It was the baby.

The wailing cries from the tent pierced her like knife-thrusts.
And then, all at once, there came to her what old Pierre had said the night before--his words about the river, the air-holes, the home forty miles away.

"_You couldn't lose yourself, Joan_" He had guessed what might happen.
She bundled the baby deep in the furs and returned to the fire-bed.

Her one thought now was that they must have fire.

She made a little pile of birch-bark, covered it with half-burned bits of wood, and went into the tent for the matches.