"Cyril! Cyril! Where are you?" called Mr. Ellison one morning.
"Coming," answered Cyril, from the top of a huge pile of logs. He had found a comfortable, sheltered seat up there, which he called his "retreat," and, though it was hard to climb up to it, he often sat there, thinking about England and the father he had lost. That morning he felt more sorrowful than usual, and his eyes were red and swollen when at last he reached Mr. Ellison's side.
The saw-miller was standing in the middle of the yard, looking at a pretty black pony which a strange man was holding by the bridle.
"Good. You shall have your price," said the saw-miller. "Now, my lad," he added, turning to Cyril, "can you ride?"
"Yes," replied the boy at once, "I have a pony at home." He looked sad as he thought what a long way off that was.
"Well, this shall be your pony then," said Mr. Ellison, smiling; "Blackie—that's his name—is for you. I've just bought him for you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you! How very kind!" exclaimed Cyril delightedly. "Blackie! Woa, my beauty!" He stroked the pretty creature, patting his arched neck.
"Well, sir, take him—take him!" said the man, slipping the bridle into Cyril's hand. "I guess you may ride him bare-back, or any way you like. He's quiet enough, you'll find."
The pony had no saddle on, and Cyril did not wait for one to be brought. Jumping lightly on Blackie's sleek, bare back, he trotted quickly round the yard. His pleasure in the welcome gift, and the pleasant movement through the clear, frosty air, brought a bright colour to his cheeks. He sat erect, and the dark skin cap Mr. Ellison had given him contrasted with his fair, curly hair, and made his face appear brighter than ever.
Mr. Ellison looked admiringly at the boy. He had no child of his own. His wife had long been dead. He was all alone. Like the Captain of the brigands he thought it might be well for him to adopt Cyril, and so felt less inclined than before to hasten his departure to England.
Certainly after that day the boy seemed happier and more settled. He was generally on Blackie's back, trotting about all over the place, and often riding some distance into the forest on the roads made by the lumberers. Blackie was a capital companion. When Cyril was not riding him he followed his young master about like a dog. Sometimes Cyril found himself talking to the animal as if it could understand him. He told Blackie about his distant home in England, and his great wish to return to it, even though no kind father would be there now to welcome him. And sometimes as he talked his tears dropped down over Blackie's head, upon which the pony would poke his nose quietly against the boy's shoulder.
One day when Cyril was alone with Blackie in a part of the forest where the trees had just been felled, about two miles from the saw-mill, he saw something which made him throw himself from his saddle and run to the rescue. A baby bear had been entrapped by a falling tree, one branch of which lay over one of its hind legs, which was broken. The poor beast's moans were pitiful, but when Cyril approached it snarled at him fiercely.
The boy found, to his distress, that he could not move the heavy bough, and he was just stooping over it, preparatory to making another tremendous effort to do so, when an angry growl behind him caused him to look round quickly.
Close by him was the young cub's dam, in a towering rage, one mighty paw upraised to strike him down.
Cyril thought his last hour had come. Having no weapon with him, he was quite defenceless. The bear, imagining he had injured her offspring, was bent upon killing him.
"The bear was bent upon killing him."
One moment she towered over him, a huge, grey monster; then, just as he was breathing a prayer to his Heavenly Father for the help which in his heart he despaired of, a voice cried loudly—
"Drop on your face, lad! Down on your face, and let me get a shot at her."
Cyril flung himself down as he was bidden; the bear growled again fiercely, and turned to look at the intruder.
A shot rang through the air, another, and yet another.
With an anguished snarl the bear dropped down beside her young one, mortally wounded.
Cyril jumped up to look in the face of his deliverer. It was Mr. Ellison, who had come up just in the nick of time.
"Eh, my lad," said the saw-miller with emotion, "you had a narrow escape that time."
"Thank you—oh, thank you for saving my life!" cried Cyril.
The saw-miller sat down on a fallen tree to rest for a minute. "You must have the skin," he said, trying to speak coolly, though his voice still shook with emotion.
"But look at the poor little one! I believe it's dying. Oh, do look!" exclaimed Cyril.
The young bear was indeed expiring. As Cyril bent over it another large bear, with a terrific growl, rushed upon the scene.
Mr. Ellison's weapon was unloaded now. They were quite defenceless. The bear had the deaths of his poor mate and their cub to avenge. He was full of fury.
The saw-miller looked fixedly at the beast, trying to cow it with his eyes; but the bear's eyes were turned in the direction of Cyril. With a low growl it watched him angrily.