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And Malbrouck liked his pluck, and wished him good luck. And the good luck came. They travelled back slowly to the Height of Land, making a circuit. For a week they saw no more moose; but meanwhile Gregory’s hurt quickly healed. They had now left only eight days in which to get back to Dog Ear River and Marigold Lake. If the young moose was to come it must come soon. It came soon.

They chanced upon a moose-yard, and while the Indians were beating the woods, Malbrouck and Gregory watched.

Soon a cow and a young moose came swinging down to the embankment. Malbrouck whispered: “Now if you must have your live moose, here’s a lasso. I’ll bring down the cow. The young one’s horns are not large. Remember, no pulling. I’ll do that. Keep your broken chest and bad arm safe. Now!”

Down came the cow with a plunge into the yard-dead. The lasso, too, was over the horns of the calf, and in an instant Malbrouck was swinging away with it over the snow. It was making for the trees–exactly what Malbrouck desired. He deftly threw the rope round a sapling, but not too taut, lest the moose’s horns should be injured. The plucky animal now turned on him. He sprang behind a tree, and at that instant he heard the thud of hoofs behind him. He turned to see a huge bull-moose bounding towards him. He was between two fires, and quite unarmed. Those hoofs had murder in them. But at the instant a rifle shot rang out, and he only caught the forward rush of the antlers as the beast fell.

The young moose now had ceased its struggles, and came forward to the dead bull with that hollow sound of mourning peculiar to its kind. Though it afterwards struggled once or twice to be free, it became docile and was easily taught, when its anger and fear were over.

And Gregory Thorne had his live moose. He had also, by that splendid shot, achieved with one arm, saved Malbrouck from peril, perhaps from death.

They drew up before the house at Marigold Lake on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, a triumphal procession. The moose was driven, a peaceful captive with a wreath of cedar leaves around its neck–the humourous conception of Gregory Thorne. Malbrouck had announced their coming by a blast from his horn, and Margaret was standing in the doorway wrapped in furs, which may have come originally from Hudson’s Bay, but which had been deftly re-manufactured in Regent Street.

Astonishment, pleasure, beamed in her eyes. She clapped her hands gaily, and cried: “Welcome, welcome, merry-men all!” She kissed her father; she called to her mother to come and see; then she said to Gregory, with arch raillery, as she held out her hand: “Oh, companion of hunters, comest thou like Jacques in Arden from dropping the trustful tear upon the prey of others, or bringest thou quarry of thine own? Art thou a warrior sated with spoil, master of the sports, spectator of the fight, Prince, or Pistol? Answer, what art thou?”

And he, with a touch of his old insolence, though with something of irony too, for he had hoped for a different fashion of greeting, said:

“All, lady, all! The Olympian all! The player of many parts. I am Touchstone, Jacques, and yet Orlando too.”

“And yet Orlando too, my daughter,” said Malbrouck, gravely. “He saved your father from the hoofs of a moose bent on sacrifice. Had your father his eye, his nerve, his power to shoot with one arm a bull moose at long range, so!–he would not refuse to be called a great hunter, but wear the title gladly.”

Margaret Malbrouck’s face became anxious instantly. “He saved you from danger–from injury, father”? she slowly said, and looked earnestly at Gregory; “but why to shoot with one arm only?”

“Because in a fight of his own with a moose–a hand-to-hand fight–he had a bad moment with the hoofs of the beast.”