I 12 
Northern Trails. Book I 
cloud of mist, the breath of caribou, that blurred at 
times the dark tree-line in the distance, when one of 
those mysterious warnings that befall the hunter in the 
far North rested upon them suddenly like a heavy hand. 
I know not what it is, — what lesser pressure of air, 
to which we respond like a barometer; or what unknown 
chords there are within us that sleep for years in the 
midst of society and that waken and answer, like an 
animal’s, to the subtle influence of nature, — but one 
can never be watched by an unseen wild animal without 
feeling it vaguely; and one can never be so keen on the 
trail that the storm, before it breaks, will not whisper a 
warning to turn back to shelter before it is too late. To 
Noel and Mooka, alone on the barrens, the sun was no 
dimmer than before; the heavy gray bank of clouds still 
held sullenly to its place on the horizon; and no eyes, 
however keen, would have noticed the tiny dark spots 
that centered and glowed upon them over the rim of the 
little hollow where the wolves were watching. Neverthe¬ 
less, a sudden chill fell upon them both. They stopped 
abruptly, shivering a bit, drawing closer together and 
scanning the waste keenly to know what it all meant. 
“ Mitcheegeesookh, the storm!” said Noel sharply; and 
without another word they turned and hurried back on 
their own trail. In a short half-hour the world would be 
swallowed up in chaos. To be caught out on the bar¬ 
rens meant to be lost; and to be lost here without fire 
