In the Land of the Great Snow Bear Part 25

Tinned meat was all they now had to depend upon, and there was very little of that; so they must go on short allowance at once.

The men were far less cheerful after this, and the summer, that but yesterday had appeared so near at hand, was now apparently an illimitable distance away.

Another expedition was made to the caves among the hills, in the endeavour to find another bear.

All in vain.

Hope now sunk in every heart. Even the doctor himself, who had struggled so long, began to feel that the time was not far distant when he too must succ.u.mb, must lie down and--die.

It was April, another month, another long, long four weeks--and early summer and sunshine would come and bring back with them the birds--the grebe, the auk, the wild duck and guillemot.

Two more had been added to the list of the dead.

The boy Bounce fell ill.

"We are not going to let the boy die," said one of the men. "It is food he wants. Let us make a subscription."

The subscription was made. Everybody gave a morsel of something for the poor boy, and his allowance came to be double instead of half Big Byarnie even gave up his blanket, and just slept a little closer to the fire and hugged Fingal.

Poor boy Bounce lived, and began cooking again, though in this matter, unfortunately, his labour was not now very arduous.

Claude was looking very pallid and worn; he did not speak much, he suffered in silence. The men would have fain had their captain to live better than they did, but he would not hear of such a thing. Besides, he gave away a goodly portion of his meagre allowance to poor Fingal.

For Fingal was ill.

Indeed, Claude knew that Fingal was dying, and the faithful old fellow appeared to know it himself. One day the hound was very much weaker, very much worse, and Claude knew the end was very near. He was sitting by the couch on which the dog lay. Alba, the snow-bird, jealous perhaps of her master's attentions to Fingal, came and perched upon his shoulder.

Claude took the bird in his hands and slowly rose to his feet.

"For once, Alba," he said, "I must send you off." Then he handed her to one of the men. "Take her to the aviary."

This was all he said. But he went back and knelt by Fingal's bed.

Why did he put the bird away? Those of my readers who love dogs will understand and appreciate his reasons: there was always a slight rivalry between the bird and the dog, and Claude would have grieved to let Fingal in his last moments feel that aught stood between his master's heart and his.

As Claude returned, Fingal recognised him. He attempted to rise, tried even to crawl towards him, and in doing so fell. Claude raised him--how light he was!--and replaced him in the softest part of his couch. Then he sat beside his dying favourite with one arm over his shoulder.

Fingal knew he was there. He fell quietly and gently asleep.

It was that sleep from which nor dogs nor men ever awaken.

The time rolled drearily on, and at length the sun rose, and the days got rapidly longer and longer; but starvation had done its work.

Not that more died, but several were down with sheer debility, all were weak and poor, Claude could no longer stand.

Paddy O'Connell held out, so did Byarnie and the doctor, but the latter was quieter far than of yore. "The sooner," said Claude, one day, "the sooner, doctor, it is all over the better."

One day from the hill-top, Byarnie saw a sight which suddenly struck him with fear and trembling, and sent him on his knees to pray.

Away in the southern sky, some distance above the horizon, was a wondrous vision.

It faded away at last, and then Byarnie hurried off to the camp, his clothes wet with the sweat of fear, to report the matter to the doctor.

"It is all over with us," he said, "for I have seen a wonderful vision, even as Ezekiel did in the days of the olden time."

"Have you been dreaming?" said Dr Barrett.

"I have not even been asleep," replied Byarnie. "I was there on the mountain-top alone, when suddenly in the sky there appeared before my sight this vision, as of men and sledges and dogs moving rapidly across the sky, among the very clouds."

"Were they all head-down?"

"They were all head-down," said Byarnie, "which makes the awful vision still more wondrous strange."

"Bless you, Byarnie, for this news," cried the doctor. "Hurrah!

Byarnie, we are saved! we are saved! Be they Indians, be they savages, they are coming, and we are saved. What you saw, my faithful fellow, was a mirage."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

META'S STRANGE ADVENTURES.

We are back once again in Meta's cottage in Iceland. There is but little change here since the day Claude bade his betrothed a long farewell.

It is evening. Yonder by the fire sits one of Meta's aunts, working away at her "rock and her reel," as she seemed always working, spinning, spinning, spinning.

Meta near her, with her zither. She had been playing, but her fingers now lay listlessly on her strings, only now and then some sweet wailing notes and chords were brought out as if the hands were _en rapport_ with her heart.

"And you really say you saw him in your dreams, dear auntie?"

_Whirr--whirr--whirr_, went the wheel.

"I saw him," replied the kindly but ancient dame. "I saw him. I can see him now as I saw him in my dream. He is lying on the ground, and his face hardly less pale than the snow." Whirr--whirr--it--it. "Oh, auntie, don't frighten me, dear!"

"But kindly men are kneeling by him. They raise him. He revives. The blood returns to his cheeks. He will live!"

"Bless you, auntie, bless you!" Whirr--whirr went the wheel. The snow-flea in his cage twittered fondly. The raven on his log, which he seemed never to leave, stretched himself a leg at a time, then both wings at once. He was very old, that raven, and Poe's looked not more weird, and--

"His mate long dead, his nestlings flown, The moss had o'er his eyrie grown, While all the scenes his youth had known Were changed and old."

Meta plays now; she is more happy. Her aunt has given her hope.

But somehow she does not play long; she is easily tired now, so she rises and lays aside the instrument, then stands by the window to watch the snowy mountain peaks changing to pink and to purple in the sun's parting rays.

Summer has fled from the Norland hills. The songbirds have gone--the martin, and woodlark, and robin; the wild flowers have faded--the blue geraniums, the pink-eyed diapensias, the daisies, and the purple wild thyme; only the green of the creeping saxifrage bedecks the rocks, and hardy sea-pinks and ferns still grow in the glades and by the brook-sides. But autumn winds sigh mournfully through the leafless birch trees and drooping willows, and rustle the withered leaves of the wild myrtle on the braesides.

With a sigh Meta turns away from the window.

Almost at the same time there is a knock at the door, and Guielmyun, brother to Byarnie, and, like himself, a giant, rushed in.