Duncan Campbell Scott — On The Way to The Mission

They dogged him all afternoon, Through the bright snow, Two whitemen servants of greed; He knew that they were there, But he did not turn his head; He was an Indian trapper; He planted his snow-shoes firmly; He dragged the long toboggan Without rest The three figures drifted Like shadows in the mine of seer; The snow-shoes were whispers On the threshold of awe; The toboggan made the sound of wings, A wood-pigeon sloping in her nest The Indian's face was calm. He strode with sorrow of fore-knowledge, But his eyes were jewels of content Set in circles of peace. They would have shot him; But momently in the deep forest, They saw something flit by his side; Their hearts stopped with fear. Then the moon rose. They would have left him to the spirit, But they saw the long toboggan Rounded well with furs, With many a silver fox-skin, With the pelts of mink and otter. They were the servants of greed; When the moon grew brighter And the spruces were dark with sleep, They shot him. When he fell on a shield of moonlight One of his arms clung to his burden; The snow was not melted: The spirit passed away. Then the servants of greed Tore off the cover to count their gains; They shuddered away into the shadows, Hearing each the loud heart of the other. Silence was born. There in the tender moonlight, As sweet as they were in life, Glimmered the ivory features, Of the Indian's wife. In the manner of Montagnais women Her hair was rolled with braid; Under her waxen fingers A crucifix was laid. He was drawing her down to the mission, to bury her there in the spring, When the bloodroot comes and windflower to silver everything But as a gift of plunder side by side they were laid, The moon went on to her setting and covered them with shade.