It was the shriek of a damned soul! No, he
had been dozing and it was only a dream, and he lay back trembling.
For a long while he could not go to sleep again. Fear had taken
absolute and complete possession of him--the fear of the eternal
damnation that the missionary had so vividly pictured. It was a
picture that had been received at the time without being seen and
through all these years had remained in his brain, covered and hidden.
This day's work had suddenly and for the first time drawn aside the
screen and left it bare before his eyes displaying to him every
fearful minute outline. He was a murderer and he would be punished.
There was no thought of repentance for sins committed--only fear of a
fate that he shrunk from but which confronted him as a reality and a
certainty--as great a certainty as his rising in the morning and so
near at hand. He got up and looked out. The wind blew clouds of snow
into his face. He could not see the tree that he knew was ten feet
away. It was an awful night for a man to be out without shelter.
Micmac John lay down again and after a time the tired brain and body
yielded to nature and he slept.
The instincts of the half-breed, keen even in slumber, felt rather
than heard the diminishing of wind and snow as the storm subsided with
the approach of morning, and he arose at once.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99