At the
sight they darkened like the waters of a lake when a little wind runs
over its surface.
"A heartening sight? Nay, M'sieu," she said, shaking her head, "I can
find no joy in it."
"What?"
The trapper was aghast.
"No pleasure in the fruits of a fat season?"
"See the packs of marten, the dark streaks showing a bit at the edges
where the fur rounds over the dried skin. How were those pelts taken,
M'sieu?"
"How? Why, most cunningly, Ma'amselle,--in traps of the H. B. Company,
set with utmost skill, perhaps on a stump above the line of the heavy
snows, or balanced nicely at the far end of a slender pole set leaning
in the ground. The delicate hand of a seasoned player must match itself
with the forest instinct of these small creatures. The little pole
holds little snow and the scent of the bait calls the marten up, when,
snap! it is fast and waiting for the trapper and the lodge of the
Assiniboines, the women and the drying."
"Yes. And those hundreds of beaver, M'sieu?"
Marc Dupre's eyes were shining and the red in his cheeks flushing with
pleasure.
What more to a man's liking than the exploitation of knowledge gained
first-hand in the pursuit of his life's work?
"Again the trap," he said, "set this time at the edge of a stream where
the beaver huts peek through the ice, or lift their tops above the open
water.
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