The
sound traveled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their backs
seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp that permitted neither echo
nor resonance. It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed something
unusual--something that brought his thoughts back with a rush from
faraway scenes. A curious change had come into the man's voice. Even
before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him, and looking up
quickly, he saw that Défago, though still singing, was peering about him
into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew
fainter--dropped to a hush--then ceased altogether. The same instant,
with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood
upright--_sniffing the air_. Like a dog scenting game, he drew the air
into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so
in all directions, and finally "pointing" down the lake shore,
eastwards. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same
time singularly dramatic. Simpson's heart fluttered disagreeably as he
watched it. "Lord, man! How you made me jump!" he exclaimed, on his feet beside him
the same instant, and peering over his shoulder into the sea of
darkness. "What's up? Are you frightened--?" Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish,
for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian
had turned white down to his very gills. Not even sunburn and the glare
of the fire could hide that. The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees. "What's up?" he repeated quickly. "D'you smell moose? Or anything queer,
anything--wrong?" He lowered his voice instinctively. The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree
stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that--blackness, and,
so far as he could tell, a silence of death. Just behind them a passing
puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly
down again without disturbing the rest of the covey. It seemed as if a
million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single
visible effect. _Other_ life pulsed about them--and was gone. Défago turned abruptly; the livid hue of his face had turned to a dirty
grey. "I never said I heered--or smelt--nuthin'," he said slowly and
emphatically, in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch of
defiance. "I was only--takin' a look round--so to speak. It's always a
mistake to be too previous with yer questions." Then he added suddenly
with obvious effort, in his more natural voice, "Have you got the
matches, Boss Simpson?" and proceeded to light the pipe he had half
filled just before he began to sing. Without speaking another word they sat down again by the fire. Défago
changing his side so that he could face the direction the wind came
from. For even a tenderfoot could tell that. Défago changed his position
in order to hear and smell--all there was to be heard and smelt. And,
since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it was evidently
nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden a warning to
his marvelously trained nerves. "Guess now I don't feel like singing any," he explained presently of his
own accord. "That song kinder brings back memories that's troublesome to
me; I never oughter've begun it. It sets me on t' imagining things,
see?" Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving emotion. He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other. But the
explanation, in that it was only a part of the truth, was a lie, and he
knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it. For nothing
could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while
he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing--no amount of blazing fire,
or chatting on ordinary subjects--could make that camp exactly as it had
been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that
had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had
also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently, to his
companion. The guide's visible efforts to dissemble the truth only made
things worse. Moreover, to add to the younger man's uneasiness, was the
difficulty, nay, the impossibility he felt of asking questions, and also
his complete ignorance as to the cause ...Indians, wild animals, forest
fires--all these, he knew, were wholly out of the question. His
imagination searched vigorously, but in vain....

       *       *       *       *       *

Yet, somehow or other, after another long spell of smoking, talking and
roasting themselves before the great fire, the shadow that had so
suddenly invaded their peaceful camp began to shift. Perhaps Défago's
efforts, or the return of his quiet and normal attitude accomplished
this; perhaps Simpson himself had exaggerated the affair out of all
proportion to the truth; or possibly the vigorous air of the wilderness
brought its own powers of healing. Whatever the cause, the feeling of
immediate horror seemed to have passed away as mysteriously as it had
come, for nothing occurred to feed it. Simpson began to feel that he had
permitted himself the unreasoning terror of a child. He put it down
partly to a certain subconscious excitement that this wild and immense
scenery generated in his blood, partly to the spell of solitude, and
partly to overfatigue. That pallor in the guide's face was, of course,
uncommonly hard to explain, yet it _might_ have been due in some way to
an effect of firelight, or his own imagination ...He gave it the benefit
of the doubt; he was Scotch. When a somewhat unordinary emotion has disappeared, the mind always
finds a dozen ways of explaining away its causes ...Simpson lit a last
pipe and tried to laugh to himself. On getting home to Scotland it would
make quite a good story. He did not realize that this laughter was a
sign that terror still lurked in the recesses of his soul--that, in
fact, it was merely one of the conventional signs by which a man,
seriously alarmed, tries to persuade himself that he is _not_ so. Défago, however, heard that low laughter and looked up with surprise on
his face. The two men stood, side by side, kicking the embers about
before going to bed. It was ten o'clock--a late hour for hunters to be
still awake. "What's ticklin' yer?" he asked in his ordinary tone, yet gravely. "I--I was thinking of our little toy woods at home, just at that
moment," stammered Simpson, coming back to what really dominated his
mind, and startled by the question, "and comparing them to--to all
this," and he swept his arm round to indicate the Bush. A pause followed in which neither of them said anything. "All the same I wouldn't laugh about it, if I was you," Défago added,
looking over Simpson's shoulder into the shadows. "There's places in
there nobody won't never see into--nobody knows what lives in there
either." "Too big--too far off?" The suggestion in the guide's manner was immense
and horrible.