Philip Weyman's buoyancy of heart was in face of the fact that he hadbut recently looked upon Radisson's unpleasant death, and that he wasstill in a country where the water flowed north. He laughed and hesang. His heart bubbled over with cheer. He talked to himself franklyand without embarrassment, asked himself questions, answered them,discussed the beauties of nature and the possibilities of storm as ifthere were three or four of him instead of one.
At the top end of the world a man becomes a multiple being—if he iswhite. Two years along the rim of the Arctic had taught Philip thescience by which a man may become acquainted with himself, and inmoments like the present, when both his mental and physical spiritsoverflowed, he even went so far as to attempt poor Radisson's "La BelleMarie" in the Frenchman's heavy basso, something between a dog's sullengrowl and the low rumble of distant thunder. It made him cough. Andthen he laughed again, scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake aheadof him.
He felt like a boy, and he chuckled as he thought of the definitereason for it. For twenty-three months he had been like a piece ofrubber stretched to a tension—sometimes almost to the snapping point.Now had come the reaction, and he was going HOME. Home! It was that oneword that caused a shadow to flit over his face, and only once or twicehad he forgotten and let it slip between his lips. At least he wasreturning to civilization—getting AWAY from the everlasting drone ofbreaking ice and the clack-clack tongue of the Eskimo.
With the stub of a pencil Philip had figured out on a bit of paperabout where he was that morning. The whalebone hut of his last Arcticcamp was eight hundred miles due north. Fort Churchill, over onHudson's Bay, was four hundred miles to the east, and Fort Resolution,on the Great Slave, was four hundred miles to the west. On his map hehad drawn a heavy circle about Prince Albert, six hundred miles to thesouth. That was the nearest line of rail. Six days back Radisson haddied after a mouth's struggle with that terrible thing they called "lemort rouge," or the Red Death. Since then Philip had pointed his canoestraight UP the Dubawnt waterways, and was a hundred and twenty milesnearer to civilization. He had been through these waterways twicebefore, and he knew that there was not a white man within a hundred andfifty miles of him. And as for a white woman—
Weyman stopped his paddling where there was no current, and leaned backin his canoe for a breathing space, and to fill his pipe. A WHITEWOMAN! Would he stare at her like a fool when he saw her again for thefirst time? Eighteen months ago he had seen a white woman over at FortChurchill—the English clerk's wife, thirty, with a sprinkle of gray inher blond hair, and pale blue eyes. Fresh from the Garden of Eden, hehad wondered why the half-dozen white men over there regarded her asthey did. Long ago, in the maddening gloom of the Arctic night, he hadlearned to understand. At Fond du Lac, when Weyman had first come upinto the forest country, he had said to the factor: "It's glorious!It's God's Country!" And the factor had turned his tired, empty eyesupon him with the words: "It was—before SHE went. But no country isGod's Country witho