He found the men ensconced in a rough shanty1 in the woods north of Lake Oro. A large belt of timber in that region belonged to the Neil boys and Sandy had taken the contract of supplying the Glenoro mill with logs for the coming season. But he found that commanding such an enterprise was no easy task, and he handed over the responsibility with much relief to Donald. The cutting and hauling had been almost completed, and now all that was needed was an open lake to float the logs across to the river and thence down to the village. The Oro was already free of ice, rushing along, high and swollen2 with the melting snow. A few days more of sun and wind would clear the lake also, and send its winter fetters3 crashing up on the shore.
So when Donald arrived the camp was not very busy, though it was exceedingly lively. The men had plenty of leisure, and they spent it and their winter's wages at a little old tavern4, a remnant of earlier and rougher days, which stood where the river left Lake Oro. Under any other circumstances Donald would have exercised a restraining influence upon Sandy and the boys of his acquaintance, but just now his heart was angry and reckless. So the wild revelry suffered no abatement5 because of his presence.
Duncan Polite waited anxiously for the boys' return, the dread6 of impending7 disaster hanging over his spirit. The weather changed to sudden warmth, however, and brought to the old man a renewal8 of strength and the hope that Donald would soon be with him. He was well enough to go to church the next Sabbath, the first time in many months. Andrew Johnstone was so pleased to have his old friend with him again that his stick never moved from its peaceful position in the rear, and he even forbore to make any caustic9 remarks about the minister.
His spirits were only in keeping with the day. Spring had descended11 upon the world with a sudden dazzling rush. The air was clear and intoxicatingly fresh; blinding white clouds raced joyously12 across the radiant blue. As Duncan passed through the gate an early robin13, swinging in the tall elm, poured out his ecstatic little heart in hysterical14 song. Everywhere was water, water, rushing down the hills in a thousand mad rivulets15, flashing in the sunlight like chains of diamonds and filling the air with their song of wild freedom. And through the valley came the river, a monster now, roaring down its narrow channel and swirling16 out past the church as if it would carry away the village.
As the two old men walked slowly up the hill on the way home they heard the news for which Duncan had been anxiously waiting: the ice on the lake had broken, and the boys intended to bring down their lumber17 on the morrow.
The next day passed, warm and sunshiny, but Donald Neil's logs did not appear in the Glenoro millpond. Duncan sat at his window in the dusk of the evening, expecting every moment to see Donald coming up the path to tell him their work was finished. But the night was descending18, and Donald had not come. A great dread had taken hold of the old man's heart, a dread he could not explain. He knew that both Donald and Sandy were expert river drivers, but he could not reason himself out of the fear that the crisis had come. This sacrifice towards which he had been looking for so many months, was it near? And what would it be?
He had set his door open, owing to the warmth of the night, and through it came the sound of ceaseless pouring of water. Sitting with his face pressed against the pane19, thinking of his high hopes of just one year ago, he mournfully shook his head.
"The sacrifice," he murmured, "it must come, but, oh, my Father, must it be Donal'? 'Bind20 ye the sacrifice with cords even unto the horns of the altar.' Ah, it would be a message, a message—and will it be Donal'? must I give him up, oh, my Father?" His hands clasped and unclasped, his face stood out from the darkness of the room, white with pain.
He had not noticed a little figure making its way rapidly down the road; but his eye caught it as it entered the gate. His heart stood still as he saw Archie, his sister's youngest boy, come running up the path. "What will you be wanting, laddie?" he asked, almost in a whisper, as the little fellow paused in the doorway21.
"Oh, are you there, Uncle Duncan!" cried the child, groping his way across the room. "It's so awful dark here. Jimmie Archie's folks is sugarin' off to-night in the bush down alongside the river, and I want to go over, an' mother she wouldn't let me go alone. Now, ain't that mean, Uncle Duncan?"
Duncan breathed a great sigh of relief. "Will the boys not be down with the logs yet?"
"Nop; Jimmie Archie said all the fellows Sandy and Don had was drunk at the tavern to-day, an' the logs was all ready to bring out into the river, mind ye, an' Crummie Bailey—it was at school, you know—an' Crummie said he'd bet Don an' Sandy was drunker than 'em all; an' I thumped22 him good, you bet, uncle, an' he's eleven an' I'm only ten an' a half!"
Duncan put his hand upon the child's head with a feeling of helpless woe23. "Yes, yes, laddie," he said absently.
"Mother said I couldn't go to the sugar bush without somebody with me," Archie broke out again. "Aw, shucks, I ain't a kid!" The dignity of ten years and a half was being sadly ruffled24. He leaned upon the arm of Duncan's chair and looked up coaxingly25.
"I guess I'll have to stay away, 'cause there's nobody to go with me, an' mother said I wasn't to ask you, 'cause it would make your cold worse."
He sighed prodigiously26 over this self-denial, and with his characteristic self-forgetfulness Duncan put aside his own trouble. "Oh, indeed it is a great man you will be some day," he said. "But what if I would be going with you?"
"Oh, man! but I wish you could! Only I ain't such a baby as to have somebody luggin' me 'round."
Duncan patted his head lovingly. "Hoots27, toots, but you surely won't leave a poor old man like your uncle to find his way alone," he said, with great tact28. "I will not be at Jimmie Archie's sugar bush for many a year, and you will jist be showing me the road."
Archie's pride was somewhat mollified by this aspect of the case, and being further soothed29 by a huge slab30 of bread and jam, he set off with his uncle in high glee. Duncan put on his bonnet31 and plaid and with Collie bounding in front, half mad with joy at this unexpected excursion, they stepped out upon the road. The moon was shining, but its rays were obscured by the mild night mists. A soft, suffused32 light shrouded33 the landscape, giving an unreal and weird34 appearance to all objects. A rising wind shifted the ghostly clouds here and there; it was a strangely uncanny night.
Jimmie Archie McDonald's farm lay up the river, next to Andrew Johnstone's. But the belt of maples35 with the sugar camp was quite near. So when Duncan Polite and the child had gone a short distance up the road they climbed a fence and crossed the soft, yielding fields until they reached the line of timber that bordered the stream.
"There's a path jist along by the river that goes straight to Jimmie Archie's bush," explained Archie importantly, strutting36 ahead. "Ain't you glad I called for you, Uncle Duncan?" He dashed into the woods whooping37 and yelling, with Collie circling about him in noisy delight, and darted38 back again at short intervals
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XIV DONALD'S RETURN
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XVI THE COVENANT RENEWED
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