[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D. W. ]

A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS

BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE"AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 3. 

THE BRIDGE HOUSETHE EPAULETTESTHE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTERTHE FINDING OF FINGALLTHREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE

THE BRIDGE HOUSE

It stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. These were approachesto the big covered bridge spanning the main channel of the MadawaskaRiver, and when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two flankingchannels divided at the foundations of the house, and rustled awaythrough the narrow paths of the small bridges to the rapids. You couldstand at any window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing current, gorged with logs, come battering at the wall, jostle between the piers, and race on to the rocks and the dam and the slide beyond. You steppedfrom the front door upon the wall, which was a road between the bridges, and from the back door into the river itself. 

The House had once been a tavern. It looked a wayfarer, like its patronsthe river-drivers, with whom it was most popular. You felt that it hadno part in the career of the village on either side, but was like a rockin a channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. 

Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the springtime or earlysummer, throngs of river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its doors, or hung over the railing of the wall, as they talked and smoked. 

The glory of the Bridge House suddenly declined. That was becauseFinley, the owner, a rich man, came to hate the place--his brother'sblood stained the barroom floor. He would have destroyed the house butthat John Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rentit for a dwelling. 

Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but hehad a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. He wastoo old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little moneywas gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on hisgranddaughter's slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. Buthe rented an acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he gathereddriftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made up the accounts ofthe storekeeper occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off starvation. He was not popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless village talk. People held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean satisfactionwhen they saw him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the shore to bedragged away--the last resort of the poor, for which they blush. 

When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were hewould not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, hegave it to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and itwas never opened afterwards. 

So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to livethere. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never knowncomfort or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she wasborn, and her father and mother both died when she was a little child. But she had been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by hergrandfather, and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, shehad a singular sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She wasglad when they came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: gladbecause they could live apart from the other villagers; shamed because itexposed her to the curiosity of those who visited the House, thinking itwas still a tavern. But that was only for a time. 

One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men atBamber's Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamationof races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable, yet hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch him at the head of hismen, breaking up a jam of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of anevening as he sang:

 "Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, When happy is the sun in the morning? The rapids long and the banks of green, As we ride away in the morning, On the froth of the Long Lachine?"

One day, soon after they came, the dams and booms were opened above, and forests of logs came riding down to Bamber's Boom. The current wasstrong, and the logs came on swiftly. As Brydon's gang worked, they sawa man out upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been suddenly caughtin the drive of logs, and was carried out towards the middle channel. The river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that the man was old, and that he could not run across the rolling logs to the shore. The oldman, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-pole, folded his hands, anddrifted with the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They beganto understand. 

Brydon saw a woman standing at a window of the House waving her arms, and there floated up the river the words, "Father! father!" He caughtup a pikepole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. Theold man's face was white, but there was no fear in his eyes. 

"I cannot run the logs, " he said at once; "I never did; I am too old, andI slip. It's no use. It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell herthat I'll think of her to the last. . . . Good-bye!"

Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice was husky; he could notcry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. 

"Oh, save him!" came from her faintly. 

Brydon's eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in thechannel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances. Heknew if he slipped, doing what he intended, that both might be drowned, and certainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and to drop among themwas a bad business. If they once closed over there was an end ofeverything. 

"Keep quite still, " he said, "and when I throw you catch. "

He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang out upon the slippery logs, and ran. A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people whowere gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, thebridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. Forone of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped andnearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up andstruck him, so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, andstrained for the pier. He was within a few feet of it as they came tothe bridge. The people gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there wasno chance of both making it; because, too, at the critical moment a spaceof clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two river-driversstood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards the old man waswith his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the roots of a treebore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs!

There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still. Butbelow the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and thenanother arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did notroll. In a moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout ofencouragement. He turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridgefor an instant, and, with a wave of the hand and a sharp look towards therapids below, once more sprang out. It was a brave sight, for the logswere in a narrower channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out ofhis eyes that he might see his way. The rolling forest gave him noquarter, but he came on, rocking with weakness, to within a few rods ofthe shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs, --they werepacked closely here, --caught him up, and brought him to dry ground. 

They took him to the Bridge House. He was hurt more than he or theythought. The old man and the girl met them at the door. Judith gave alittle cry when she saw the blood and Brydon's bruised face. He liftedhis head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting, he took his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Hergrandfather seized Brydon's big hand, and said some trembling words ofthanks. The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, andgot him something to drink. She was very cool; she immediately askedPierre to go for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, andmade ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's blood-stained faceand hands, and then gave him some brandy. His comrades standing roundwatched her admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if tobe nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quicklyto a sitting posture, saying, "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turnedsick immediately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders as hefell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this sheblushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face. Thosestanding by were struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to thedaughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive face spokea wonderful language: a divine gratitude and thankfulness; and her eyeshad a clear moisture which did not dim them. The situation was trying tothe river-drivers--it was too refined; and they breathed more freely whenthey got outside and left the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and theyoung doctor alone with the injured man. 

That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events fromthe start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound upBrydon's head, Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his bloodnew to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, itwas too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gentlyrepulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, not uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he wasvery young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad's head atthe start. He falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate themedulla oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the heart of amaid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxedthe compass of experience. 

He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out ofan unfamiliar life. 

"Well, you see, " Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the highcross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man--what hewas born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, eh? Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles thewood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off hishat to death. That's different altogether from us. "

He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look. 

"Yes, " Brydon said, "he is different; and so is she. "

"She is a lady, " Pierre said, with slow emphasis. "She couldn't hide itif she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Madefor this?"--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. "No, no! madefor--"

He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swiftcurrent. 

Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?"

Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on thehillside. "Made for homes like that, not this, " he said, and he noddedfirst towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottagebelonged to the young doctor. ) A growl like an animal's came from Brydon, and he clinched the other's shoulder. Pierre glanced at the hand, thenat Brydon's face, and said sharply: "Take it away. "

The hand dropped; but Brydon's face was hot, and his eyes were hard. 

Pierre continued: "But then women are strange. What you expect they willnot--no. Riches?--it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, nothing. They have whims. The hut is as good as the house, with the kitchen inthe open where the river welts and washes, and a man--the great man ofthe world to them--to play the little game of life with. . . . Pshaw!you are idle: move; you are thick in the head: think hard; you like thegirl: speak. "

As he said this, there showed beneath them the front timbers of a smallcrib of logs with a crew of two men, making for the rapids and the slidebelow. Here was an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight acraft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the distance, and with a "Look out, below!" swiftly let himself down by his arms asfar as he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if itwere a matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon, and the crib shot on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran intothe teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising andfalling to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craftagainst the tall dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon wascarried away from what Pierre had been saying. He had a solid pleasurein watching, and he sat up with a call of delight when he saw the cribdrive at the slide. Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely. His face blazed. 

"A pretty sight!" said a voice behind him. 

Without a word he swung round, and dropped, more heavily than Pierre, beside Judith. 

"It gets into our bones, " he said. "Of course, though it ain't the sameto you, " he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. "You don'tcare for things so rough, mebbe?"

"I love the river, " she said quietly. 

"We're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It's a rowdybusiness. "

"I never noticed that, " she replied, gravely smiling. "When I was smallI used to go to the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and they werealways kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; butI didn't think then that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They werenever rough with us. "

"No one'd ever be rough with you, " was the reply. "Oh yes, " she saidsuddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the youngdoctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had acted:upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as youngegoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom mucholder: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, but withhis reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. "Oh yes, " she repeated, and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart body; andthen she leaned over the railing and looked into the water. 

"I'd break the man into pieces that was rough with you, " he said betweenhis teeth. 

"Would you?" she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance toreply, "We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with thepoor--and proud. I remember, " she went on, simply, dreamily, and as iftalking to herself, "the day when we first came to the Bridge House. Isat down on a box and looked at the furniture--it was so little--andcried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. Icouldn't help it. He sat down too, and didn't say anything. He was verypale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angrywith myself, and sprang up and went to work--and we get along prettywell. "

She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: "I love the river. I don'tbelieve I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, anddie on it, and be buried in it. "

His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty thathis voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along therailing to hers, and covered it tenderly--for so big a hand. She drewher fingers away, but not very quickly. "Don't!" she said, "and--andsomeone is coming!"

There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carryinga board fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stoodspeechless with wonder. He had never thought of this. He was agentleman, in spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss. Presently he drew himself up with an air. The heavy board was still inhis arms. Brydon came over and took the board, looking him squarely inthe eyes. 

"Mr. Rupert, " he said, "I want to ask something. " The old man nodded. 

"I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?" Again the old mannodded. 

"Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I'm going to ask you to drawno more driftwood from the Madawaska--not a stick, now or ever. "

"It is the only way we can keep from freezing in winter. " Mr. Rupertscarcely knew what he said. Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, then answered: "I'll keep you from freezing, if you'll let me, you--andJudith. "

"Oh, please let us go into the house, " Judith said hastily. 

She saw the young doctor driving towards them out of the covered bridge!

When Brydon went to join his men far down the river he left a wife behindhim at the Bridge House, where she and her grandfather were to stay untilthe next summer. Then there would be a journey from Bamber's Boom to anew home. 

In the late autumn he came, before he went away to the shanties in thebackwoods, and again in the winter just before the babe was born. Thenhe went far up the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down thedrives of logs for his Company. June came, and then there was a suddensorrow at the Bridge House. How great it was, Pierre's words as he stoodat the door one evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: "Savethe child, and you shall have back the I O U on your house. " Which wasalso evidence that the young doctor had fallen into the habit ofgambling. 

The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a selfish nature. "You canonly do what you can do, " he said. 

Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not save it, one would guesswhy. "

The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: "You think I'm acoward. We shall see. There is a way, but it may fail. "

And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from the child's throat, itdied the next night. 

Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won was handed back withsuch good advice as only a worldwise adventurer can give. 

Of the child's death its father did not know. They were not certainwhere he was. But when the mother took to her bed again, the youngdoctor said it was best that Brydon should come. Pierre had time andinclination to go for him. But before he went he was taken to Judith'sbedside. Pierre had seen life and death in many forms, but neveranything quite like this: a delicate creature floating away upon a summercurrent travelling in those valleys which are neither of this life norof that; but where you hear the echoes of both, and are visited bysolicitous spirits. There was no pain in her face--she heard a little, familiar voice from high and pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise arethe dying, that her husband was travelling after her, and that they wouldbe all together soon. But she did not speak of that. For the knowledgeborn of such a time is locked up in the soul. 

Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he crossed himself. 

"Tell him to come quickly, " she said, "if you find him, "--her fingersplayed with the coverlet, --"for I wish to comfort him. . . . Someonesaid that you were bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorrywhen my baby went away. I am--going away--too. But do not tell himthat. Tell him I cannot walk about. I want him to carry me--to carryme. Will you?" Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along thecoverlet to him; but it was only instinct that guided him, for he couldnot see. He started on his journey with his hat pulled down over hiseyes. 

One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon'sdrives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the BridgeHouse. 

The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert that he would comeback later. He went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an angel. His selfishness had dropped away from him. The evening wore on, and inthe little back room a woman's voice said:

"Is it morning yet, father?"

"It is still day. The sun has not set, my child. "

"I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark. "

"You have been asleep, Judith. You have come out of the dark. "

"No, I have come out into the darkness--into the world. "

"You will see better when you are quite awake. "

"I wish I could see the river, father. Will you go and look?"

Then there was a silence. "Well?" she asked. 

"It is beautiful, " he said, "and the sun is still bright. "

"You see as far as Indian Island?"

"I can see the white comb of the reef beyond it, my dear. "

"And no one--is coming?"

"There are men making for the shore, and the fires are burning, but noone is--coming this way. . . . He would come by the road, perhaps. "

"Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found him. Can you see the Eddy?"

"Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the logs tossing round it. "

"We used to sit there--he and I--by the big cedar tree. Everything wasso cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the force-pump and theswallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, andthat you can see her face in the water, if you happen there at sunrise, weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water. . . . Do you thinkit true, father?"

"Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?"

"When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, wherethe sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before itsspirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, forhim to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand. .. . Father, can you see its face?" "No, Judith; nothing but the water and thesunshine. "

"Dear, carry me to the window. "

When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes andanxious fingers. "My baby! My baby!" she said. 

She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see far. "It is all a grey light, " she said, "I cannot see well. " Yet she smiled. "Lay me down again, father, " she whispered. 

After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up. "The river, the beautiful river!" she cried out gently. Then, at thelast, "Oh, my dear, my dear!"

And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was leftalone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. Hewould watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. Atlast he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He wentout quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a mandrawing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man's shouldersconvulsively. "How is she?" he asked. "Come in, my son, " was the lowreply. The old man saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husbandto the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. "She is better, asyou see, " he said bravely. 

The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. Theyknew not what was going on in the world. 

As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottageon the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre'skeen ears the sound of the river. 

"Let us go out, " he said; "the river is flooding. You can hear thelogs. "

They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, andthe dull boom of the logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or somebuilding on the shore came rolling to them. 

"The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre said. He pointed to the campsfar up the river. By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a wideweltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre's eyes shifted to the BridgeHouse. In one room was a light. He stepped out and down, and the otherfollowed. They had almost reached the shore, when Pierre cried outsharply: "What's that?"

He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon the Bridge House. Itwas a big shed that had been carried away, and, jammed between timbers, had not broken up. There was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding sound, and then theysaw the light of that one room move on, waving a little to and fro-on tothe rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard after. 

Where the light was two men had started to their feet when the crashcame. They felt the House move. "Run-save yourself!" cried the old manquietly. "We are lost!"

The floor rocked. 

"Go, " he said again. "I will stay with her. "

"She is mine, " Brydon said; and he took her in his arms. "I will notgo. "

They could hear the rapids below. The old man steadied himself in thedeep water on the floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold hands. 

"Come close, come close, " said Brydon. "Closer; put your arms roundher. "

The old man did so. They were locked in each other's arms--dead andliving. 

The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: "We therefore commit herbody to the deep--!"

The three were never found. 

THE EPAULETTES

Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat at the door of his lodge, staring down into the valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa hisdaughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her finebuckskin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader hadput a great indignity upon Athabasca. A factor of twenty years before, in recognition of the chief's merits and in reward of his services, hadpresented him with a pair of epaulettes, left in the Fort by some officerin Her Majesty's service. A good, solid, honest pair of epaulettes, wellfitted to stand the wear and tear of those high feasts and functions atwhich the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. They were theadmiration of his own tribe, the wonder of others, the envy of manychiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them creditably, and was no moreimmobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus honoured above hiskind. 

But the years went, and there came a man to Fort Pentecost who knew notAthabasca. He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knewnaught of human nature, was possessed by a pride more masterful than hiswisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. He was ever for high-handedness, brooked no interference, and treated the Indians more asCompany's serfs than as Company's friends and allies. Also, he had aneye for Mitawawa, and found favour in return, though to what depth ittook a long time to show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires ofthe young braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and daintyfinger for embroidered buckskin, a particular fortune with a bow andarrow, and the fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles thewhite man came to sit often in Athabasca's lodge. He knew of this, butheeded not at all. At last Konto, a young brave who very accuratelyguessed at Fyles' intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey HorseTrail, and in a soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his regard ina fight without weapons, to the death, the survivor to give the otherburial where he fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It would havebeen foolish to run the risk of leaving Fort and people masterless for anIndian's whim; it would have been cowardly to do nothing. So he whippedout a revolver, and bade his rival march before him to the Fort; whichKonto very calmly did, begging the favour of a bit of tobacco as he went. 

Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should sit in judgment, and should atleast banish Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he might haveto put a bullet into Konto's refractory head if the thing were not done. He said large things in the name of the H. B. C. , and was surprisedthat Athabasca let them pass unmoved. But that chief, after longconsideration, during which he drank Company's coffee and ate Company'spemmican, declared that he could do nothing: for Konto had made a fineoffer, and a grand chance of a great fight had been missed. This was inthe presence of several petty officers and Indians and woodsmen at theFort. Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He swore a little, and withwords of bluster went over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief'sshoulders as a punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief saidnothing. He got up, and reached out his hands as if to ask them back;and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing his blanket high over hisshoulders. It was wont before to lie loosely about him, to show hisbadges of captaincy and alliance. 

This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for thebuffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave it, they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for makingtrouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settleit in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, shouldtake his place; and when his braves came back there should be greatfeasting, for then the matter would be ended. 

Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of hislodge--the first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. He and his daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had beenno word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles. The Fort was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had goneafter buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cookwere left. 

Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so longthat even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. "What will myfather Athabasca do?" she asked. "With idleness the flesh grows soft, and the iron melts from the arm. "

"But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Menof the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow. "

"It is no answer, " she said: "what will my father do?"

"They were of gold, " he answered, "that never grew rusty. My people werefull of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as theypassed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the GreatCompany put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it wasas if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over. When the tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me ifI do not come out to meet them with the yokes of gold. "

"But what will my father do?" she persisted. 

"I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits whorule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum, and called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and Iknow the way. "

"What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face. 

"Why does my father fear to speak to his child?" she said. "I willspeak plain. I love the man: but I love my father also. "

She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly onher breast. "I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I firstlooked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sittingby the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pinesmade great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laidme between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. Hetalked much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is noone like my father--Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man, Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened. Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of theCompany, would not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made myfather as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would give my life forFyles the trader, but I would give more than my life to wipe out myfather's shame, and to show that Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. I have been carried by the hands of the old men of my people, I haveridden the horses of the young men: their shame is my shame. "

The eyes of the chief had never lifted from the Fort: nor from his lookcould you have told that he heard his daughter's words. For a moment hewas silent, then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy browsdrew up so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, as she waited, hearose, put out a hand and touched her forehead. 

"Mitawawa has spoken well, " he said. "There will be an end. The yokesof gold are mine: an honour given cannot be taken away. He has stolen;he is a thief. He would not fight Konto: but I am a chief and he shallfight me. I am as great as many men--I have carried the golden yokes: wewill fight for them. I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter lovedthe man more than her people: but now I will break him in pieces. HasMitawawa seen him since the shameful day?"

"He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him in unless he broughtthe epaulettes. He said he would bring them when Konto was punished. I begged of him as I never begged of my own father, but he was hard asthe ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue like his inthe world; he is tall and beautiful, and has the face of a spirit. "

From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair of field-glasses hecould follow their actions, could almost read their faces. "There'll bea lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mallory, " he said at last, turning to his clerk. "Old Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet. "

"Wouldn't it be just as well to give 'em back, sir?" Mallory had been atFort Pentecost a long time, and he understood Athabasca and his Indians. He was a solid, slow-thinking old fellow, but he had that wisdom of thenorth which can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent to lion in themoment. 

"Give 'em back, Mallory? I'll see him in Jericho first, unless he goeson his marrow-bones and kicks Konto out of the camp. "

"Very well, sir. But I think we'd better keep an eye open. "

"Eye open, be hanged! If he'd been going to riot he'd have done sobefore this. Besides, the girl--!" Mallory looked long and earnestly athis master, whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little eyesmoved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last hesaid: "I'd give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless Imeant to marry her. " Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your place, blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One'd think you were amissionary. " Then with a sudden burst of anger: "Damn it all, if my mendon't stand by me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I'd better getout. "

"Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I've served three tradershere, and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I'll say it to yourface, whether you like it or not, that you're not as good a judge of theInjin as me, or even Duc the cook: and that's straight as I can say it, Mr. Fyles. "

Fyles paced up and down in anger--not speaking; but presently threw upthe glass, and looked towards Athabasca's lodge. "They're gone, " he saidpresently; "I'll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must do whatI want, or there'll be ructions. "

The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Athabasca entered the silentyard. The dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without reason, and no oneheeds them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the windows, uponwhich slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. He went to Fyles'window: no one was in the room. He went to another: Mallory and Duc weresitting at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking at them andfingering the hooks by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Duc waslaughing: he reached over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it andthrew it down with a guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca walkedin, seized the epaulettes, and went swiftly out again. Just outside thedoor Mallory clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Duc caught at theepaulettes. 

Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was a cold white flash, and Duc came huddling to Mallory's feet. For a brief instant Mallory andthe Indian fell apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness tossedhis knife away, and ran in on his man. They closed; strained, swayed, became a tangled wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted high intothe air, and came down with a broken back. 

Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried away, breathing hard, andhugging them to his bare red-stained breast. He had nearly reached thegate when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy stone caught himhigh in the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay clutching theepaulettes in his outstretched hands. 

Fyles' own hands were yet lifted with the effort of throwing, when heheard the soft rush of footsteps, and someone came swiftly into hisembrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoulders--lips closed with his--something ice-cold and hard touched his neck--he saw a bright flash athis throat. 

In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with wild eyes by herfather's body. She had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. Fyles and his men made a grim triangle of death at the door of the Fort. 

THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER

 "He stands in the porch of the world-- (Why should the door be shut?) The grey wolf waits at his heel, (Why is the window barred?) Wild is the trail from the Kimash Hills, The blight has fallen on bush and tree, The choking earth has swallowed the streams, Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol: (Why should the door be shut?) The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide-- (Why is the window barred?)"

Pierre stopped to listen. The voice singing was clear and soft, yetstrong--a mezzo-soprano without any culture save that of practice andnative taste. It had a singular charm--a sweet, fantastic sincerity. He stood still and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods away. Itstood on a knoll perching above Fort Ste. Anne. Years had passed sincePierre had visited the Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, aftermany wanderings. The house had stood here in the old days, and heremembered it very well, for against it John Marcey, the Company's man, was shot by Stroke Laforce, of the Riders of the Plains. Looking now, he saw that the shutter, which had been pulled off to bear the body away, was hanging there just as he had placed it, with seven of its slatsbroken and a dark stain in one corner. Something more of John Marceythan memory attached to that shutter. His eyes dwelt on it long herecalled the scene: a night with stars and no moon, a huge bonfire tolight the Indians, at their dance, and Marcey, Laforce, and many othersthere, among whom was Lucille, the little daughter of Gyng the Factor. Marcey and Laforce were only boys then, neither yet twenty-three, andthey were friendly rivals with the sweet little coquette, who gave herfavors with a singular impartiality and justice. Once Marcey had givenher a gold spoon. Laforce responded with a tiny, fretted silver basket. Laforce was delighted to see her carrying her basket, till she opened itand showed the spoon inside. There were many mock quarrels, in one ofwhich Marcey sent her a letter by the Company's courier, covered withgreat seals, saying, "I return you the hairpin, the egg-shell, and thewhite wolf's tooth. Go to your Laforce, or whatever his ridiculous namemay be. "

In this way the pretty game ran on, the little goldenhaired, golden-faced, golden-voiced child dancing so gayly in their hearts, but nestlingin them too, after her wilful fashion, until the serious thing came--thetragedy. 

On the mad night when all ended, she was in the gayest, the most elf-likespirits. All went well until Marcey dug a hole in the ground, put astone in it, and, burying it, said it was Laforce's heart. Then Laforcepretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Marcey's slight stutter. That wasthe beginning of the trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of the world, troubled at Laforce's unkindness, tried to smooth things over--tried verygravely. But the playful rivalry of many months changed its compositionsuddenly as through some delicate yet powerful chemical action, and thesavage in both men broke out suddenly. Where motives and emotions arefew they are the more vital, their action is the more violent. No oneknew quite what the two young men said to each other, but presently, while the Indian dance was on, they drew to the side of the house, andhad their duel out in the half-shadows, no one knowing, till the shotsrang on the night, and John Marcey, without a cry, sprang into the airand fell face upwards, shot through the heart. 

They tried to take the child away, but she would not go; and when theycarried Marcey on the shutter she followed close by, resisting herfather's wishes and commands. And just before they made a prisoner ofLaforce, she said to him very quietly--so like a woman she was--"I willgive you back the basket, and the riding-whip, and the other things, andI will never forgive you--never--no, never!"

Stroke Laforce had given himself up, had himself ridden to Winnipeg, a thousand miles, and told his story. Then the sergeant's stripes hadbeen stripped from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own statementhad got twelve years' imprisonment. Ten years had passed since then--since Marcey was put away in his grave, since Pierre left Fort Ste. Anne, and he had not seen it or Lucille in all that time. But he knewthat Gyng was dead, and that his widow and her child had gone south oreast somewhere; of Laforce after his sentence he had never heard. 

He stood looking at the house from the shade of the solitary pine-treenear it, recalling every incident of that fatal night. He had the giftof looking at a thing in its true proportions, perhaps because he hadlittle emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early in life hisemotions were rationalised. Presently he heard the voice again:

 "He waits at the threshold stone-- (Why should the key-hole rust?) The eagle broods at his side, (Why should the blind be drawn?) Long has he watched, and far has he called The lonely sentinel of the North: "Who goes there?" to the wandering soul: Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol (Why should the key-hole rust?) The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, (Why should the blind be drawn?)"

Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a younggirl's golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window withthe broken shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door ofthe house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellowhair falling loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chinand a broad brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet blue, rare and fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few moments, unaware of Pierre's presence. But presently she saw him leaning againstthe tree, and she started as from a spirit. 

"Monsieur!" she said--"Pierre!" and stepped forward again from thedoorway. 

He came to her, and "Ah, p'tite Lucille, " he said, "you remember me, eh?--and yet so many years ago!"

"But you remember me, " she answered, "and I have changed so much!"

"It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will. "

Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking. 

She made a little gesture of deprecation. "I was a child, " she said. 

Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. "What matter? It is sex that I mean. What difference to me--five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It isonly lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age--mais oui!"

She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she weretrying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre's ownheart, and he knew it; but just here he wondered where all that ancientcoquetry was gone, for there were no traces of it left; she was steady ofeye, reposeful, rich in form and face, and yet not occupied with herself. He had only seen her for a minute or so, yet he was sure that what shewas just now she was always, or nearly so, for the habits of a life leavetheir mark, and show through every phase of emotion and incident whetherit be light or grave. 

"I think I understand you, " she said. "I think I always did a little, from the time you stayed with Grah the idiot at Fort o' God, and foughtthe Indians when the others left. Only--men said bad things of you, andmy father did not like you, and you spoke so little to me ever. Yet Imind how you used to sit and watch me, and I also mind when you rode theman down who stole my pony, and brought them both back. "

Pierre smiled--he was pleased at this. "Ah, my young friend, " he said, "I do not forget that either, for though he had shaved my ear with abullet, you would not have him handed over to the Riders of the Plains--such a tender heart!"

Her eyes suddenly grew wide. She was childlike in her amazement, indeed, childlike in all ways, for she was very sincere. It was her greatadvantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth, she hadnot suffered that sickness, social artifice. 

"I never knew, " she said, "that he had shot at you--never! You did nottell that. "

"There is a time for everything--the time for that was not till now. "

"What could I have done then?"

"You might have left it to me. I am not so pious that I can't bemerciful to the sinner. But this man--this Brickney--was a vilescoundrel always, and I wanted him locked up. I would have shot himmyself, but I was tired of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes, " headded, as he saw her smile a little. "It is so. I have love forjustice, even I, Pretty Pierre. Why not justice on myself? Ha! Thelaw does not its duty. And maybe some day I shall have to do its work onmyself. Some are coaxed out of life, some are kicked out, and some openthe doors quietly for themselves, and go a-hunting Outside. "

"They used to talk as if one ought to fear you, " she said, "but"--shelooked him straight in the eyes--"but maybe that's because you've neverhid any badness. "

"It is no matter, anyhow, " he answered. "I live in the open, I walk inthe open road, and I stand by what I do to the open law and the gospel. It is my whim--every man to his own saddle. "

"It is ten years, " she said abruptly. 

"Ten years less five days, " he answered as sententiously. 

"Come inside, " she said quietly, and turned to the door. 

Without a word he turned also, but instead of going direct to the doorcame and touched the broken shutter and the dark stain on one corner witha delicate forefinger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her onthe doorstep, looking intently. 

He spoke as if to himself: "It has not been touched since then--no. It was hardly big enough for him, so his legs hung over. Ah, yes, tenyears-- Abroad, John Marcey!" Then, as if still musing, he turned tothe girl: "He had no father or mother--no one, of course; so that itwasn't so bad after all. If you've lived with the tongue in the lasthole of the buckle as you've gone, what matter when you go! C'est egal--it is all the same. "

Her face had become pale as he spoke, but no muscle stirred; only hereyes filled with a deeper color, and her hand closed tightly on the door-jamb. "Come in, Pierre, " she said, and entered. He followed her. "My mother is at the Fort, " she added, "but she will be back soon. "

She placed two chairs not far from the open door. They sat, and Pierreslowly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. 

"How long have you lived here?" he asked presently. 

"It is seven years since we came first, " she replied. "After that nightthey said the place was haunted, and no one would live in it, but when myfather died my mother and I came for three years. Then we went east, andagain came back, and here we have been. "

"The shutter?" Pierre asked. 

They needed few explanations--their minds were moving with the samethought. 

"I would not have it changed, and of course no one cared to touch it. So it has hung there. "

"As I placed it ten years ago, " he said. 

They both became silent for a time, and at last he said: "Marcey had noone, --Sergeant Laforce a mother. "

"It killed his mother, " she whispered, looking into the white sunlight. She was noting how it was flashed from the bark of the birch-trees nearthe Fort. 

"His mother died, " she added again, quietly. "It killed her--the gaolfor him!"

"An eye for an eye, " he responded. 

"Do you think that evens John Marcey's death?" she sighed. 

"As far as Marcey's concerned, " he answered. "Laforce has his ownreckoning besides. "

"It was not a murder, " she urged. 

"It was a fair fight, " he replied firmly, "and Laforce shot straight. "He was trying to think why she lived here, why the broken shutter stillhung there, why the matter had settled so deeply on her. He rememberedthe song she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet Hunter, the fabledSavior of the North. 

 "Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol-- (Why should the key-hole rust?) The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, (Why should the blind be drawn?)"

He repeated the words, lingering on them. He loved to come at the truthof things by allusive, far-off reflections, rather than by the sharpquestioning of the witness-box. He had imagination, refinement in suchthings. A light dawned on him as he spoke the words--all became clear. She sang of the Scarlet Hunter, but she meant someone else!That was it--

 "Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol-- (Why should the door be shut?) The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide, (Why is the window barred?)"

But why did she live here? To get used to a thought, to have it so nearher, that if the man--if Laforce himself came, she would have herselfschooled to endure the shadow and the misery of it all? Ah, that was it!The little girl, who had seen her big lover killed, who had said shewould never forgive the other, who had sent him back the fretted-silverbasket, the riding-whip, and other things, had kept the criminal in hermind all these years; had, out of her childish coquetry, grown into--what? As a child she had been wise for her years--almost too wise. What had happened? She had probably felt sorrow for Laforce at first, and afterwards had shown active sympathy, and at last--no, he felt thatshe had not quite forgiven him, that, whatever was, she had not hiddenthe criminal in her heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heartwas pleading for him--for the criminal. Had she and her mother gone toWinnipeg to be near Laforce, to comfort him? Was Laforce free now, andwas she unwilling? It was so strange that she should thus have carriedon her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her--she hadimagination. 

"His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg, " she said abruptly at last. "I'm glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me--I was so young and spoiled and silly--John Marcey's death, her death, and his long years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set theone against the other. Must a child not be responsible? I was--I am!"

"And so you punish yourself?"

"It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could neverforgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there camesomething else. "

"You saw him, there amie?"

"I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of the thing--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--" She paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre. 

"It is safe; I am silent, " he said. 

"That I might learn to bear--him, " she continued. 

"Is he still--" Pierre paused. 

She spoke up quickly. "Oh no, he has been free two years. "

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. " She waited for a minute, then said again, "I don't know. When he was free, he came to me, but I--I could not. He thought, too, that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn't--be his wife. Hedidn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. And I wasn'tready--no--no--no--how could I be! I didn't care so much about the gaol, but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol--what was that to me! There wasno real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been wicked--not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think--the difference--if he had been a thief!"

Pierre nodded. "Then some one should have killed him!" he said. "Well, after?"

"After--after--ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, I was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey's bodyto the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we havelived. "

"He has not come here?"

"No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, sayingthat he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, an English gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of oneof the men was Brickney. "

Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. "Holy!" he said, "that thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to hell if hecould carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man's eyes. MonDieu! to save Brickney's life, the courage to do that--like sticking yourface in the mire and eating!--But, pshaw!--go on, p'tite Lucille. "

"There is no more. I never heard again. "

"How long was that ago?"

"Nine months or more. "

"Nothing has been heard of any of them?"

"Nothing at all. The Englishman belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company, but they have heard nothing down here at Fort Ste. Anne. "

"If he saves the Company's man, that will make up the man he lost forthem, eh--you think that, eh?" Pierre's eyes had a curious ironicallight. 

"I do not care for the Company, " she said. "John Marcey's life was hisown. "

"Good!" he added quickly, and his eyes admired her. "That is the thing. Then, do not forget that Marcey took his life in his hands himself, thathe would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn't killed him. "

"I know, I know, " she said, "but I should have felt the same if JohnMarcey had killed Stroke Laforce. "

"It is a pity to throw your life away, " he ventured. He said this for apurpose. He did not think she was throwing it away. 

She was watching a little knot of horsemen coming over a swell of theprairie far off. She withdrew her eyes and fixed them on Pierre. "Doyou throw your life away if you do what is the only thing you are toldto do?"

She placed her hand on her heart--that had been her one guide. 

Pierre got to his feet, came over, and touched her on the shoulder. 

"You have the great secret, " he said quietly. "The thing may be allwrong to others, but if it's right to yourself--that's it--mais oui!If he comes, " he added "if he comes back, think of him as well as Marcey. Marcey is sleeping--what does it matter? If he is awake, he has bettertimes, for he was a man to make another world sociable. Think ofLaforce, for he has his life to live, and he is a man to make thisworld sociable. 

 'The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home-- (Why should the door be shut?)'"

Her eyes had been following the group of horsemen on the plains. Sheagain fixed them on Pierre, and stood up. 

"It is a beautiful legend--that, " she said. 

"But?--but?" he asked. 

She would not answer him. "You will come again, " she said; "you will--help me?"

"Surely, p'tite Lucille, surely, I will come. But to help--ah, that would sound funny to the Missionary at the Fort and to others!"

"You understand life, " she said, "and I can speak to you. "

"It's more to you to understand you than to be good, eh?"

"I guess it's more to any woman, " she answered. They both passed out ofthe house. She turned towards the broken shutter. Then their eyes met. A sad little smile hovered at her lips. 

"What is the use?" she said, and her eyes fastened on the horsemen. 

He knew now that she would never shudder again at the sight of it, or at the remembrance of Marcey's death. 

"But he will come, " was the reply to her, and her smile almost settledand stayed. 

They parted, and as he went down the hill he saw far over, coming up, a woman in black, who walked as if she carried a great weight. "Everyshot that kills ricochets, " he said to himself:

"His mother dead--her mother like that!"

He passed into the Fort, renewing acquaintances in the Company's store, and twenty minutes after he was one to greet the horsemen that Lucillehad seen coming over the hills. They were five, and one had to be helpedfrom his horse. It was Stroke Laforce, who had been found near dead atthe Metal River by a party of men exploring in the north. 

He had rescued the Englishman and his party, but within a day of thefinding the Englishman died, leaving him his watch, a ring, and a chequeon the H. B. C. At Winnipeg. He and the two survivors, one of whom wasBrickney, started south. One night Brickney robbed him and made to getaway, and on his seizing the thief he was wounded. Then the other mancame to his help and shot Brickney: after that weeks of wandering, andat last rescue and Fort Ste. Anne. 

A half-hour after this Pierre left Laforce on the crest of the hill abovethe Fort, and did not turn to go down till he had seen the other passwithin the house with the broken shutter. And later he saw a littlebonfire on the hill. The next evening he came to the house againhimself. Lucille rose to meet him. 

"'Why should the door be shut?"' he quoted smiling. 

"The door is open, " she answered quickly and with a quiet joy. 

He turned to the motion of her hand, and saw Laforce asleep on a couch. 

Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he turned towards thewindow. The broken shutter was gone. 

He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night before. 

THE FINDING OF FINGALL

"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!"

A grey mist was rising from the river, the sun was drinking itdelightedly, the swift blue water showed underneath it, and the top ofWhitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a hand-length. The river brushedthe banks like rustling silk, and the only other sound, very sharp andclear in the liquid monotone, was the crack of a woodpecker's beak on ahickory tree. 

It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome Valley. Before nightthe deer would bellow reply to the hunters' rifles, and the mountain-goatcall to its unknown gods; but now there was only the wild duck skimmingthe river, and the high hilltop rising and fading into the mist, theardent sun, and again that strange cry--

"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall! Fingall!"

Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of the hills, raised their eyes tothe mountain-side beyond and above them, and one said presently:

"The second time. It's a woman's voice, Pierre. " Pierre nodded, andabstractedly stirred the coals about with a twig. 

"Well, it is a pity--the poor Cynthie, " he said at last. 

"It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre--her story?"

"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!"

Pierre raised his head towards the sound; then after a moment, said:

"I know Fingall. "

"And the woman? Tell me. "

"And the girl. Fingall was all fire and heart, and devil-may-care. She--she was not beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a flameof red and blue. Her hair, too--then--would trip her up, if it hungloose. That was all, except that she loved him too much. But women--et puis, when a woman gets a man between her and the heaven above and theearth beneath, and there comes the great hunger, what is the good! A mancannot understand, but he can see, and he can fear. What is the good!To play with life, that is not much; but to play with a soul is more thana thousand lives. Look at Cynthie. "

He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. Presently Pierre continued:

Fingall was gentil; he would take off his hat to a squaw. It made nodifference what others did; he didn't think--it was like breathing tohim. How can you tell the way things happen? Cynthie's father kept thetavern at St. Gabriel's Fork, over against the great saw-mill. Fingallwas foreman of a gang in the lumberyard. Cynthie had a brother--Fenn. Fenn was as bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew itwell, though he hated the young skunk. The girl's eyes were like twolittle fire-flies when Fingall was about. 

"He was a gentleman, though he had only half a name--Fingall--like that. I think he did not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for something--always when the mail come in he would be there; and afterwards youwouldn't see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he made up his mindto think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing. "

"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!"

The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. "She's coming thisway, Pierre, " said Lawless. 

"I hope not to see her. What is the good!"

"Well, let us have the rest of the story. "

"Her brother Fenn was in Fingall's gang. One day there was trouble. Fenn called Fingall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual thing didnot come. Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would settle someother time. That night a wicked thing happened. We were sitting in thebar-room when we heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the otherroom; there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted himself on hiselbow, pointed at Fingall--and fell back. The father of the boy stoodwhite and still a few feet away. There was no pistol showing--none atall. 

"The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir--he seemed to be thinkingof something else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men roaredround him, but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first at thefather, then at the son. I could not understand at first. Someonepulled a pistol out of Fingall's pocket and showed it. At that momentCynthie came in. She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear acry like that often. She fell on her knees beside the boy, and caughthis head to her breast. Then with a wild look she asked who did it. They had just taken Fingall out into the bar-room. They did not tellher his name, for they knew that she loved him. 

"'Father, ' she said all at once, 'have you killed the man that killedFenn?'

"The old man shook his head. There was a sick colour in his face. 

"'Then I will kill him, ' she said. 

"She laid her brother's head down, and stood up. Someone put in her handthe pistol, and told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She tookit, and came with us. The old man stood still where he was; he was likestone. I looked at him for a minute and thought; then I turned round andwent to the bar-room; and he followed. Just as I got inside the door, I saw the girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw that it wasFingall; he was looking at her very strange. It was the rule to emptythe gun into a man who had been sentenced; and already Fingall had heardhis, 'God-have-mercy!' The girl was to do it. 

"Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, 'Fire--Cynthie!'

"I guessed what she would do. In a kind of a dream she raised the pistolup--up--up, till I could see it was just out of range of his head, andshe fired. One! two! three! four! five! Fingall never moved amuscle; but the bullets spotted the wall at the side of his head. Shestopped after the five; but the arm was still held out, and her fingerwas on the trigger; she seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers werein the gun, and of course one chamber was empty. Fenn had its bullet inhis lungs, as we thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched her arm, pushing it down. But there was another shot, and this time, because ofthe push, the bullet lodged in Fingall's skull. "

Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand towards the mist which hunghigh up like a canopy between the hills. 

"But, " said Lawless, not heeding the scene, "what about that sixthbullet?"

"Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot. His revolver wasfull, every chamber, when Cynthie first took it. "

"Who killed the lad?"

"Can you not guess? There had been words between the father and theboy: both had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, fired; the boywanted revenge on Fingall, and, to save his father, laid it on the other. The old man? Well, I do not know whether he was a coward, or stupid, orashamed--he let Fingall take it. "

"Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh?"

"For the girl. It wasn't good for her to know her father killed his ownson. "

"What came after?"

"The worst. That night the girl's father killed himself, and the twowere buried in the same grave. Cynthie--"

"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!"

"You hear? Yes, like that all the time as she sat on the floor, her hair about her like a cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. She thought she had killed Fingall, and she knew now that he wasinnocent. The two were buried. Then we told her that Fingall was notdead. She used to come and sit outside the door, and listen to hisbreathing, and ask if he ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying?If we said he did, she'd have come in to him, and that would do no good, for he wasn't right in his mind. By and by we told her he was gettingwell, and then she didn't come, but stayed at home, just saying his nameover to herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman--it is strange!When Fingall was strong enough to go out, I went with him the first time. He was all thin and handsome as you can think, but he had no memory, and his eyes were like a child's. She saw him, and came out to meet him. What does a woman care for the world when she loves a man? Well, he justlooked at her as if he'd never seen her before, and passed by without asign, though afterwards a trouble came in his face. Three days later hewas gone, no one knew where. That is two years ago. Ever since she hasbeen looking for him. "

"Is she mad?"

"Mad? Holy Mother! it is not good to have one thing in the head all thetime! What do you think? So much all at once! And then--"

"Hush, Pierre! There she is!" said Lawless, pointing to a ledge of rocknot far away. 

The girl stood looking out across the valley, a weird, rapt look in herface, her hair falling loose, a staff like a shepherd's crook in onehand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly looked from point topoint of the horizon. 

The two watched her without speaking. Presently she saw them. She gazedat them for a minute, then descended to them. Lawless and Pierre rose, doffing their hats. She looked at both a moment, and her eyes settled onPierre. Presently she held out her hand to him. "I knew you--yesterday, "she said. 

Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with one kind and strong. 

"So--so, Cynthie, " he said; "sit down and eat. "

He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and some fish from the ashes. Shesat facing them, and, taking from a bag at her side some wild fruits, ateslowly, saying nothing. Lawless noticed that her hair had become grey ather temples, though she was but one-and-twenty years old. Her face, brown as it was, shone with a white kind of light, which may, or may not, have come from the crucible of her eyes, where the tragedy of her lifewas fusing. Lawless could not bear to look long, for the fire thatconsumes a body and sets free a soul is not for the sight of the quick. At last she rose, her body steady, but her hands having that tremulousactivity of her eyes. 

"Will you not stay, Cynthie?" asked Lawless very kindly. 

She came close to him, and, after searching his eyes, said with a smilethat almost hurt him, "When I have found him, I will bring him to yourcamp-fire. Last night the Voice said that he waits for me where the mistrises from the river at daybreak, close to the home of the White Swan. Do you know where is the home of the White Swan? Before the frost comesand the red wolf cries, I must find him. Winter is the time of sleep. 

"I will give him honey and dried meat. I know where we shall livetogether. You never saw such roses! Hush! I have a place where we canhide. "

Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-like, and she said slowly:"In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hourof death, and in the Day of Judgment, Good Lord, deliver us!"

"Good Lord, deliver us!" repeated Lawless in a low voice. Withoutlooking at them, she slowly turned away and passed up the hill-side, hereyes scanning the valley as before. 

"Good Lord, deliver us!" again said Lawless. "Where did she get it?"

"From a book which Fingall left behind. "

They watched her till she rounded a cliff, and was gone; then theyshouldered their kits and passed up the river on the trail of the wapiti. 

One month later, when a fine white surf of frost lay on the ground, and the sky was darkened often by the flight of the wild geese southward, they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the edge of a clump of pines. It was morning, and Whitefaced Mountain shone clear and high, without atouch of cloud or mist from its haunches to its crown. 

They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer to a voice, entered. Thesunlight streamed in over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried flowers ina corner. A man was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw thatthe woman was Cynthie. 

"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by theshoulder. At the sound of his voice the woman's eyes opened. 

"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" she said, and reached up a hand. 

Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: "Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, my poor Cynthie!" he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and his voice, as hers, said indescribable things. 

Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingalllaid her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutchedPierre's hand. 

"In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all, " he said, pointingto her, "and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found heryesterday. "

"She knew you?" whispered Pierre. 

"Yes, but this fever came on. " He turned and looked at her, and, kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. "Poor girl!"he said; "poor girl!"

"She will get well?" asked Pierre. 

"God grant it!" Fingall replied. "She is better--better. "

Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alonewith the woman he loved. 

The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath. Presently avoice crept through the stillness. "Fingall! Oh, Fingall!--Fingall!"

It was the voice of a woman returning from the dead. 

THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE

I

"Read on, Pierre, " the sick man said, doubling the corner of the wolf-skin pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle. 

Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the unusual nature of hisoccupation, raised an eyebrow as if to someone sitting at the other sideof the fire, --though the room was empty save for the two--and went onreading:

 "Woe to the multitude of many people, which make a noise like the noise of the seas; and to the rushing of nations, that make a rushing like the rushing of mighty waters!

 "The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling thing before the whirlwind. 

 "And behold at evening-tide trouble; and before the morning he is not. This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that rob us. "

The sick man put up his hand, motioning for silence, and Pierre, leavingthe Bible open, laid it at his side. Then he fell to studying the figureon the couch. The body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had anappearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; but the hair wasgrey, the beard was grizzled, and the face was furrowed and seamed asthough the man had lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty yearsold, the head sixty; the man's exact age was forty-five. His mostsingular characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual intelligence, whichshowed in the dewy brightness of the eye, in the lighted face, in thecadenced definiteness of his speech. One would have said, knowingnothing of him, that he was a hermit; but again, noting the firm, graceful outlines of his body, that he was a soldier. Within the pasttwenty-four hours he had had a fight for life with one of the terrible"colds" which, like an unstayed plague, close up the courses of the body, and carry a man out of the hurly-burly, without pause to say how much orhow little he cares to go. 

Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard experiences here andthere, had helped him back into the world again, and was himself now alittle astonished at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant invalid. Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with him inmemory, and Old Testament history was as wine to his blood. The loftytales sang in his veins: of primitive man, adventure, mysterious andexalted romance. For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he hadread aloud from these ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this Post ofthe Hudson's Bay Company in the outer wilderness. 

Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to find a half-breedtrapper and an Indian helpless before the sickness which was hurrying toclose on John Fawdor's heart and clamp it in the vice of death. He hadcome just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what ways the futureshould show, why this man, of such unusual force and power, should havelived at a desolate post in Labrador for twenty-five years. 

"'This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that robus--'" Fawdor repeated the words slowly, and then said: "It is good tobe out of the restless world. Do you know the secret of life, Pierre?"

Pierre's fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible at his side, drummingthe leaves. His eyes wandered over Fawdor's face, and presently heanswered, "To keep your own commandments. "

"The ten?" asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. Pierre's fingersclosed the book. "Not the ten, for they do not fit all; but one by oneto make your own, and never to break--comme ca!"

"The answer is well, " returned Fawdor; "but what is the greatestcommandment that a man can make for himself?"

"Who can tell? What is the good of saying, 'Thou shalt keep holy theSabbath day, ' when a man lives where he does not know the days? What isthe good of saying, 'Thou shalt not steal, ' when a man has no heart torob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, aneye for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments againstthat wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice, --that is the thing. "

"'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour'?" askedFawdor softly. 

"Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep thelaw which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth. "

"What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?"

The slumbering fire in Pierre's face leaped up. He felt for an instantas his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant hadpresumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his nativepride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behindthe question, and the meaning justified the man. "Thou shalt think withthe minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman, " he said, andpaused. 

"Justice and mercy, " murmured the voice from the bed. 

"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket. " Again Pierre paused. 

"And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend, " said the voice again. 

The pause was longer this time, and Pierre's cold, handsome face took ona kind of softness before he said, "Remember the sorrow of thine ownwife. "

"It is a good commandment, " said the sick man, "to make all women safewhether they be true--or foolish. "

"The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such asport ends in nothing. Man only is man's game. "

Suddenly Pierre added: "When you thought you were going to die, you gaveme some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. ShallI give them back? Will you take them yourself?"

Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out ahand, saying, "I will take them myself. You have not read them?"

"No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?" He handed the packetover. 

"I will tell you the story, " Fawdor said, turning over on his side, sothat his eyes rested full on Pierre. 

He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildestbreed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened itsred eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and sniffedat the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly around theroom. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go on again. Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude headboard ofthe couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid's head. There wassomething rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog's face, scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man's handwent up and caressed the wolfish head. "Good dog, good Akim!" he saidsoftly in French. "Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou dostknow, too, when there is a storm in my heart. "

Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchmentwindows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was tremblinglightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshlyfrozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south;a herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot toa low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though thedumb earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain, from which came awe and terror to living things. 

So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost shrank from the unknown sorrowof this man beside him, who was about to disclose the story of his life. The solitary places do not make men glib of tongue; rather, spare ofwords. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly, beinggiven the woe of imagination, bring forth inner history as a mother gaspslife into the world. 

"I was only a boy of twenty-one, " Fawdor said from the pillow, as hewatched the dog noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, "and I hadbeen with the Company three years. They had said that I could rise fast;I had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in thinking that I sawonly one way to it, --by patience, industry, and much thinking. I read agreat deal, and cared for what I read; but I observed also, that indealing with men I might serve myself and the Company wisely. 

"One day the governor of the Company came from England, and with him asweet lady, his young niece, and her brother. They arranged for a tourto the Great Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command of theboatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had come to me, and so saidthe factor at Lachine on the morning we set forth. The girl was aswinsome as you can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a facethat would be finer old than young; and a dainty trick of humour had sheas well. The governor was a testy man; he could not bear to be crossedin a matter; yet, in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilfulhardness. It was a long journey, and we were set to our wits to make italways interesting; but we did it somehow, for there were fishing andshooting, and adventure of one sort and another, and the lighter things, such as singing and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the longriver. 

"We talked of many things as we travelled, and I was glad to listen tothe governor, for he had seen and read much. It was clear he liked tohave us hang upon his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a littlelarge in the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for raillery, was nowand again guilty of some witty impertinence; but this was hard to bringhome to him, for he could assume a fine childlike look when he pleased, confusing to his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder, and saidmany a biting thing to both the governor and myself, which more than onceturned his sister's face pale with apprehension, for she had a nice senseof kindness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his delight toturn one against the other. Though I was wary, and the girl understoodhis game, at last he had his way. 

"I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, like most bookish youngmen, phrase and motto were much on my tongue, though not always givenforth. One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke from thewoods and ran straight through the little circle we were making, anddisappeared in the bushes by the riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; butthe governor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophicalpoint. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere backwoodsman atsuch a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from Shakespeare'sCymbeline. 

"'Tut, tut!' said the governor smartly; 'you haven't it well, Mr. Fawdor;it goes this way, ' and he went on to set me right. His nephew at thatstepped in, and, with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some gallinggibe at my 'distinguished learning. ' I might have known better than tolet it pique me, but I spoke up again, though respectfully enough, thatI was not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if some principle wereat stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare; so will vanitydelude us. 

"The governor--I can see it as if it were yesterday--seemed to go likeice, for he loved to be thought infallible in all such things as well asin great business affairs, and his nephew was there to give an edge tothe matter. He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better in theworld if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop with myself. That stungme, for not only was the young lady looking on with a sort of superiorpity, as I thought, but her brother was murmuring to her under his breathwith a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be treated like aschoolboy. As far as my knowledge went it was as good as another man's, were he young or old, so I came in quickly with my reply. I said thathis excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare than withmyself. 'Well, well, ' he answered, with a severe look, 'our Company hasneed of great men for hard tasks. ' To this I made no answer, for I gota warning look from the young lady, --a look which had a sort of reproachand command too. She knew the twists and turns of her uncle's temper, and how he was imperious and jealous in little things. The matterdropped for the time; but as the governor was going to his tent for thenight, the young lady said to me hurriedly, 'My uncle is a man of greatreading--and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right with him, if I wereyou. ' For the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how fine an eyeshe had, and how her voice stirred one! She said no more, but steppedinside her tent; and then I heard the brother say over my shoulder, 'Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!' Afterwards, with a littlelaugh and a backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a greeting toa beggar, he was gone also, and I was left alone. "

Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog had lain down by the fire again, but its red eyes were blinking at the door, and now and again it growledsoftly, and the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling. Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking cry. The dog'smouth opened and closed in a noiseless snarl, showing its keen, longteeth, and a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the two men madeno sign or motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them. 

Presently the other continued: "I sat by the fire and heard beasts howllike that, I listened to the river churning over the rapids below, and Ifelt all at once a loneliness that turned me sick. There were threepeople in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor's breathing; butI appeared to have no part in the life of any human being, as if I were akind of outlaw of God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I was atthe mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not a human beingwho, so far as I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was only aboy, and I suppose it was the spirit of youth hungering for the huge, active world and the companionship of ambitious men. There is no one solonely as the young dreamer on the brink of life. "I was lying by thefire. It was not a cold night, and I fell asleep at last withoutcovering. I did not wake till morning, and then it was to find thegovernor's nephew building up the fire again. 'Those who are borngreat, ' said he, 'are bound to rise. ' But perhaps he saw that I had hada bad night, and felt that he had gone far enough, for he presently said, in a tone more to my liking, 'Take my advice, Mr. Fawdor; make it rightwith my uncle. It isn't such fast rising in the Company that you canafford to quarrel with its governor. I'd go on the other tack: don't betoo honest. ' I thanked him, and no more was said; but I liked himbetter, for I saw that he was one of those who take pleasure in droppingnettles more to see the weakness of human nature than from malice. 

"But my good fortune had got a twist, and it was not to be straightenedthat day; and because it was not straightened then it was not to be atall; for at five o'clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here thegovernor and the others were to stop. During all the day I had waitedfor my chance to say a word of apology to his excellency, but it was nouse; nothing seemed to help me, for he was busy with his papers andnotes, and I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, andI saw my chances drift past. I knew that the governor held the thingagainst me, and not the less because he saw me more than once that day inspeech with his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, and indeedI think we might have become excellent friends had our ways run together. She could have bestowed her friendship on me without shame to herself, for I had come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws of Canfire, which she knew, as did the governor also, was a more ancient family thantheir own. Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and I went farto make it worse, since, under the spell of her gentleness, I looked ather far from distantly, and at the last, as she was getting from theboat, returned the pressure of her hand with much interest. I supposesomething of the pride of that moment leaped up in my eye, for I saw thegovernor's face harden more and more, and the brother shrugged anironical shoulder. I was too young to see or know that the chief thingin the girl's mind was regret that I had so hurt my chances; for sheknew, as I saw only too well afterwards, that I might have been rewardedwith a leaping promotion in honour of the success of the journey. Butthough the boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco and spirits, nothingcame to me save the formal thanks of the governor, as he bowed me fromhis presence. 

"The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. There was littlesaid between her and me, and it was a long, long time before she knew theend of that day's business. But the brother said, 'You've let, thechance go by, Mr. Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh? And, ' he went on, 'I'd give a hundred editions the lie, but I'd read the text according tomy chief officer. The words of a king are always wise while his head ison, ' he declared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls andhanded it to me. 'Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?' he asked; andI, who had thought him but a stripling with a saucy pride, grasped hishand and said a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I saidit. I did not see him or his sister again. 

"The next day was Sunday. About two o'clock I was sent for by thegovernor. When I got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw that mymisadventure was not over. 'Mr. Fawdor, ' said he coldly, spreading out amap on the table before him, 'you will start at once for Fort Ungava, atUngava Bay, in Labrador. ' I felt my heart stand still for a moment, andthen surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a sudden rush of steam. 'You will proceed now, ' he went on, in his hard voice, 'as far as thevillage of Pont Croix. There you will find three Indians awaiting you. You will go on with them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for thenight, for if the Indians remain in the village they may get drunk. Thenext morning, at sunrise, you will move on. The Indians know the trailacross Labrador to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will takecommand of the Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes arealready at the village. I have had them packed, and you will find therealso what is necessary for the journey. The factor at Ungava was thereten years; he has gone--to heaven. '

"I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, that made me only bowmy head in assent, and press my lips together. I knew I was pale asdeath, for as I turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in alittle mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised myself. 

"'Good-day, Mr. Fawdor, ' said the governor, handing me the map. 'Thereis some brandy in your stores; be careful that none of your Indians getit. If they try to desert, you know what to do. ' With a gesture ofdismissal he turned, and began to speak with the chief trader. 

"For me, I went from that room like a man condemned to die. Fort Ungavain Labrador, --a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage country, andin winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! It was an exileto Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; for there are many there to sharethe fellowship of misery, and I was likely to be the only white man atFort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post the words ofShakespeare which had brought all this about sang in my ears. " He ceasedspeaking, and sank back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of theenveloping silence Pierre's voice came softly:

"Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of onewoman. "

II

"The journey to the village of Pont Croix was that of a man walking overgraves. Every step sent a pang to my heart, --a boy of twenty-one, grownold in a moment. It was not that I had gone a little lame from a hurtgot on the expedition with the governor, but my whole life seemedsuddenly lamed. Why did I go? Ah, you do not know how discipline getsinto a man's bones, the pride, the indignant pride of obedience! At thathour I swore that I should myself be the governor of that Company oneday, --the boast of loud-hearted youth. I had angry visions, I dreamedabsurd dreams, but I did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard-ofjourney at such a time, but I swore that I would do it, that it should gointo the records of the Company. 

"I reached the village, found the Indians, and at once moved on to thesettlement where we were to stay that night. Then my knee began to painme. I feared inflammation; so in the dead of night I walked back to thevillage, roused a trader of the Company, got some liniment and othertrifles, and arrived again at St. Saviour's before dawn. My few clothesand necessaries came in the course of the morning, and by noon we werefairly started on the path to exile. 

"I remember that we came to a lofty point on the St. Lawrence just beforewe plunged into the woods, to see the great stream no more. I stood andlooked back up the river towards the point where Lachine lay. All thatwent to make the life of a Company's man possible was there; and there, too, were those with whom I had tented and travelled for three longmonths, --eaten with them, cared for them, used for them all the woodcraftthat I knew. I could not think that it would be a young man's lifetimebefore I set eyes on that scene again. Never from that day to this haveI seen the broad, sweet river where I spent the three happiest years ofmy life. I can see now the tall shining heights of Quebec, the prettywooded Island of Orleans, the winding channel, so deep, so strong. Thesun was three-fourths of its way down in the west, and already the skywas taking on the deep red and purple of autumn. Somehow, the thing thatstruck me most in the scene was a bunch of pines, solemn and quiet, theirtops burnished by the afternoon light. Tears would have been easy then. But my pride drove them back from my eyes to my angry heart. Besides, there were my Indians waiting, and the long journey lay before us. Then, perhaps because there was none nearer to make farewell to, or I know notwhy, I waved my hand towards the distant village of Lachine, and, withthe sweet maid in my mind who had so gently parted from me yesterday, Icried, 'Good-bye, and God bless you. '"

He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden cup, from which he drank, and thencontinued:

"The journey went forward. You have seen the country. You know what itis: those bare ice-plains and rocky unfenced fields stretching to allpoints, the heaving wastes of treeless country, the harsh frozen lakes. God knows what insupportable horror would have settled on me in thatpilgrimage had it not been for occasional glimpses of a gentler life--forthe deer and caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, I was so fullof gratitude and love at the sight that I could have thrown my arms roundtheir necks and kissed them. I could not raise a gun at them. MyIndians did that, and so inconstant is the human heart that I ateheartily of the meat. My Indians were almost less companionable to methan any animal would have been. Try as I would, I could not bringmyself to like them, and I feared only too truly that they did not likeme. Indeed, I soon saw that they meant to desert me, --kill me, perhaps, if they could, although I trusted in the wholesome and restraining fearwhich the Indian has of the great Company. I was not sure that they wereguiding me aright, and I had to threaten death in case they tried tomislead me or desert me. My knee at times was painful, and cold, hunger, and incessant watchfulness wore on me vastly. Yet I did not yield to mymiseries, for there entered into me then not only the spirit ofendurance, but something of that sacred pride in suffering whichwas the merit of my Covenanting forefathers. 

"We were four months on that bitter travel, and I do not know how itcould have been made at all, had it not been for the deer that I hadheart to eat and none to kill. The days got shorter and shorter, and wewere sometimes eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus you can imaginehow slowly we went. Thank God, we could sleep, hid away in our fur bags, more often without a fire than with one, --mere mummies stretched out on avast coverlet of white, with the peering, unfriendly sky above us; thoughit must be said that through all those many, many weeks no cloud perchedin the zenith. When there was light there was sun, and the courage of itentered into our bones, helping to save us. You may think I have beenmade feeble-minded by my sufferings, but I tell you plainly that, in theclosing days of our journey, I used to see a tall figure walking besideme, who, whenever I would have spoken to him, laid a warning finger onhis lips; but when I would have fallen, he spoke to me, always in thesame words. You have heard of him, the Scarlet Hunter of the KimashHills. It was he, the Sentinel of the North, the Lover of the Lost. So deep did his words go into my heart that they have remained withme to this hour. "

"I saw him once in the White Valley, " Pierre said in a low voice. "Whatwas it he said to you?"

The other drew a long breath, and a smile rested on his lips. Then, slowly, as though liking to linger over them, he repeated the words ofthe Scarlet Hunter:

 "'O son of man, behold! If thou shouldest stumble on the nameless trail, The trail that no man rides, Lift up thy heart, Behold, O son of man, thou hast a helper near!

 "'O son of man, take heed! If thou shouldst fall upon the vacant plain, The plain that no man loves, Reach out thy hand, Take heed, O son of man, strength shall be given thee!

 "'O son of man, rejoice! If thou art blinded even at the door, The door of the Safe Tent, Sing in thy heart, Rejoice, O son of man, thy pilot leads thee home?'

"I never seemed to be alone after that--call it what you will, fancy ordelirium. My head was so light that it appeared to spin like a star, andmy feet were so heavy that I dragged the whole earth after me. MyIndians seldom spoke. I never let them drop behind me, for I did nottrust their treacherous natures. But in the end, as it would seem, theyalso had but one thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava; for there was nofood left, none at all. We saw no tribes of Indians and no Esquimaux, for we had not passed in their line of travel or settlement. 

"At last I used to dream that birds were singing near me, --a soft, delicate whirlwind of sound; and then bells all like muffled silver rangthrough the aching, sweet air. Bits of prayer and poetry I learned whena boy flashed through my mind; equations in algebra; the tingling screamof a great buzz-saw; the breath of a racer as he nears the post under thecrying whip; my own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a lad froma blind ferryman; the boom! boom! of a mass of logs as they struck ahouse on a flooding river and carried it away. . . . 

"One day we reached the end. It was near evening, and we came to the topof a wooded knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head with fatigue andweakness, but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, a largehut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near it. It was the Fort, mycheerless prison-house. "

He paused. The dog had been watching him with its flaming eyes; now itgave a low growl, as though it understood, and pitied. In the intervalof silence the storm without broke. The trees began to quake and cry, the light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, and the chimney tosplutter and moan. Presently, out on the bay they could hear the youngice break and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, andthen went on, waving his hand to the door as he began: "Think! this, andlike that always: the ungodly strife of nature, and my sick, disconsolatelife. "

"Ever since?" asked Pierre. "All the time. "

"Why did you not go back?"

"I was to wait for orders, and they never came. "

"You were a free man, not a slave. "

"The human heart has pride. At first, as when I left the governor atLachine, I said, 'I will never speak, I will never ask nor bend the knee. He has the power to oppress; I can obey without whining, as fine a man ashe. '"

"Did you not hate?"

"At first, as only a banished man can hate. I knew that if all had gonewell I should be a man high up in the Company, and here I was, livinglike a dog in the porch of the world, sometimes without other food formonths than frozen fish; and for two years I was in a place where we hadno fire, --lived in a snow-house, with only blubber to eat. And so yearafter year, no word!"

"The mail came once every year from the world?" "Yes, once a year thedoor of the outer life was opened. A ship came into the bay, and by thatship I sent out my reports. But no word came from the governor, and norequest went from me. Once the captain of that ship took me by theshoulders, and said, 'Fawdor, man, this will drive you mad. Come away toEngland, --leave your half-breed in charge, --and ask the governor for abig promotion. ' He did not understand. Of course I said I could not go. Then he turned on me, he was a good man, --and said, 'This will eithermake you madman or saint, Fawdor. ' He drew a Bible from his pocket andhanded it to me. 'I've used it twenty years, ' he said, 'in evil and outof evil, and I've spiked it here and there; it's a chart for heavy seas, and may you find it so, my lad. '

"I said little then; but when I saw the sails of his ship round a capeand vanish, all my pride and strength were broken up, and I came in aheap to the ground, weeping like a child. But the change did not comeall at once. There were two things that kept me hard. "

"The girl?"

"The girl, and another. But of the young lady after. I had a half-breedwhose life I had saved. I was kind to him always; gave him as good toeat and drink as I had myself; divided my tobacco with him; loved him asonly an exile can love a comrade. He conspired with the Indians to seizethe Fort and stores, and kill me if I resisted. I found it out. "

"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket, " said Pierre. "What didyou do with him?"

"The fault was not his so much as of his race and his miserable past. Ihad loved him. I sent him away; and he never came back. "

"Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of onewoman. "

"For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my heart. Never amessage from her or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet never, thought I, a good word for me to the governor. They had forgotten thefaith of food and blanket. And she--she must have seen that I could haveworshipped her, had we been in the same way of life. Before the betterdays came to me I was hard against her, hard and rough at heart. "

"Remember the sorrow of thine own wife. " Pierre's voice was gentle. 

"Truly, to think hardly of no woman should be always in a man's heart. But I have known only one woman of my race in twenty-five years!"

"And as time went on?"

"As time went on, and no word came, I ceased to look for it. But Ifollowed that chart spiked with the captain's pencil, as he had done itin season and out of season, and by and by I ceased to look for any word. I even became reconciled to my life. The ambitious and aching cares ofthe world dropped from me, and I stood above all--alone in my suffering, yet not yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Under it a man--"

"Goes mad or becomes a saint--a saint!" Pierre's voice became reverent. 

Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. "Ah no, no. But I began tounderstand the world, and I loved the north, the beautiful hard north. "

"But there is more?"

"Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I got a packet ofletters, not by the usual yearly mail. One announced that the governorwas dead. Another--"

"Another?" urged Pierre. 

--"was from Her. She said that her brother, on the day she wrote, had bychance come across my name in the Company's records, and found that I hadbeen here a quarter of a century. It was the letter of a good woman. She said she thought the governor had forgotten that he had sent me here--as now I hope he had, for that would be one thing less for him to thinkof, when he set out on the journey where the only weight man carries isthe packload of his sins. She also said that she had written to me twiceafter we parted at Lachine, but had never heard a word, and three yearsafterwards she had gone to India. The letters were lost, I suppose, on the way to me, somehow--who can tell? Then came another thing, sostrange, that it seemed like the laughter of the angels at us. Thesewere her words: 'And, dear Mr. Fawdor, you were both wrong in thatquotation, as you no doubt discovered long ago. ' Then she gave me thesentence as it is in Cymbeline. She was right, quite right. We wereboth wrong. Never till her letter came had I looked to see. How vain, how uncertain, and fallible, is man!"

Pierre dropped his cigarette, and stared at Fawdor. "The knowledge ofbooks is foolery, " he said slowly. "Man is the only book of life. Goon. "

"There was another letter, from the brother, who was now high up in theCompany, asking me to come to England, and saying that they wished topromote me far, and that he and his sister, with their families, would beglad to see me. "

"She was married then?"

The rashness of the suggestion made Fawdor wave his hand impatiently. He would not reply to it. "I was struck down with all the news, " hesaid. "I wandered like a child out into a mad storm. Illness came; thenyou, who have nursed me back to life. . . . And now I have told all. "

"Not all, bien sur. What will you do?"

"I am out of the world; why tempt it all again? See how those twenty-five years were twisted by a boy's vanity and a man's tyranny!"

"But what will you do?" persisted Pierre. "You should see the faces ofwomen and children again. No man can live without that sight, even as asaint. "

Suddenly Fawdor's face was shot over with a storm of feeling. He layvery still, his thoughts busy with a new world which had been disclosedto him. "Youth hungers for the vanities, " he said, "and the middle-agedfor home. " He took Pierre's hand. "I will go, " he added. "A door willopen somewhere for me. "

Then he turned his face to the wall. The storm had ceased, the wild doghuddled quietly on the hearth, and for hours the only sound was thecrackling of the logs as Pierre stirred the fire. 

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truthDon't be too honestEvery shot that kills ricochetsNot good to have one thing in the head all the timeRemember the sorrow of thine own wifeSecret of life: to keep your own commandmentsShe had not suffered that sickness, social artificeSome people are rough with the poor--and proudThey whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatlyThink with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one womanYouth hungers for the vanities