And all about him was a vast emptiness from which the spirit of life had fled for him.
Thus he came at last to a stream in the Burntwood country which ran into Pashkokogon Lake; and it was this day, in the mellow sunlight of late afternoon, that they heard coming to them from out of the dense forest the chopping of an axe.
Toward this they made their way, with caution and no sound, until in a little clearing in a bend of the stream they saw a cabin.

It was a newly built cabin, and smoke was rising from the chimney.
But the chopping was nearer them, in the heart of a thick cover of evergreen and birch.

Into this Jolly Roger and Peter made their way and came within a dozen steps of the man who was wielding the axe.

It was then that Jolly Roger rose up with a cry on his lips, for the man was Father John the Missioner.
In spite of the tragedy through which he had passed the little gray man seemed younger than in that month long ago when Jolly Roger had fled to the north.

He dropped his axe now and stood as if only half believing, a look of joy shining in his face as he realized the truth of what had happened.