It was the shrill laughing carnival of a loon out on the lake.

More than once he had laughed at comrades who had shivered at that sound and cowered until its echoes had died away in moaning wails.

He understood now.

He knew why the Indians called it moakwa--"the mad thing." He thought of MacTavish, and threw the blanket from his shoulders, and crawled out of the tent.
Only a few faintly glowing embers remained where he had piled the birch logs.

The sky was full of stars.