat on it and away back to our igloes. It is not far. You will soon get there if you make the dogs yelp. When you have arrived, and told your story, get a fresh team of dogs, and two men, and come back here with a little meat and some more bearskins—and do it all, boy, as fast as you can.”

“I will,” answered Anteek in a tone and with a look of decision that were quite satisfactory.

It was difficult to rouse the Indian at first so as to get him to stagger into the snow-hut, and he was more than half asleep all the time, insomuch that when inside he fell down on the couch prepared for him, and again sank into profound slumber.

Then Anteek started up, jumped on the sledge, and set off for home at full speed.

Chapter Twenty.
Strange Converse and Discoveries

Returning to the hut, Cheenbuk continued his culinary preparations with great diligence, gazing often and earnestly, as he did so, at the thin and careworn countenance of the sleeper.

Although Nazinred was considerably altered by fatigue and suffering, the Eskimo entertained not the smallest doubt that he was the same Indian with whom he had once struggled on the banks of the Whale, or Greygoose, River. Equally sure was he that the Indian, owing to his worn-out condition when discovered, had not recognised himself, and the fancy occurred to him that he would at first try to avoid recognition. To this end he pulled his hood a little more over his eyes, deepened the colour of his face by rubbing it with a little lamp-black and oil, and resolved to lower his voice a note or two when the time for speaking should arrive. That time was not long of coming; probably the increasing warmth of the hut, or the smell of the seal-steak in the nostrils of the half-starved man, may have had something to do with it, but the meal was hardly ready when the Indian yawned, stretched himself, sat up and gazed solemnly around.

“You are feeling better?” said Cheenbuk in his deepened tone, and in broken Dogrib tongue.

The Indian fixed a steady gaze on him for nearly a minute before replying.

“Yes,” he said, in a dreamy tone, “I’m better. If the Eskimo had not been sent to me I had now been with my ancestors.”

“No one sent me to you,” returned Cheenbuk; “I found you lying on the snow.”

“The Great Manitou sent you,” said the Indian gravely.

It was this touch of seriousness which had originally drawn those two men together, but the Eskimo remembered that he was acting a part at the moment, and that any expression of sympathy might betray him. He therefore made no rejoinder, but, placing the seal-steak on a flat stone, bade the hungry man eat.

Nazinred required no pressing; he began at once, and was ready for more almost before more was ready for him. By persevering industry, however, Cheenbuk kept his guest supplied, and when appetite began to fail he found time to attend to his own wants and keep the other company.

Silence reigned at first. When the Indian had finished eating he accepted a draught of warm water, and then had recourse to his fire-bag and pipe. Cheenbuk expected this, and smiled inwardly, though his outward visage would have done credit to an owl.

At last he looked up and asked the Indian how he came to be travelling thus alone and so far from his native land.

Nazinred puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips and two streaming cloudlets from his nose ere he replied.

“When my son,” he said, “was on the banks of the Greygoose River his voice was not so deep!”

Cheenbuk burst into a laugh and threw back his hood.

“You know me, then, you man-of-the-woods,” said he, holding out his hand in the white trader fashion which the other had taught him.

“When the men-of-the-woods see a face once, they never forget it,” returned the Indian, grasping the proffered hand heartily, but without a sign of risibility on his countenance, for in this, as we know, he differed considerably from his companion; yet there was a something about the corners of his eyes which seemed to indicate that he was not quite devoid of humour.

“But how did you discover me?” resumed Cheenbuk. “I not only spoke with a deeper voice, but I put black and oil on my face, and pulled my hood well forward.”

“When the Eskimo wants to blind the man-of-the-woods,” answered Nazinred, sententiously, “he must remember that he is a man, not a child. The cry of the grey geese is always the same, though some of them have deeper voices than others. A face does not change its shape because it is dirtied with oil and black. Men draw hoods over their faces when going out of a lodge, not when coming in. When smoking tobacco is seen for the first time, surprise is always created.—Waugh!”

“What you say is true, man-of-the-woods,” returned Cheenbuk, smiling. “I am not equal to you at deceiving.”

Whether the Indian took this for a compliment or otherwise there was no expression on his mahogany face to tell, as he sat there calmly smoking and staring at the lamp. Suddenly he removed the pipe from his lips and looked intently at the Eskimo, who in turn regarded him with evident expectation.

“My son,” said Nazinred, “I have one or two questions to put to you. You and I agree about many things. Tell me, what would you think of the fawn that would forsake its dam?”

Cheenbuk was puzzled, but replied that he thought there must be something the matter with it—something wrong.

“I will tell you a story,” continued the Indian, “and it is true. It did not come into my head. I did not dream it. There was a man-of-the-woods, and he had a squaw and one child, a girl. The parents were very fond of this girl. She was graceful like the swan. Her eyes were large, brown, and beautiful like the eyes of a young deer. She was active and playful like the young rabbit. When she was at home the wigwam was full of light. When she was absent it was dark. The girl loved her father and mother, and never disobeyed them or caused them to suffer for a moment. One day, when the father was far away from home, a number of bad Eskimos came and fought with the men-of-the-woods, who went out and drove their enemies away. They took one prisoner, a strong fine-looking man. One night the prisoner escaped. It was discovered that the girl helped him and then went away with him.”

He paused and frowned at this point, and the startled Cheenbuk at once recognised himself and Adolay as the hero and heroine of the story.

“Did the girl,” he asked, “go away with the escaped prisoner of her own will, or did he force her to go?”

“She went of her own will,” returned the Indian.

“One of the women of the tribe followed her and heard her speak. But the father loved his child. He could not hate her, although she forsook her home. At first he thought of taking all his young men and going on the war-path to follow the Eskimos, slay the whole tribe, and bring back his child. But Manitou had put it in the father’s mind to think that it is wrong to kill the innocent because of the guilty. He therefore made up his mind to set off alone to search for his child.”

Again Nazinred paused, and Cheenbuk felt very uncomfortable, for although he knew that it was impossible for the Indian to guess that the Eskimo with whom he had once had a personal conflict was the same man as he who had been taken prisoner and had escaped with his daughter, still he was not sure that the astute Red man might not have put the two things together and so have come to suspect the truth.

“So, then, man-of-the-woods,” said Cheenbuk at last, “you are the father who has lost his daughter?”

“I am,” returned the Indian, “and I know not to what tribe the young man belongs with whom she has gone away, but I am glad that I have met with you, because you perhaps may have heard if any strange girl has come to stay with any of the tribes around you, and can tell me how and where to find her. We named her Adolay, because she reminds us of that bright season when the sun is hot and high.”

Cheenbuk was silent for some time, as well he might be, for the sudden revelation that the Indian who had once been his antagonist, and for whom he had taken such a liking, was the father of the very girl who had run away with him against her inclination, quite took his breath away. It was not easy to determine how or when the true facts should be broken to the father, and yet it was evident that something must be said, for Cheenbuk could not make up his mind to lie or to act the part of a hypocrite.

“I have heard of the girl-of-the-woods you speak of,” he said at last; “I have seen her.”

For the first time since they met the characteristic reserve of the Indian broke down, and he became obviously excited, yet even then he curbed his tongue for a few moments, and when he again spoke it was with his habitual calmness.

“Does my son know the tribe to which she has been taken? And is it well with the girl?”

“He does. And it is well with Adolay.”

“Do they dwell far from here?” asked Nazinred, anxiously in spite of himself.

“Not far. I can soon take you to their igloes. But tell me, man-of-the-woods, do you think your child had no reason for leaving home in this way except fondness for the young man?”

“I know not,” returned the Indian, with a doubtful, almost a hopeful look. “What other reason could she have? Her mother and I loved her more than ourselves. All the young men loved her. One of them—a bad one—had sworn to his comrades that he would have her for a wife in spite of her father,”—he smiled very slightly at this point, with a look of ineffable contempt—“but Magadar did not venture to say that in her father’s ears!”

“May it not have been fear of this man, this Magadar, which drove her away?” suggested Cheenbuk. “You were not there to defend her. She may have been afraid of him, although you fear him not.”

“That is true,” returned the Indian, with a brighter look, “though I thought that Adolay feared nothing—but she is not her father.”

This wise and obvious truism, or the words of the Eskimo, seemed to afford some comfort to the poor man, for he became more communicative and confidential after that.

“Do you think,” asked Cheenbuk, “that your daughter has married this young man?”

“I know not.”

“Don’t you think it is likely?”

“I fear it is not unlikely.”

“Why should you fear it? Are not the Eskimos as strong and brave as the men-of-the-woods?”

For a moment the Indian looked at his companion with high disdain, for the boastful question had aroused within him the boastful spirit; but the look quickly disappeared, and was replaced by the habitual air of calm gravity.

“It may be, as you say, that your nation is as brave and strong as ours—”

“I did not say that,” remarked the free-and-easy Eskimo, interrupting his companion in a way that would have been deemed very bad manners in an Indian, “I asked you the question.”

With a look of deeper gravity than usual the Indian replied:

“To your question no true answer can be given till all the men of both nations have tried their courage and their strength. But such matters should only be discussed by foolish boys, not by men. Yet I cannot help confessing that it is a very common thing among our young braves to boast. Is it so among the Eskimos?”

The Eskimo laughed outright at this.

“Yes,” said he, “our young men sometimes do that—some of them; but not all. We have a few young men among us who know how to hold their tongues and when to speak.”

“That is useful knowledge. Will my son speak now, and tell me what he knows about Adolay?”

“He knows that she is well spoken of, and much loved by the tribe with which she lives.”

“That is natural,” said the Indian, with a pleased look. “No one who sees Adolay can help loving her. Does the young man who took her away treat her kindly?”

“No one can tell that but herself. What if he treated her ill?”

“I would hope never to meet with him face to face,” replied Nazinred, with a frown and a nervous clenching of the fist that spoke volumes.

“I have heard,” continued Cheenbuk in a quiet way, “that the girl is very sad. She thinks much of her old home, and blames herself for having left it.”

“Good,” said the Indian emphatically. “That is like the child, to be sorry when she has done wrong.”

“And I have heard that the young man who took her away is very fond of her—so fond that he will do whatever she likes to please her. His name is Cheenbuk. She asked him to take her home again, and he has promised to do so when the hot sun and the open water come back.”

“Good. The young man must be a good man. Will he keep his promise?”

“Yes. I know him well. He loves truth, and he will do what he says.”

“It is a long time till the open water comes. Will the young Eskimo’s mind not change?”

“Cheenbuk’s mind will not change. He loves Adolay better than himself.”

Nazinred pondered this statement for some time in silence, caressing the sleek head of Attim as he did so.

“Will this young man, this Cheenbuk, be willing, do you think, to leave her in the lodges of her people and give her up altogether?” he asked, with a somewhat doubtful look.

“If Adolay wishes to be given up, he will,” replied the Eskimo confidently.