I 
 
 . I . 
 N 1 
 
 -
 
 THE WORKS OF 
 GILBERT PARKER
 
 'I" 7 ?-
 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 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 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SGRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1916
 
 Copyright, 1896, 
 BY STONE & KIMBALL 
 
 Copyright, 1898, 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1912, 
 BY CHARLES SCBIBNER'S SONS
 
 To 
 
 SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM, 
 
 To the public it will seem fitting that 
 these new tales of "Pierre and His People" 
 should be inscribed to one whose notable career is 
 inseparably associated with the life and develop- 
 ment of the Far North. 
 
 But there is a deeper and more personal signifi- 
 cance in this dedication, for some of the stories 
 were begotten in late gossip by your fireside; and 
 furthermore, my little book is given a kind of 
 distinction, in having on its fore-page the name 
 of one well known as a connoisseur of art and 
 a lover of literature. 
 
 Believe me, 
 
 DEAR SIR WILLIAM, 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 GILBERT PARKER. 
 
 7 PARK PLACE, 
 ST. JAMESS, 
 
 LONDON, S. W. 
 
 2224890
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 IT can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories. 
 There never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all 
 the thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of 
 the Snows without any thought on my part of putting him out of 
 existence in one series and bringing him to life again in another. 
 The publication of the stories was continuous, and at the time 
 that Pierre and His People appeared several of those which 
 came between the covers of A Romany of the Snows were passing 
 through the pages of magazines in England and America. All 
 of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one volume 
 under the title of Pierre and His People, but they were published 
 in two volumes with different titles in England, and in three 
 volumes in America, simply because there was enough material 
 for the two and the three volumes. In America The Adventurer of 
 the North was broken up into two volumes at the urgent request 
 of my then publishers, Messrs. Stone & Kimball, who had the gift 
 of producing beautiful books, but perhaps had not the same gift 
 of business. These two American volumes succeeding Pierre were 
 published under the title of An Adventurer of the North and A Ro- 
 many of the Snows respectively. Now, the latter title, A Romany 
 of the Snows, was that which I originally chose for the volume 
 published in England as An Adventurer of the North. I was per- 
 suaded to reject the title, A Romany of the Snows, by my English 
 publisher, and I have never forgiven myself since for being so 
 weak. If a publisher had the infallible instinct for these things 
 he would not be a publisher he would be an author; and though 
 an author may make mistakes like everybody else, the average 
 
 of his hits will be far higher than the average of his misses in 
 
 vii
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 such things. The title, An Adventurer of the North, is to my mind 
 cumbrous and rough, and difficult in the mouth. Compare it 
 with some of the stories within the volume itself: for instance, 
 The Going of the White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At Bamber's Boom, 
 At Point o' Bugles, The Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of the 
 Puma, A Romany of the Snows, and The Finding of Fingall There 
 it was, however; I made the mistake and it sticks ; but the book 
 now will be published in this subscription edition under the 
 title first chosen by me, A Romany of the Snows. It really does 
 express what Pierre was. 
 
 Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have 
 not the sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in 
 Pierre and His People, which take hold where a deeper and better 
 work might not seize the general public; but, reading these later 
 stories after twenty years, I feel that I was moving on steadily 
 to a larger, firmer command of my material, and was getting at 
 closer grips with intimate human things. There is some proof 
 of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in A Romany of 
 the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately 
 enough published originally in Scribner's Magazine, has had an 
 extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the pro- 
 grammes of reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from 
 John O'Groat's to Land's End, and is now being published as a 
 separate volume in England and America. It has been drama- 
 tised several times, and is more alive to-day than it was when it 
 was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost the same may 
 be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue. 
 
 It has been said that, apart from the colour, form, and setting, 
 the incidents of these Pierre stories might have occurred any- 
 where. That is true beyond a doubt, and it exactly represents 
 my attitude of mind. Every human passion, every incident 
 springing out of a human passion to-day, had its counterpart in 
 the time of Amenhotep. The only difference is in the setting, 
 is in the language or dialect which is the vehicle of expression,
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 and in race and character, which are the media of human idio- 
 syncrasy. There is nothing new in anything that one may write, 
 except the outer and visible variation of race, character, and 
 country, which reincarnates the everlasting human ego and its 
 scena. 
 
 The atmosphere of a story or novel is what temperament is 
 to a man. Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of 
 skill ; it is a matter of personality, of the power of visualisation, 
 of feeling for the thing which the mind sees. It has been said 
 that my books possess atmosphere. This has often been said 
 when criticism has been more or less acute upon other things; 
 but I think that in all my experience there has never been a critic 
 who has not credited my books with that quality; and I should 
 say that Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows have 
 an atmosphere in which the beings who make the stories live 
 seem natural to their environment. It is this quality which 
 gives vitality to the characters themselves. Had I not been able 
 to create atmosphere which would have given naturalness to 
 Pierre and his friends, some of the characters, and many of the 
 incidents, would have seemed monstrosities melodramatic epi- 
 sodes merely. The truth is, that while the episode, which is the 
 first essential of a short story, was always in the very forefront of 
 my imagination, the character or characters in the episode meant 
 infinitely more to me. To my mind the episode was always the 
 consequence of character. That almost seems a paradox; but 
 apart from the phenomena of nature, as possible incidents in a 
 book, the episodes which make what are called "human situa- 
 tions" are, in most instances, the sequence of character and are 
 incidental to the law of the character set in motion. As I realise 
 it now, subconsciously, my mind and imagination were con- 
 trolled by this point of view in the days of the writing of Pierre 
 and His People. 
 
 In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as 
 I think, to a certain command of my material, without losing real
 
 x INTRODUCTION 
 
 sympathy with the simple nature of things. Dexterity has its 
 dangers, and one of its dangers is artificiality. It is very difficult 
 to be skilful and to ring true. If I have not wholly succeeded 
 in A Romany of the Snows, I think I have not wholly failed, as 
 the continued appeal of a few of the stories would seem to show.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS 3 
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 13 
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 30 
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 47 
 
 MALACHI 66 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 75 
 
 THE RED PATROL 90 
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 101 
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM . . . . . . . 120 
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 129 
 
 THE EPAULETTES 145 
 
 THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER .... 153 
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 167 
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE . . 176 
 
 LITTLE BABICHE 197 
 
 AT POINT O* BUGLES 207 
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 218 
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 239 
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 248 
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" .... 267 
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 295 
 
 THE PLUNDERER 313
 
 A EOMANY OF THE SNOWS
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS 
 
 "HERE now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I've seen 
 along the sayshore, and up to me half -ways I've been in 
 wan, wid a double-and- twist in the rope to pull me out; 
 but a suckin' sand in the open plain aw, Trader, aw! 
 the like o' that niver a bit saw I." 
 
 So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was 
 talked of in his presence. 
 
 "Well, I tell you it's true, and they're not three 
 miles from Fort 0' Glory. The Company's* men don't 
 talk about it what's the use! Travellers are few that 
 way, and you can't get the Indians within miles of them. 
 Pretty Pierre knows all about them better than any- 
 one else almost. He'll stand by me in it eh, Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took 
 no notice, and was silent for a tune, intent on his 
 cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the trapper said: 
 "Pierre's gone back on you, Trader. P'r'aps ye haven't 
 paid him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by 
 me my treat that's the game!" 
 
 "Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy reproach- 
 fully. "Aw, yer tongue to the roof o' yer mouth, 
 Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin 
 or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man's bat like 
 that aw, Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' 
 yer pipe. " 
 
 Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another 
 cigarette as he did so; but he seemed to be thinking of 
 
 * Hudson's Bay Company. 
 3
 
 4 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 a distant matter. Meeting the three pairs of eyes fixed 
 on him, his own held them for a moment musingly; 
 then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench 
 where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire 
 as it were. 
 
 "I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's post there. 
 It was the fall of the year, when you feel that there is 
 nothing so good as life, and the air drinks like wine. 
 You think that sounds like a woman or a priest? Mais, 
 no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy 
 and sad; in the fall I am gay, I am for the big things 
 to do. This matter was in the fall. I felt that I must 
 move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing. Cards, 
 of course. But that's only for tunes, not for all seasons. 
 So I was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse 
 Tophet, black as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a 
 reach like a moose. His legs worked like piston-rods. 
 But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to 
 do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing : in the daytime 
 watching the empty plains all panting for travellers, 
 like a young bride waiting her husband for the first 
 tune." 
 
 Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an 
 unctuous spirit, and his heart was soft for women so 
 soft that he never had had one on his conscience, though 
 he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But 
 that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. "Aw, 
 Pierre," he said coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy. 
 Me heart's goin' like a trip-hammer at thought av it; 
 aw yis, aw yis, Pierre. " 
 
 "Well, it was like that to me all sun and a sweet 
 sting hi the air. At night to sit and tell tales and such 
 things; and perhaps a little brown brandy, a look at the 
 stars, a half-hour with the cattle the same old game.
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS 5 
 
 Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor fine, 
 always fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good 
 friends, Ida and me. I had a hand in her wedding. 
 Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl. We could 
 talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she 
 had never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a 
 flash, to read and understand without words. A face 
 was a book to her. 
 
 "Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing out- 
 side the Post, when we saw someone ride over the Long 
 Divide. It was good for the eyes. I cannot tell quite 
 how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut 
 against the sky, that they looked very large and pecu- 
 liar there was something in the air to magnify. They 
 stopped for a minute on the top of the Divide, and it 
 seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at 
 the farthest north the place of legends. But, of course, 
 it was only a traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour 
 she was with us. 
 
 "Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not 
 try to hide it; she dressed so for ease. She would make 
 a man's heart leap in his mouth if he was like Mac- 
 avoy, or the pious Mowley there." 
 
 Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for 
 he knew that the Trapper had a precious tongue for 
 Scripture when a missionary passed that way, and a 
 bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled 
 sourly; but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked 
 his lips on his pipe-stem luxuriously. 
 
 "Aw now, Pierre all me little failin's aw!" he 
 protested. 
 
 Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the 
 other elbow, and, cherishing his cigarette, presently 
 continued :
 
 6 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff 
 that she could hardly get from her horse; and the horse 
 too was ready to drop. Handsome enough she looked, 
 for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with a 
 pistol in her belt. She wasn't big built just a feathery 
 kind of sapling but she was set fair on her legs like a 
 man, and a hand that was as good as I have seen, so 
 strong, and like silk and iron with a horse. Well, what 
 was the trouble? for I saw there was trouble. Her 
 eyes had a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a 
 deer's in the chase. All at once, when she saw Hilton's 
 wife, a cry came from her and she reached out her 
 hands. What would women of that sort do? They 
 were both of a kind. They got into each other's arms. 
 After that there was nothing for us men but to wait. 
 All women are the same, and Hilton's wife was like the 
 rest. She must get the secret first; then the men should 
 know. We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton's wife 
 beckoned to us. We went inside. The girl was asleep. 
 There was something hi the touch of Hilton's wife like 
 sleep itself like music. It was her voice that touch. 
 She could not speak with her tongue, but her hands 
 and face were words and music. Bien, there was the 
 girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that fine hand 
 it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so quiet. Enfin, the 
 real story for how she slept there does not matter 
 but it was good to see when we knew the story." 
 
 The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear 
 Pierre in this romantic mood. A woman's hand it 
 was the game for a boy, not an adventurer; for the 
 Trapper's only creed was that women, like deer, were 
 spoils for the hunter. Pierre's keen eye noted this, but 
 he was above petty anger. He merely said: "If a man 
 have an eye to see behind the face, he understands the
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS 7 
 
 foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good woman, 
 and that is much. Hilton's wife told us all. She had 
 rode two hundred miles from the south-west, and was 
 making for Fort Micah, sixty miles farther north. For 
 what? She had loved a man against the will of her 
 people. There had been a feud, and Garrison that 
 was the lover's name was the last on his own side. 
 There was trouble at a Company's post, and Garrison 
 shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him, 
 for a woman's name must be safe up here. Besides, the 
 half-breed drew first. Well, Garrison was tried, and 
 must go to jail for a year. At the end of that tune he 
 would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word 
 had come to her. She made everything ready. She 
 knew her brothers were watching her three brothers 
 and two other men who had tried to get her love. She 
 knew also that they five would carry on the feud against 
 the one man. So one night she took the best horse on 
 the ranch and started away towards Fort Micah. Alors, 
 you know how she got to Guidon Hill after two days' 
 hard riding enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet 
 to do. She was sure her brothers were on her track. 
 But if she could get to Fort Micah, and be married to 
 Garrison before they came, she wanted no more. 
 
 "There were only two horses of use at Hilton's Post 
 then; all the rest were away, or not fit for hard travel. 
 There was my Tophet, and a lean chestnut, with a long 
 propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on him. 
 There was but one way : the girl must get there. Allans, 
 what is the good? What is life without these things? 
 The girl loves the man: she must have him in spite of 
 all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me at the 
 Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a 
 sling. If the brothers followed, well, Hilton could not
 
 8 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 interfere he was a Company's man; but for myself, 
 as I said, I was hungry for adventure, I had an ache in 
 my blood for something. I was tingling to the toes, my 
 heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my 
 legs were straightening as if I was in the saddle. 
 
 "She slept for three hours. I got the two horses 
 saddled. Who could tell but she might need help? I 
 had nothing to do; I knew the shortest way to Fort 
 Micah, every foot and then it is good to be ready for 
 all things. I told Hilton's wife what I had done. She 
 was glad. She made a gesture at me as to a brother, and 
 then began to put things in a bag for us to carry. She 
 had settled all how it was to be. She had told the girl. 
 You see, a man may be what is it they call me? a 
 plunderer, and yet a woman will trust him, comme fa/" 
 
 "Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and 
 yer tongue niver whit agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, 
 niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a heart 
 a heart, Hilton's wife, aw yis!" 
 
 Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. "The girl waked 
 after three hours with a start. Her hand caught at her 
 heart. 'Oh/ she said, still staring at us, 'I thought that 
 they had come!' A little after she and Hilton's wife 
 went to another room. All at once there was a sound 
 of horses outside, and then a knock at the door, and 
 four men come in. They were the girl's hunters. 
 
 "It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but 
 I saw at once the best thing was to act for all, and to get 
 all the men inside the house. So I whispered to Hilton, 
 and then pretended that I was a great man in the Com- 
 pany. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, 
 and, not giving the men tune to speak, I fetched out 
 the old brown brandy, wondering all the time what 
 could be done. There was no sound from the other
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS 9 
 
 room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hil- 
 ton played the game well, and showed nothing when I 
 ordered him about, and agreed word for word with me 
 when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told 
 why they were after her. More than one of them did 
 not believe at first; but, pshaw, what have I been doing 
 all my life to let such fellows doubt me? So the end of 
 it was that I got them all inside the house. There was 
 one bad thing their horses were all fresh, as Hilton 
 whispered to me. They had only rode them a few miles 
 they had stole or bought them at the first ranch to 
 the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind 
 what to do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet 
 till something shaped. 
 
 ''They were all drinking brandy when Hilton's wife 
 come into the room. Her face was, mon Dieu! so inno- 
 cent, so childlike. She stared at the men; and then I 
 told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why 
 they had come. Voila, it was beautiful like nothing 
 you ever saw. She shook her head so innocent, and then 
 told them like a child that they were wicked to chase a 
 girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she 
 fooled them! She said, would they not search the 
 house? She said all through me, on her fingers and by 
 signs. And I told them at once. But she told me some- 
 thing else that the girl had slipped out as the last 
 man came in, had mounted the chestnut, and would 
 wait for me by the iron spring, a quarter of a mile away. 
 There was the danger that some one of the men knew 
 the finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up 
 with other sentences. 
 
 "Good! There was now but one thing for me to 
 get away. So I said, laughing, to one of the men. 
 ' Come, and we will look after the horses, and the others
 
 10 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 can search the place with Hilton.' So we went out to 
 where the horses were tied to the railing, and led them 
 away to the corral. 
 
 "Of course you will understand how I did it. I 
 clapped a hand on his mouth, put a pistol at his head, 
 and gagged and tied him. Then I got my Tophet, and 
 away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There 
 were few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another 
 pistol, and then we got away on a fine moonlit trail. 
 We had not gone a mile when I heard a faint yell far 
 behind. My game had been found out. There was 
 nothing to do but to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. 
 But fighting was not good; for I might be killed, and 
 then the girl would be caught just the same. We rode 
 on such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs 
 pounding the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, 
 a hell-to-split gait. I knew they were after us, though 
 I saw them but once on the crest of a Divide about 
 three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with ten 
 minutes' rest now and then at a spring or to stretch 
 our legs. We hardly spoke to each other; but, nom de 
 Dieu! my heart was warm to this girl who had rode a 
 hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just 
 before dawn, when I was beginning to think that we 
 should easy win the race if the girl could but hold out, 
 if it did not kill her, the chestnut struck a leg into the 
 crack of the prairie, and horse and girl spilt on the 
 ground together. She could hardly move, she was so 
 weak, and her face was like death. I put a pistol to the 
 chestnut's head, and ended it. The girl stooped and 
 kissed the poor beast's neck, but spoke nothing. As 
 I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to the sleeve 
 of her dress. Mother of Heaven! what could a man 
 do she was so dam' brave.
 
 ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS 11 
 
 "Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell 
 of the prairie over the Jumping Sandhills. They lay 
 quiet and shining in the green-brown plain; but I knew 
 that there was a churn beneath which could set those 
 swells of sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an 
 army. Who can tell what it is? A flood under the sur- 
 face, a tidal river what? No man knows. But they 
 are sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sun- 
 rise they begin to eddy and roll and who ever saw a 
 stranger sight? Bien, I looked back. There were those 
 four pirates coming on, about three miles away. What 
 was there to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse 
 were too much. Then a great idea come to me. I must 
 reach and cross the Jumping Sandhills before sunrise. 
 It was one deadly chance. 
 
 "When we got to the edge of the sand they were 
 almost a mile behind. I was all sick to my teeth as my 
 poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre, how I watched 
 the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet 
 powder. As we reached the farther side I could feel it 
 was beginning to move. The sun was showing like the 
 lid of an eye along the plain. I looked back. All four 
 horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. 
 By the tune we touched the brown-green prairie on the 
 farther side the sand was rolling behind us. The girl 
 had not looked back. She seemed too dazed. I jumped 
 from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone 
 to the Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I 
 should be in no danger. She looked at me so deep 
 ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and kissed me be- 
 tween the eyes I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, 
 and she was gone to her happiness; for before 'lights 
 out!' she reached the Fort and her lover's arms. 
 
 "But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills.
 
 12 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 So, was there ever a sight like that those hills gone like 
 a smelting-floor, the sunrise spotting it with rose and 
 yellow, and three horses and their riders fighting what 
 cannot be fought? What could I do? They would have 
 got the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them 
 across, and they would have killed me if they could. 
 Only one cried out, and then but once, in a long shriek. 
 But after, all three were quiet as they fought, until they 
 were gone where no man could see, where none cries 
 out so we can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand 
 stretching up out of the sands." 
 
 There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader 
 sat with eyes fixed humbly as a dog's on Pierre. At 
 last Macavoy said: "She kissed ye, Pierre, aw yis, she 
 did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her 
 now, Pierre?" 
 
 But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer.
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 
 
 HE was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort O'Angel 
 at Hudson's Bay, an immense slip of a lad, very much 
 in the way, fond of horses, a wonderful hand at wrest- 
 ling, pretending a horrible temper, threatening trag- 
 edies for all who differed from him, making the Fort 
 quake with his rich roar, and playing the game of bully 
 with a fine simplicity. In winter he fattened, in sum- 
 mer he sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. 
 
 It was a picture to see him with the undercut of a 
 haunch of deer or buffalo, or with a whole prairie-fowl 
 on his plate, his eyes measuring it shrewdly, his coat 
 and waistcoat open, and a clear space about him 
 for he needed room to stretch his mighty limbs, and his 
 necessity was recognised by all. 
 
 Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, but scowl 
 he ever so much, a laugh kept idling in his irregular 
 bushy beard, which lifted about his face in the wind 
 like a mane, or made a kind of underbrush through 
 which his blunt fingers ran at hide-and-seek. 
 
 He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. In later 
 days, when Fort O'Angel was invaded by settlers, he 
 had his tune of greatest importance. 
 
 He had been useful to the Chief Trader at the Fort 
 in the early days, and having the run of the Fort and 
 the reach of his knife, was little likely to discontinue 
 his adherence. But he ate and drank with all the 
 dwellers at the Post, and abused all impartially. 
 
 "Malcolm," said he to the Trader, "Malcolm, me 
 glutton o' the H.B.C., that wants the Far North for 
 
 13
 
 14 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 your footstool Malcolm, you villain, it's me grief that 
 I know you, and me thumb to me nose in token. " 
 
 Wiley and Hatchett, the principal settlers, he abused 
 right and left, and said, " Wasn't there land in the East 
 and West, that you steal the country God made for 
 honest men you robbers o' the wide world! Me tooth 
 on the Book, and I tell you what, it's only me charity 
 that kapes me from spoilin' ye. For a wink of me eye, 
 an' away you'd go, leaving your tails behind you and 
 pass that shoulder of bear, you pirates, till I come to it 
 sideways, like a hog to war. " 
 
 He was even less sympathetic with Bareback the 
 chief and his braves. "Sons o' Anak y'are; here to- 
 day and away to-morrow, like the clods of the valley 
 and that's your portion, Bareback. It's the word o' 
 the Pentytook in pieces you go, like a potter's vessel. 
 Don't shrug your shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, 
 or you'll think that Ballzeboob's loose on the mat. 
 But take a sup o' this whisky, while you swear wid your 
 hand on your chist, 'Amin' to the words o' Tun Mac- 
 avoy. " 
 
 Beside Macavoy, Pierre, the notorious, was a child 
 in height. Up to the time of the half-breed's coming 
 the Irishman had been the most outstanding man at 
 Fort O' Angel, and was sure of a good-natured homage, 
 acknowledged by him with a jovial tyranny. 
 
 Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pensively indif- 
 ferent to him even hi his most royal moments. He 
 guessed the way to bring down the gusto and pride of 
 this Goliath, but, for a purpose, he took his own tune, 
 nodding indolently to Macavoy when he met him, but 
 avoiding talk with him. 
 
 Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like a king 
 or khan; for they count much on bulk and beauty, and
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 15 
 
 he answered to their standards especially to Wonta's. 
 It was a sight to see him of a summer day, sitting in the 
 shade of a pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny 
 chest, his arms bare, his face shining with perspiration, 
 his big voice gurgling in his beard, his eyes rolling amia- 
 bly upon the maidens as they passed or gathered near 
 demurely, while he declaimed of mighty deeds in patois 
 or Chinook to the braves. 
 
 Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most subter- 
 ranean kind. He knew that Macavoy had not an evil 
 hair in his head; that vanity was his greatest weakness, 
 and that through him there never would have been more 
 half-breed population. There was a tradition that he 
 had a wife somewhere based upon wild words he had 
 once said when under the influence of bad liquor; but 
 he had roared his accuser the lie when the thing was 
 imputed to him. 
 
 At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, 
 by name of Kitty Whelan, whose character was all 
 tatters. She had told him that many years agone she 
 had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of 
 a sharp word or two across the fire, and the toss of a 
 handful of furniture, he had left her, and she had seen 
 no more of him. "Tall, like a chimney he was," said 
 she, "and a chest like a wall, so broad, and a voice 
 like a huntsman's horn, though only a b'y, an' no hair 
 an his face; an' little I know whether he is dead or 
 alive; but dead belike, for he's sure to come rap agin' 
 somethin' that'd kill him; for he, the darlin', was that 
 aisy and gentle, he wouldn't pull his fightin' iron till he 
 had death in his ribs." 
 
 Pierre had drawn from her that the name of this 
 man whom she had cajoled into a marriage (being her- 
 self twenty years older), and driven to deserting her
 
 16 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 afterwards, was Tim Macavoy. She had married Mr. 
 Whelan on the assumption that Macavoy was dead. 
 But Mr. Whelan had not the nerve to desert her, and 
 so he departed this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs. 
 Whelan, who had changed her name with no right to do 
 so. With his going her mind dwelt greatly upon the 
 virtues of her mighty vanished Tim: and ill would it 
 be for Tim if she found him. 
 
 Pierre had travelled to Fort O'Angel almost wholly 
 because he had Tim Macavoy in his mind: hi it Mrs. 
 Whelan had only an incidental part ; his plans journeyed 
 beyond her and her lost consort. He was determined 
 on an expedition to capture Fort Comfort, which had 
 been abandoned by the great Company, and was now 
 held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. 
 
 Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own sake, 
 though he had no personal ambition. The love of ad- 
 venture was deep in him; he adored sport for its own 
 sake; he had had a long range of experiences some 
 discreditable and now he had determined on a new 
 field for his talent. 
 
 He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. In that 
 case he must have a man to take his place. He chose 
 Macavoy. 
 
 First he must humble the giant to the earth, then 
 make him into a great man again, with a new kind of 
 courage. The undoing of Macavoy seemed a civic 
 virtue. He had a long talk with Wonta, the Indian 
 maiden most admired by Macavoy. Many a time the 
 Irishman had cast an ogling, rolling eye on her, and had 
 talked his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of splen- 
 did things he had done: making himself like another 
 Samson as to the destruction of men, and a Hercules 
 as to the slaying of cattle.
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 17 
 
 Wont a had a sense of humour also, and when Pierre 
 told her what was required of her, she laughed with a 
 quick little gurgle, and showed as handsome a set of 
 teeth as the half-breed's; which said much for her. 
 She promised to do as he wished. So it chanced when 
 Macavoy was at his favourite seat beneath the pine, 
 talking to a gaping audience, Wonta and a number of 
 Indian girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a 
 door smoking, not far away. Macavoy's voice became 
 louder. 
 
 "'Stand them up wan by wan/ says I, 'and give 
 me a leg loose, and a fist free; and at that " 
 
 "At that there was thunder and fire in the sky, and 
 because the great Macavoy blew his breath over them 
 they withered like the leaves," cried Wonta, laughing; 
 but her laugh had an edge. 
 
 Macavoy stopped short, open-mouthed, breathing 
 hard in his great beard. He was astonished at Wonta's 
 raillery; the more so when she presently snapped her 
 fingers, and the other maidens, laughing, did the same. 
 Some of the half-breeds snapped their fingers also in 
 sympathy, and shrugged their shoulders. Wonta came 
 up to him softly, patted him on the head, and said: 
 "Like Macavoy there is nobody. He is a great brave. 
 He is not afraid of a coyote, he has killed prairie-hens 
 in numbers as pebbles by the lakes. He has a breast 
 like a fat ox," here she touched the skin of his broad 
 chest, "and he will die if you do not fight him." 
 
 Then she drew back, as though in humble dread, 
 and glided away with the other maidens, Macavoy 
 staring after her, with a blustering kind of shame in 
 his face. The half-breeds laughed, and, one by one, 
 they got up, and walked away also. Macavoy looked 
 round: there was no one near save Pierre, whose eye
 
 18 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 rested on him lazily. Macavoy got to his feet, mutter- 
 ing. This was the first time in his experience at Fort 
 O' Angel that he had been bluffed and by a girl; one 
 for whom he had a very soft place in his big heart. 
 Pierre came slowly over to him. 
 
 "I'd have it out with her," said he. "She called you 
 a bully and a brag." 
 
 "Out with her?" cried Macavoy. "How can ye 
 have it out wid a woman?" 
 
 "Fight her," said Pierre pensively. 
 
 "Fight her? fight her? Holy smoke! How can you 
 fight a woman?" 
 
 "Why, what do you fight?" asked Pierre inno- 
 cently. 
 
 Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. "Faith, 
 then, y'are a fool. Bring on the divil an' all his angels, 
 say I, and I'll fight thim where I stand." 
 
 Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy's arm, and said : 
 "There's time enough for that. I'd begin with the five." 
 
 "What five, then?" 
 
 "Her half-breed lovers: Big Eye, One Toe, Jo- John, 
 Saucy Boy, and Limber Legs." 
 
 "Her lovers? Her lovers, is it? Is there truth on 
 y'r tongue?" 
 
 "Go to her father's tent at sunset, and you'll find 
 one or all of them there." 
 
 "Oh, is that it?" said the Irishman, opening and 
 shutting his fists. "Then I'll carve their hearts out, 
 an' ate thim wan by wan this night." 
 
 "Come down to Wiley's," said Pierre; "there's better 
 company there than here." 
 
 Pierre had arranged many things, and had secured 
 partners in his little scheme for humbling the braggart. 
 He so worked on the other's good nature that by the
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 19 
 
 time they reached the settler's place, Macavoy was 
 stretching himself with a big pride. Seated at Wiley's 
 table, with Hatchett and others near, and drink going 
 about, someone drew the giant on to talk, and so deftly 
 and with such apparent innocence did Pierre, by a word 
 here and a nod there, encourage him, that presently he 
 roared at Wiley and Hatchett 
 
 "Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into 
 the tracks of honest men, where the Company's been 
 three hundred years by the will o' God if it wasn't 
 for me, ye Jack Sheppards " 
 
 Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pre- 
 tended rage, saying he'd insulted them both, that he 
 was all froth and brawn, and giving him the lie. 
 
 Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, 
 puffing in his beard, and drawing in his legs, which had 
 been spread out at angles. He looked from Wiley to 
 the impassive Pierre. "Buccaneers, you call us," Wiley 
 went on; "well, we'll have no more of that, or there'll 
 be trouble at Fort 0' Angel." 
 
 "Ah, sure y'are only jokin'," said Macavoy, "for I 
 love ye, ye scoundrels. It's only me fun." 
 
 "For fun like that you'll pay, ruffian!" said Hatchett, 
 bringing down his fist on the table with a bang. 
 
 Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there 
 was nothing of the coward hi his face. "Oh, well," 
 said he, "I'll be goin', for ye've got y'r teeth all raspin'." 
 
 As he went the two men laughed after him mock- 
 ingly. "Wind like a bag," said Hatchett. "Bone like 
 a marrow-fat pea," added Wiley. 
 
 Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. 
 "If ye care to sail agin' that wind, an' gnaw on that 
 bone, I'd not be sayin' you no." 
 
 "Will to-night do at sunset?" said Wiley.
 
 20 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Bedad, then, me b'ys, sunset'll do an' not more 
 than two at a tune," he added softly, all the roar gone 
 from his throat. Then he went out, followed by Pierre. 
 
 Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed 
 a little confusedly. " What's that he said?" muttered 
 Wiley. "Not more than two at a time, was it?" 
 
 "That was it. I don't know that it's what we bar- 
 gained for, after all." He looked round on the other 
 settlers present, who had been awed by the childlike, 
 earnest note in Macavoy's last words. They shook 
 their heads now a little sagely; they weren't so sure 
 that Pierre's little game was so jovial as it had promised. 
 
 Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his 
 giant as yet. In a little while he had got Macavoy back 
 to his old humour. 
 
 "What was I made for but war!" said the Irishman, 
 "an' by war to kape thim at peace, wherever I am." 
 
 Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to go with 
 Pierre to Bareback's lodge, where, sitting at the tent 
 door, with idlers about, he smoked with the chief and 
 his braves. Again Pierre worked upon him adroitly, 
 and again he became loud in speech, and grandly 
 patronising. 
 
 "I've stood by ye like a father, ye loafers," he said, 
 "an' I give you my word, ye howlin' rogues " 
 
 Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up 
 suddenly from the ground, and the chief said fiercely: 
 "You speak crooked things. We are no rogues. We 
 will fight." 
 
 Macavoy's face ran red to his hair. He scratched his 
 head a little foolishly, and gathered himself up. "Sure, 
 'twas only me tasin', darlins," he said, "but I'll be 
 comin' again, when y'are not so narvis." He turned 
 to go away.
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 21 
 
 Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian 
 touched the giant on the arm. "Will you fight?" said 
 he. 
 
 "Not all o' ye at once," said Macavoy slowly, running 
 his eye carefully along the half-dozen; "not more than 
 three at a toime," he added with a simple sincerity, his 
 voice again gone like the dove's. "At what time will 
 it be convaynyint for ye?" he asked. 
 
 "At sunset," said the chief, "before the Fort." 
 
 Macavoy nodded and walked away with Pierre, 
 whose glance of approval at the Indians did not make 
 them thoroughly happy. 
 
 To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had al- 
 ready three engagements of violence for sunset. Pierre 
 directed their steps by a roundabout to the Company's 
 stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in 
 the giant's spirits. Here at least he could be himself, 
 he thought, here no one should say him nay. As if 
 nerved by the idea, he plunged at once into boisterous 
 raillery of the Chief Trader. "Oh, ho," he began, "me 
 freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!" 
 
 The Trader snarled at him. "What d'ye mean, by 
 such talk to me, sir? I've had enough we've all had 
 enough of your brag and bounce; for you're all sweat 
 and swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, 
 that though by the Company's rules I can't go out and 
 fight you, you may have your pick of my men for it. 
 I'll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh Irish 
 pemmican!" 
 
 Macavoy's face became mottled with sudden rage. 
 He roared, as, perhaps, he had never roared before 
 
 "Are ye all gone mad mad mad? I was jokin' wid 
 ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o' 
 me pipe, and the sweat o' me skin, I'll drink the blood
 
 22 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 o' yees, Trader, me darlin'. An' all I'll ask is, that ye 
 mate me to-night whin the rest o' the pack is in front 
 o' the Fort but not more than four o' yees at a time 
 for little scrawney rats as y'are, too many o' yees wad 
 be in me way." He wheeled and strode fiercely out. 
 Pierre smiled gently. 
 
 "He's a great bully that, isn't he, Trader? There'll 
 be fun in front of the Fort to-night. For he's only 
 bragging, of course eh?" 
 
 The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then 
 Pierre said as a parting word: "You'll be there, of 
 course only four av ye!" and hurried out after Mac- 
 avoy, humming to himself 
 
 "For the King said this, and the Queen said that, 
 But he walked away with their army, O!" 
 
 So far Pierre's plan had worked even better than he 
 expected, though Macavoy's moods had not been alto- 
 gether after his imaginings. He drew alongside the 
 giant, who had suddenly grown quiet again. Macavoy 
 turned and looked down at Pierre with the candour of a 
 schoolboy, and his voice was very low 
 
 "It's a long time ago, I'm thinkin'," he said, "since 
 I lost me frinds ages an' ages ago. For me frinds are 
 me inimies now, an' that makes a man old. But I'll 
 not say that it cripples his arm or humbles his back." 
 He drew his arm up once or twice and shot it out straight 
 into the air like a catapult. "It's all right," he added, 
 very softly, "an', Half-breed, me b'y, if me frinds have 
 turned inimies, why, I'm thinkin' me inimy has turned 
 frind, for that I'm sure you were, an' this I'm certain 
 y'are. So here's the grip av me fist, an' y'll have it." 
 
 Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron grip of
 
 23 
 
 friendship for many a day. He laughed to himself to 
 think how he was turning the braggart into a warrior. 
 
 "Well," said Pierre, "what about those five at 
 Wonta's tent?" 
 
 "I'll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red 
 Hill," he said, as though his thoughts were far away, 
 and he turned his face towards Wonta's tent. Presently 
 he laughed out loud. "It's manny a long day," he said, 
 "since" 
 
 Then he changed his thoughts. "They've spoke 
 sharp words in me teeth," he continued, "and they'll 
 pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it? There's 
 dancin' beyant this night, me darlins!" 
 
 "Are you sure you'll not run away when they come 
 on?" said Pierre, a little ironically. 
 
 "Is that the word av a frind?" replied Macavoy, 
 a hand fumbling in his hair. 
 
 "Did you never run away when faced?" Pierre asked 
 pitilessly. 
 
 "I never turned tail from a man, though, to be sure, 
 it's been more talk than fight up here: Fort Ste. Anne's 
 been but a graveyard for fun these years." 
 
 "Eh, well," persisted Pierre, "but did you never turn 
 tail from a slip of a woman?" 
 
 The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his 
 beard in his mouth, chewing it confusedly. "You've 
 a keen tongue for a question," was his reply. "What 
 for should anny man run from a woman? " 
 
 "When the furniture flies, an' the woman knows more 
 of the world in a day than the man does in a year; 
 and the man's a hulking bit of an Irishman Hen, then 
 things are so and so!" 
 
 Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. 
 "Come into the shade of these maples," said Pierre*
 
 24 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "for the sun has set you quaking a little," and he put 
 out his hand to take Macavoy's arm. 
 
 The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on 
 to the trees. His face seemed to have grown older by 
 years on the moment. "What's this y'are sayin' to 
 me?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you know av av 
 that woman?" 
 
 "Malahide is a long way off," said Pierre, "but when 
 one travels why shouldn't the other?" 
 
 Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering 
 hand. "Mother o' saints," he said, "has it come to 
 that, after all these years? Is she tell me where she 
 is, me frind, and you'll niver want an arm to fight for 
 ye, an' the half av a blanket, while I have wan!" 
 
 "But you'll run as you did before, if I tell you, an' 
 there'll be no fighting to-night, accordin' to the word 
 you've given." 
 
 "No fightin', did ye say? an' run away, is it? Then 
 this in your eye, that if ye'll bring an army, I'll fight 
 till the skin is in rags on me bones, whin it's only men 
 that's before me; but womin and that wan! Faith, I'd 
 run, I'm thinkin', as I did, you know when Don't 
 tell me that she's here, man; arrah, don't say that!" 
 
 There was something pitiful and childlike hi the big 
 man's voice, so much so that Pierre, calculating game- 
 ster as he was, and working upon him as he had been 
 for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his 
 fingers on the other's arm, said: "No, Macavoy, my 
 friend, she is not here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne 
 or was when I left there." 
 
 Macavoy groaned. "Does she know that I'm here? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she 
 may not hear."
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 25 
 
 "What what is she doing?" 
 
 "Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan's green." 
 Then Pierre told him somewhat bluntly what he knew 
 of Mrs. Macavoy. 
 
 "I'd rather face Ballzeboob himself than her," said 
 Macavoy. "An' she's sure to find me." 
 
 "Not if you do as I say." 
 
 "An' what is it ye say, little man?" 
 
 "Come away with me where she'll not find you." 
 
 "An' where's that, Pierre darlin'?" 
 
 "I'll tell you that when to-night's fighting's over. 
 Have you a mind for Wonta?" he continued. 
 
 "I've a mind for Wonta an' many another as fine, 
 but I'm a married man," he said, "by priest an' by 
 book; an' I can't forget that, though the woman's to 
 me as the pit below." 
 
 Pierre looked curiously at him. "You're a wonder- 
 ful fool," he said, "but I'm not sure that I like you less 
 for that. There was Shon M'Gann but it is no mat- 
 ter." He sighed and continued: "When to-night is 
 over, you shall have work and fun that you've been 
 fattening for this many a year, and the woman'll not 
 find you, be sure of that. Besides " he whispered in 
 Macavoy's ear. 
 
 "Poor divil, poor divil, she'd always a throat for 
 that; but it's a horrible death to die, I'm thinkin'." 
 Macavoy's chin dropped on his breast. 
 
 When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, 
 Macavoy came to Wonta's tent. Pierre was not far 
 away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never quite 
 knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a fright- 
 ened way, followed by the five half-breeds, who carried 
 themselves awkwardly. Behind them again, with head 
 shaking from one side to the other, travelled Macavoy;
 
 26 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 and they all marched away towards the Fort. "Well," 
 said Pierre to Wonta, "he is amusing, eh? so big a 
 coward, eh?" 
 
 "No, no," she said, "you are wrong. He is no 
 coward. He is a great brave. He spoke like a little 
 child, but he said he would fight them all when " 
 
 "When then* turn came," interposed Pierre, with a 
 fine "bead" of humour in his voice; "well, you see he 
 has much to do." He pointed towards the Fort, where 
 people were gathering fast. The strange news had gone 
 abroad, and the settlement, laughing joyously, came to 
 see Macavoy swagger; they did not think there would 
 be fighting. 
 
 Those whom Macavoy had challenged were not so 
 sure. When the giant reached the open space in front 
 of the Fort, he looked slowly round him. A great change 
 had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together 
 more firmly, and running himself up finely to his full 
 height, he looked no longer the lounging braggart. 
 Pierre measured him with his eye, and chuckled to 
 himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and 
 waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves. His shirt was 
 flying at the chest. 
 
 He beckoned to Pierre. 
 
 "Are you standin' me frind in this?" he said. 
 
 "Now and after," said Pierre. 
 
 His voice was very simple. "I never felt as I do since 
 the day the coast-guardsmin dropped on me in Ireland 
 far away, an' I drew blood an every wan o' them fine 
 beautiful b'ys they looked stretchin' out on the ground 
 wan by wan. D'ye know the double-an'-twist?" he 
 suddenly added, "for it's a honey trick whin they gather 
 in an you, an' you can't be layin' out wid yer fists. 
 It plays the divil wid the spines av thim. Will ye
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 27 
 
 have a drop av drink cold water, man near, an' a 
 sponge betune whiles? For there's manny in the play 
 makin' up for lost tune. Come on," he added to the 
 two settlers, who stood not far away, "for ye began the 
 trouble, an' we'll settle accordin' to a, b, c." 
 
 Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his 
 call, they stepped forward, though they had now little 
 relish for the matter. They were pale, but they stripped 
 their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley stepped bravely 
 in front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, 
 arms folded. "I said two of you," he crooned, as if 
 speaking to a woman. Hatchett stepped forward also. 
 An instant after the settlers were lying on the ground 
 at different angles, bruised and dismayed, and little 
 likely to carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of 
 water from the ground, drank from it lightly, and 
 waited. None other of his opponents stirred. " There's 
 three Injins," he said, "three rid divils, that wants 
 showin' the way to their happy huntin' grounds. . . . 
 Sure, y'are comin', ain't you, me darlins?" he added 
 coaxingly, and he stretched himself, as if to make 
 ready. 
 
 Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, 
 and they stepped forth warily. They had determined 
 on strategic wrestling, and not on the instant activity 
 of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy's 
 double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian pop- 
 ulation of Fort 0' Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, 
 however. The Irishman came out of the tangle of 
 battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard all 
 torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admira- 
 tion and wonder went up from the crowd. There was 
 a moment's pause, and then Macavoy, whose blood ran 
 high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him.
 
 28 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Must this go on?" he said; "haven't you had your 
 fill of it?" 
 
 Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the 
 matter might have ended there; but now the giant 
 spoke loud, so all could hear. 
 
 "Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel? I'm only 
 gittin' the taste av it. An' ye'll plaze bring on yer men 
 four it was for the feed av Irish pemmican." 
 
 The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who smiled 
 enigmatically. Soon after, two of the best fighters of 
 the Company's men stood forth. Macavoy shook his 
 head. "Four, I said, an' four I'll have, or I'll ate 
 the heads aff these." 
 
 Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an 
 instant the four made a rush on the giant; and there 
 was a stiff minute after, hi which it was not clear that 
 he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two 
 he got on the head, just as he tossed a man spinning 
 senseless across the grass, which sent him staggering 
 backwards for a moment, sick and stunned. 
 
 Pierre called over to him swiftly: "Remember Mala- 
 hide!" 
 
 This acted on him like a charm. There never was 
 seen such a shattered bundle of men as came out from 
 his hands a few minutes later. As for himself , he had 
 but a rag or two on him, but stood unmindful of his 
 state, and the fever of battle untameable on him. The 
 women drew away. 
 
 "Now, me babes o' the wood," he shouted, "that 
 sit at the feet av the finest Injin woman in the North, 
 though she's no frind o' mine and aren't fit to kiss 
 her moccasin, come an wid you, till I have me fun 
 wid your spines." 
 
 But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. There
 
 A LOVELY BULLY 29 
 
 were the five half-breeds running away across the 
 plains. 
 
 The game was over. 
 
 "Here's some clothes, man; for Heaven's sake put 
 them on," said the Trader. 
 
 Then the giant became conscious of his condition, 
 and like a timid girl he hurried into the clothing. 
 
 The crowd would have carried him on their shoul- 
 ders, but he would have none of it. 
 
 "I've only wan frind here," he said, "an' it's 
 Pierre, an' to his shanty I go an' no other." 
 
 "Come, mon ami," said Pierre, "for to-morrow we 
 travel far." 
 
 "And what for that?" said Macavoy. 
 
 Pierre whispered in his ear: "To make you a king, 
 my lovely bully."
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 
 
 PIERRE had determined to establish a kingdom, not 
 for gain, but for conquest's sake. But because he 
 knew that the thing would pall, he took with him 
 Macavoy the giant, to make him king instead. But 
 first he made Macavoy from a lovely bully, a bulk of 
 good-natured brag, into a Hercules of fight; for, hav- 
 ing made him insult and be insulted by near a score 
 of men at Fort O'Angel, he also made him fight them 
 by twos, threes, and fours, all on a summer's evening, 
 and send them away broken. Macavoy would have 
 hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he feared 
 a woman. Not that he had wronged her; she had 
 wronged him: she had married him. And the fear of 
 one's own wife is the worst fear in the world. 
 
 But though his heart went out to women, and his 
 tongue was of the race that beguiles, he stood to his 
 "lines" like a man, and people wondered. Even 
 Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, only bent 
 him, she could not break him to her will. Pierre 
 turned her shy coaxing into irony that was on the 
 day when all Fort O'Angel conspired to prove Macavoy 
 a child and not a warrior. But when she saw what 
 she had done, and that the giant was greater than his 
 years of brag, she repented, and hung a dead coyote 
 at Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt. 
 
 Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge of 
 vinegar to his head, for he had had nasty joltings in 
 his great fight. A little laugh came crinkling up to 
 the half-breed's lips, but dissolved into silence. 
 
 30
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 31 
 
 "We'll start in the morning," he said. 
 
 Macavoy looked up. "Whin you plaze; but a 
 word hi your ear; are you sure she'll not follow us?" 
 
 "She doesn't know. Fort Ste. Anne is in the south, 
 and Fort Comfort, where we go, is far north." 
 
 "But if she kem!" the big man persisted. 
 
 "You will be a king; you can do as other kings have 
 done." Pierre chuckled. 
 
 The other shook his head. "Says Father Nolan to 
 me, says he, ' 'tis till death us do part, an' no man put 
 asunder ' ; an' I'll stand by that, though I'd slice out 
 the bist tin years av me life, it I niver saw her face 
 again." 
 
 "But the girl, Wonta what a queen she'd make!" 
 
 "Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, and be 
 damned to you! For she, like the rest, laughed in me 
 face, whin I told thim of the day whin I " 
 
 "That's nothing. She hung a dead coyote at my 
 door. You don't know women. There'll be your 
 breed and hers abroad in the land one day." 
 
 Macavoy stretched to his feet he was so tall that 
 he could not stand upright in the room. He towered 
 over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. "I've another 
 word for your ear," he said darkly. "Keep clear av 
 the likes o' that wid me. For I've swallowed a tribe 
 av divils. It's fightin' you want. Well, I'll do it 
 I've an itch for the throats av men, but a fool I'll be 
 no more wid wimin, white or red that hell-cat that 
 spoilt me life an' killed me child, or " 
 
 A sob clutched him in the throat. 
 
 "You had a child, then?" asked Pierre gently. 
 
 "An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an' 'd 
 melt the heart av an iron god : none like her above or 
 below. But the mother, ah, the mother of her! One
 
 32 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 day whin she'd said a sharp word, wid another from 
 me, an' the child clinging to her dress, she turned 
 quick and struck it, meanin' to anger me. Not so 
 hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin's head agin' 
 the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For 
 she took to her bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock 
 wan midnight, she gives a little cry an' snatched at me 
 beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' An' 
 thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips." 
 
 Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his 
 beard. Pierre was uncomfortable. He could hear of 
 battle, murder, and sudden death unmoved it seemed 
 to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a mere 
 counter yet in the play of life that was different. He 
 slid a hand over the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. 
 
 "Poor little waif!" he said. 
 
 Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre 
 sick, and asked: "Had ye iver a child av y'r own, 
 Pierre iver wan at all? " 
 
 "Never," said Pierre dreamily, "and I've travelled 
 far. A child a child is a wonderful thing. . . . 
 Poor little waif!" 
 
 They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was 
 about to rise, but Macavoy suddenly pinned him to 
 his seat with this question: "Did y' iver have a wife, 
 thin, Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through 
 his teeth. He spoke slowly: "Yes, once." 
 
 "And she died?" asked the other, awed. 
 
 "We all have our day," he replied enigmatically, 
 "and there are worse things than death. . . . Eh, 
 well, mon ami, let us talk of other things. To-morrow 
 we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I 
 want. I have ammunition and dogs."
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 33 
 
 A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the 
 settlement. At the Fort he heard strange news. A 
 new batch of settlers was coming from the south, and 
 among them was an old Irishwoman who called her- 
 self now Mrs. Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She 
 talked much of the lad she w r as to find, one Tun Mac- 
 avoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last. 
 
 She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not 
 shake her off. "She was comin'," she said, "to her 
 own darlin' b'y, from whom she'd been parted manny 
 a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir 
 touched hand o' hers." 
 
 The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and 
 he told it only to the Chief Trader and Pierre. At a 
 word from Pierre the man promised to hold his peace. 
 Then Pierre went to Wonta's lodge. He found her 
 with her father alone, her head at her knees. When 
 she heard his voice she looked up sharply, and added 
 a sharp word also. 
 
 "Wait," he said; "women are such fools. You 
 snapped your fingers in his face, and laughed at him. 
 Bien, that is nothing. He has proved himself great. 
 That is something. He will be greater still, if the 
 other woman does not find him. She should die, but 
 then some women have no sense." 
 
 "The other woman!" said Wonta, starting to her 
 feet; "who is the other woman?" 
 
 Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but seeing 
 that it was Pierre, dropped again to sleep. Pierre, he 
 knew, was no peril to any woman. Besides, Wonta 
 hated the half-breed, as he thought. 
 
 Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy 's life; for 
 he knew that she loved the man after her heathen 
 fashion, and that she could be trusted.
 
 34 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "I do not care for that," she said, when he had 
 finished; "it is nothing. I would go with him. I 
 should be his wife, the other should die. I would kill 
 her, if she would fight me. I know the way of knives, 
 or a rifle, or a pinch at the throat she should die!" 
 
 "Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands free 
 of her." 
 
 Then he told her that they were going away. She 
 said she would go also. He said no to that, but told 
 her to wait and he would come back for her. 
 
 Though she tried hard to follow them, they slipped 
 away from the Fort in the moist gloom of the morning, 
 the brown grass rustling, the prairie-hens fluttering, 
 the osiers soughing as they passed, the Spirit of the 
 North, ever hungry, drawing them on over the long 
 Divides. They did not see each other's faces till dawn. 
 They were guided by Pierre's voice; none knew his 
 comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, there were 
 five half-breeds Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose", 
 and Jacques Parfaite. When they came to recognise 
 each other, they shook hands, and marched on. In 
 good time they reached that wonderful and pleasant 
 country between the Barren Grounds and the Lake of 
 Silver Shallows. To the north of it was Fort Comfort, 
 which they had come to take. Macavoy's rich voice 
 roared as of old, before his valour was questioned and 
 maintained at Fort O'Angel. Pierre had diverted his 
 mind from the woman who, at Fort O'Angel, was even 
 now calling heaven and earth to witness that "Tim 
 Macavoy was her Macavoy and no other, an' she'd 
 find him the divil and darlin', wid an arm like Broin 
 Borhoime, an' a chest you could build a house on if 
 she walked till Doomsday!" 
 
 Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone to
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 35 
 
 muscle, blowing through his beard, puffing his cheek, 
 and ready with tale or song. But now that they were 
 facing the business of their journey, his voice got soft 
 and gentle, as it did before the Fort, when he grappled 
 his foes two by two and three by three, and wrung 
 them out. In his eyes there was the thing which counts 
 as many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads in 
 battle. As he said himself, he was made for war, like 
 Malachi o' the Golden Collar. 
 
 Pierre guessed that just now many of the Indians 
 would be away for the summer hunt, and that the 
 Fort would perhaps be held by only a few score of 
 braves, who, however, would fight when they might 
 easier play. He had no useless compunctions about 
 bloodshed. A human life he held to be a trifle in the 
 big sum of time, and that it was of little moment when 
 a man went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his 
 creed, for he had ever held his own life as a bird upon 
 a housetop, which a chance stone might drop. 
 
 He was glad afterwards that he had decided to fight, 
 for there was one hi Fort Comfort against whom he 
 had an old grudge the Indian, Young Eye, who, 
 many years before, had been one to help in killing the 
 good Father Halen, the priest who dropped the water 
 on his forehead and set the cross on top of that, when 
 he was at his mother's breasts. One by one the mur- 
 derers had been killed, save this man. He had wan- 
 dered north, lived on the Coppermine River for a long 
 time, and at length had come down among the warring 
 tribes at the Lake of Silver Shallows. 
 
 Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed the lake 
 in their canoes, at a point about five miles from the 
 Fort, and, so far as they could tell, without being seen. 
 Then ammunition went round, and they marched upon
 
 36 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 the Fort. Pierre eyed Macavoy measured him, as it 
 were, for what he was worth. The giant seemed happy. 
 He was humming a tune softly through his beard. 
 
 Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of a 
 pine, and put his ear to it. Pierre understood. He 
 had caught at the same thing. "There is a dance on," 
 said Jose", "I can hear the drum." 
 
 Pierre thought a minute. "We will reconnoitre," 
 he said presently. 
 
 "It is near night now," remarked Little Babiche. 
 "I know something of these. When they have a great 
 snake dance at night, strange things happen." Then 
 he spoke in a low tone to Pierre. 
 
 They halted hi the bush, and Little Babiche went 
 forward to spy upon the Fort. He came back just 
 after sunset, reporting that the Indians were feasting. 
 He had crept near, and had learned that the braves 
 were expected back from the hunt that night, and that 
 the feast was for their welcome. 
 
 The Fort stood hi an open space, with tall trees for a 
 background. In front, here and there, were juniper 
 and tamarac bushes. Pierre laid his plans immediately, 
 and gave the word to move on. Then: presence had 
 not been discovered, and if they could but surprise the 
 Indians the Fort might easily be theirs. They made 
 a de'tour, and after an hour came upon the Fort from 
 behind. Pierre himself went forward cautiously, leav- 
 ing Macavoy in command. When he came again he 
 said: 
 
 "It's a fine sight, and the way is open. They are 
 feasting and dancing. If we can enter without being 
 seen, we are safe, except for food; we must trust for 
 that. Come on." 
 
 When they arrived at the margin of the woods a
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 37 
 
 wonderful scene was before them. A volcanic hill rose 
 up on one side, gloomy and stern, but the reflection 
 of the fires reached it, and made its sides quiver 
 the rock itself seemed trembling. The sombre pines 
 showed up, a wall all round, and in the open space, 
 turreted with fantastic fires, the Indians swayed in and 
 out with weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, 
 and painted in strange colours. The earth itself was 
 still and sober. Scarce a star peeped forth. A purple 
 velvet curtain seemed to hang all down the sky, though 
 here and there the flame bronzed it. The Indian 
 lodges were empty, save where a few children squatted 
 at the openings. The seven stood still with wonder, 
 till Pierre whispered to them to get to the ground and 
 crawl close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. 
 They did so, Macavoy breathing hard too hard; for 
 suddenly Pierre clapped a hand on his mouth. 
 
 They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had seen 
 an Indian come from the gate. The brave was within 
 a few feet of them. He had almost passed them, for 
 they were in the shadow, but Jose* had burst a puff- 
 ball with his hand, and the dust, flying up, made him 
 sneeze. The Indian turned and saw them. With a 
 low cry and the spring of a tiger Pierre was at his 
 throat; and in another minute they were struggling 
 on the ground. Pierre's hand never let go. His com- 
 rades did not stir; he had warned them to lie still. 
 They saw the terrible game played out within arm's 
 length of them. They heard Pierre say at last, as the 
 struggles of the Indian ceased: "Beast! You had 
 Father Halen's life. I have yours." 
 
 There was one more wrench of the Indian's limbs, 
 and then he lay still. 
 
 They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden in the
 
 38 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 shadows and the grass. Presently they came to a 
 clear space. Across this they must go, and enter the 
 Fort before they were discovered. They got to their 
 feet, and ran with wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, 
 to the gate. They had just reached it when there was 
 a cry from the walls, on which two Indians were sitting. 
 The Indians sprang down, seized their spears, and 
 lunged at the seven as they entered. One spear caught 
 Little Babiche in the arm as he swung aside, but with 
 the butt of his musket Noel dropped him. The other 
 Indian was promptly handled by Pierre himself. By 
 this time Corvette and Jose* had shut the gates, and the 
 Fort was theirs an easy conquest. The Indians were 
 bound and gagged. 
 
 The adventurers had done it all without drawing the 
 attention of the howling crowd without. The matter 
 was in its infancy, however. They had the place, but 
 could they hold it? What food and water were there 
 within? Perhaps they were hardly so safe besieged as 
 besiegers. Yet there was no doubt on Pierre's part. 
 He had enjoyed the adventure so far up to the hilt. 
 An old promise had been kept, and an old wrong 
 avenged. 
 
 "What's to be done now? " said Macavoy. "There'll 
 be hell's own racket; and they'll come on like a 
 flood." 
 
 "To wait," said Pierre, "and dam the flood as it 
 comes. But not a bullet till I give the word. Take 
 to the chinks. We'll have them soon." 
 
 He was right : they came soon. Someone had found 
 the dead body of Young Eye; then it was discovered 
 that the gate was shut. A great shout went up. The 
 Indians ran to their lodges for spears and hatchets, 
 though the weapons of many were within the Fort,
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 39 
 
 and soon they were about the place, shouting in im- 
 potent rage. They could not tell how many invaders 
 were in the Fort; they suspected it was the Little 
 Skins, their ancient enemies. But Young Eye, they 
 saw, had not been scalped. This was brought to the 
 old chief, and he called to his men to fall back. They 
 had not seen one man of the invaders; all was silent 
 and dark within the Fort; even the two torches which 
 had been burning above the gate were down. At that 
 moment, as if to add to the strangeness, a caribou came 
 suddenly through the fires, and, passing not far from 
 the bewildered Indians, plunged into the trees behind 
 the Fort. 
 
 The caribou is credited with great powers. It is 
 thought to understand all that is said to it, and to be 
 able to take the form of a spirit. No Indian will come 
 near it till it is dead, and he that kills it out of season 
 is supposed to bring down all manner of evil. 
 
 So at this sight they cried out the women falling 
 to the ground with their faces in their arms that the 
 caribou had done this thing. For a moment they were 
 all afraid. Besides, as a brave showed, there was no 
 mark on the body of Young Eye. 
 
 Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull caribou, 
 travelling wildly till he found another herd. He would 
 carry on the deception. "Wail for the dead, as your 
 women do in Ireland. That will finish them," he said 
 to Macavoy. 
 
 The giant threw his voice up and out, so that it 
 seemed to come from over the Fort to the Indians, 
 weird and crying. Even the half-breeds standing by 
 felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The In- 
 dians without drew back slowly from the Fort, leaving 
 a clear space between. Macavoy had uncanny tricks
 
 40 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 with his voice, and presently he changed the song 
 into a shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling 
 about the place and then stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Sure, that's a poor game, Pierre," he whispered; 
 "an' I'd rather be pluggin' their hides wid bullets, or 
 givin' the double-an'-twist. It's fightin' I come for, 
 and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin." 
 
 Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. Every 
 man looked to his gun, the gates were slowly opened, 
 and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre had thrown over 
 the Irishman's shoulders the great skin of a musk-ox 
 which he had found inside the stockade. He was a 
 strange, immense figure, as he walked into the open 
 space, and, folding his arms, looked round. In the 
 shadow of the gate behind were Pierre and the half- 
 breeds, with guns cocked. 
 
 Macavoy had lived so long in the north that he 
 knew enough of all the languages to speak to this 
 tribe. When he came out a murmur of wonder ran 
 among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so 
 tall, for they were not great of stature, and his huge 
 beard and wild shock of hah* were a wonderful sight. 
 He remained silent, looking on them. At last the old 
 chief spoke. "Who are you?" 
 
 "I am a great chief from the Hills of the Mighty 
 Men, come to be your king," was his reply. 
 
 "He is your king," cried Pierre in a strange voice 
 from the shadow of the gate, and he thrust out his gun- 
 barrel, so that they could see it. 
 
 The Indians now saw Pierre and the half-breeds in 
 the gateway, and they had not so much awe. They 
 came a little nearer, and the women stopped crying. 
 A few of the braves half-raised their spears. Seeing 
 this, Pierre instantly stepped forward to the giant. He
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 41 
 
 looked a child in stature thereby. He spoke quickly 
 and well in the Chinook language. 
 
 "This is a mighty man from the Hills of the Mighty 
 Men. He has come to rule over you, to give all other 
 tribes into your hands; for he has strength like a thou- 
 sand, and fears nothing of gods nor men. I have the 
 blood of red men in me. It is I who have called this 
 man from his distant home. I heard of your fighting 
 and foolishness: also that warriors were to come from 
 the south country to scatter your wives and children, 
 and to make you slaves. I pitied you, and I have 
 brought you a chief greater than any other. Throw 
 your spears upon the ground, and all will be well; but 
 raise one to throw, or one arrow, or axe, and there 
 shall be death among you, so that as a people you shall 
 die. The spirits are with us. ... Well? " 
 
 The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did not 
 drop their spears, for the old chief forbade them. 
 
 "We are no dogs nor cowards," he said, "though 
 the spirits be with you, as we believe. We have seen 
 strange things" he pointed to Young Eye "and 
 heard voices not of men; but we would see great things 
 as well as strange. There are seven men of the Little 
 Skins tribe within a lodge yonder. They were to die 
 when our braves returned from the hunt, and for that 
 we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he shall 
 fight them all at once, and if he kills them he shall be 
 our king. In the name of my tribe I speak. And this 
 other," pointing to Pierre, "he shall also fight with a 
 strong man of our tribe, so that we shall know if you 
 are all brave, and not as those who crawl at the knees 
 of the mighty." 
 
 This was more than Pierre had bargained for. Seven 
 men at Macavoy, and Indians too, fighting for their
 
 42 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 lives, was a contract of weight. But Macavoy was 
 blowing in his beard cheerfully enough. 
 
 "Let me choose me ground," he said, "wid me back 
 to the wall, an' I'll take thim as they come." 
 
 Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, and 
 said for himself that he would welcome their strongest 
 man at the point of a knife when he chose. 
 
 The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins 
 were brought. The fires still burned brightly, and the 
 breathing of the pines, as a slight wind rose and stirred 
 them, came softly over. The Indians stood off at the 
 command of the chief. Macavoy drew back to the 
 wall, dropped the musk-ox skin to the ground, and 
 stripped himself to the waist. But in his waistband 
 there was what none of these Indians had ever seen 
 a small revolver that barked ever so softly. In the 
 hands of each Little Skin there was put a knife, and 
 they were told their cheerful exercise. They came on 
 cautiously, and then suddenly closed in, knives flashing. 
 But Macavoy's little bulldog barked, and one dropped 
 to the ground. The others fell back. The wounded 
 man drew up, made a lunge at Macavoy, but missed 
 him. As if ashamed, the other six came on again at a 
 spring. But again the weapon did its work smartly, 
 and one more came down. Now the giant put it away, 
 ran in upon the five, and cut right and left. So sudden 
 and massive was his rush that they had no chance. 
 Three fell at his blows, and then he drew back swiftly 
 to the wall. "Drop your knives," he said, as they 
 cowered, "or I'll kill you all." They did so. He 
 dropped his own. 
 
 "Now come on, ye scuts!" he cried, and suddenly 
 he reached and caught them, one with each arm, and 
 wrestled with them, till he bent the one like a willow
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 43 
 
 rod, and dropped him with a broken back, while the 
 other was at his mercy. Suddenly loosing him, he 
 turned him towards the woods, and said: "Run, ye 
 rid divil, run for y'r life!" 
 
 A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of Pierre's 
 men came in between: the Indian reached cover and 
 was gone. Of the six others, two had been killed, the 
 rest were severely wounded, and Macavoy had not a 
 scratch. 
 
 Pierre smiled grimly. "You've been doing all the 
 fighting, Macavoy," he said. 
 
 "There's no bein' a king for nothin'," he replied, 
 wiping blood from his beard. 
 
 "It's my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, 
 though I think there's no need." 
 
 Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, 
 for he was an expert with the knife. He carried away 
 four fingers of the Indian's fighting hand, and that 
 ended it; for the next instant the point was at the red 
 man's throat. The Indian stood to take it like a man; 
 but Pierre loved that kind of courage, and shot the 
 knife into its sheath instead. 
 
 The old chief kept his word, and after the spears 
 were piled, he shook hands with Macavoy, as did his 
 braves one by one, and they were all moved by the sin- 
 cerity of his grasp : their arms were useless for some time 
 after. They hailed as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; 
 for men are like dogs they worship him who beats 
 them. The feasting and dancing went on till the hunt- 
 ers came back. Then there was a wild scene, but hi 
 the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet their 
 new king. 
 
 The king himself went to bed in the Fort that night, 
 Pierre and his bodyguard by name Noel, Little Ba-
 
 44 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 biche, Corvette, Jose, and Parfaite its only occupants, 
 singing joyfully 
 
 " Did yees iver hear tell o* Long Barney, 
 That come from the groves o' Killarney? 
 He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, 
 But he niver kem back to Killarney 
 Wid his crown, an' his soord, an' his army I" 
 
 As a king Macavoy was a success, for the brag had 
 gone from him. Like all his race he had faults as a 
 subject, but the responsibility of ruling set him right. 
 He found in the Fort an old sword and belt, left by 
 some Hudson's Bay Company's man, and these he 
 furbished up and wore. 
 
 With Pierre's aid he drew up a simple constitution, 
 which he carried in the crown of his cap, and he dis- 
 tributed beads and gaudy trappings as marks of hon- 
 our. Nor did he forget the frequent pipe of peace, 
 made possible to all by generous gifts of tobacco. Any- 
 one can found a kingdom abaft the Barren Grounds 
 with tobacco, beads, and red flannel. 
 
 For very many weeks it was a happy kingdom. 
 But presently Pierre yawned, and was ready to return. 
 Three of the half-breeds were inclined to go with him. 
 Jose" and Little Babiche had formed alliances which 
 held them there besides, King Macavoy needed them. 
 
 On the eve of Pierre's departure a notable thing 
 occurred. 
 
 A young brave had broken his leg in hunting, had 
 been picked up by a band of another tribe, and carried 
 south. He found himself at last at Fort O'Angel. 
 There he had met Mrs. Whelan, and for presents of 
 tobacco, and purple and fine linen, he had led her to 
 her consort. That was how the king and Pierre met
 
 THE FILIBUSTER 45 
 
 her in the yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early 
 autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turning the 
 King about and getting him away; but it was too 
 late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and she called out 
 at him: 
 
 "Oh, Tim! me jool, me king, have I found ye, me 
 imp'ror!" 
 
 She ran at him, to throw her arms round him. He 
 stepped back, the red of his face going white, and said, 
 stretching out his hand, " Woman, y'are me wife, I 
 know, whativer y' be; an' y've right to have shelter 
 and bread av me; but me arms, an' me bed, are me 
 own to kape or to give; and, by God, ye shall have 
 nayther one nor the other! There's a ditch as wide as 
 hell betune us." 
 
 The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled the 
 yard, and crowded the gate. The woman went wild, 
 for she had been drinking. She ran at Macavoy and 
 spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him 
 as, whoever hears, be he one that's cursed or any 
 other, shudders at till he dies. Then she fell in a fit 
 at his feet. Macavoy turned to the Indians, stretched 
 out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He 
 stooped down, picked up the woman, carried her into 
 the Fort, and laid her on a bed of skins. 
 
 "What will you do?" asked Pierre. 
 
 "She is my wife," he answered firmly. 
 
 "She lived with Whelan." 
 
 "She must be cared for," was the reply. Pierre 
 looked at him with a curious quietness. "I'll get 
 liquor for her," he said presently. He started to go, 
 but turned and felt the woman's pulse. "You would 
 keep her?" he asked. 
 
 " Bring the liquor." Macavoy reached for water,
 
 46 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 and dipping the sleeve of his shirt in it, wetted her 
 face gently. 
 
 Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the 
 woman would die. He stayed with Macavoy beside 
 her all the night. Towards morning her eyes opened, 
 and she shivered greatly. 
 
 "It's bither cold," she said. "You'll put more 
 wood on the fire, Tun, for the babe must be kept 
 warrum." 
 
 She thought she was at Malahide. 
 
 "Oh, wurra, wurra, but 'tis freezin'!" she said 
 again. "Why d'ye kape the door opin whin the 
 child's perishin'?" 
 
 Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking 
 him. 
 
 "I'll shut the door meself, thin," she added; "for 
 'twas I that lift it opin, Tim." She started up, but 
 gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell back. 
 
 "The door is shut," said Pierre. 
 
 "But the child the child!" said Macavoy, tears 
 running down his face and beard.
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 
 
 ONCE Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern 
 people, achieving the dignity by the hands of Pierre, 
 who called him King Macavoy. Then came a time 
 when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leav- 
 ing all behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed 
 of cypresses and yarrow, came forth no more into the 
 morning. About Fort Guidon they still gave him his 
 title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and 
 generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple King." His 
 seven feet and over shambled about, suggesting un- 
 jointed power, unshackled force. No one hated Mac- 
 avoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and 
 the cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so 
 much man useless such an engine of life, which might 
 do great things, wasting fuel. Nobody thought much 
 of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre, who 
 sometimes said, "My simple king, some day you shall 
 have your great chance again; but not as a king as a 
 giant, a man voila!" 
 
 The day did not come immediately, but it came. 
 
 When Ida, the deaf and dumb girl, married Hilton, 
 of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and some 
 from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents 
 of one kind or another. Pierre's gift was a Mexican 
 saddle. He was branding Ida's name on it with the 
 broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered 
 on him, having just returned from a vagabond visit to 
 Fort Ste. Anne. 
 
 47
 
 48 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Is it digging out or carvin' in y'are?" he asked, 
 puffing into his beard. 
 
 Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply 
 to the insinuation, for he never saw an insult unless he 
 intended to avenge it; and he would not quarrel with 
 Macavoy. 
 
 "What are you going to give?" he asked. 
 
 "Aw, give what to who, hop-o'-me-thumb? " Mac- 
 avoy said, stretching himself out in the doorway, his 
 legs in the sun, head in the shade. 
 
 "You've been taking a walk in the country, then?" 
 Pierre asked, though he knew. 
 
 "To Fort Ste. Anne: a buryin', two christ'nin's, an' 
 a weddin' ; an' lashin's av grog an' swill aw that, me 
 button o' the North!" 
 
 "La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You've 
 got the things end foremost. Turn your head to the 
 open air, for I go to light a cigarette, and if you breathe 
 this way, there will be a grand explode. " 
 
 ' ' Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre ! It's like a baby's, 
 me breath is, milk and honey it is aw yis; an' Father 
 Corraine, that was doin' the trick for the love o' God, 
 says he to me, 'Little Tun Macavoy,' aw yis, little 
 Tim Macavoy, says he, 'when are you goin' to buckle 
 to, for the love o' God?' says he. Ashamed I was, 
 Pierre, that Father Corraine should spake to me like 
 that, for I'd only a twig twisted at me hips to kape me 
 trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in his eye! 
 'Buckle to,' says I, 'Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer 
 riv'rince?' feelin' I was at the twigs the while. 'Ay, 
 little Tim Macavoy,' he says, says he, 'you've bin 'atin' 
 the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin' 
 to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,' 
 says he; 'take a field, get a plough, and buckle to,' says
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 49 
 
 he, 'an' turn back no more' like that, says Father 
 Corraine; and I thinkin' all the tune 'twas the want o' 
 me belt he was drivin' at. " 
 
 Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: 
 "Such a torn-fool! And where's that grand leather 
 belt of yours, eh, my monarch?" 
 
 A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. "For the 
 weddin' it wint: buckled the two up wid it for better 
 or worse an' purty they looked, they did, standin' 
 there in me cinch, an' one hole left aw yis, Pierre. " 
 
 "And what do you give to Ida?" Pierre asked, with 
 a little emphasis of the branding-iron. 
 
 Macavoy got to his feet. "Ida! Ida!" said he. "Is 
 that saddle for Ida? Is it her and Hilton that's to ate 
 aff one dish togither? That rose o' the valley, that bird 
 wid a song in her face and none an her tongue. That 
 daisy dot av a thing, steppin' through the world like 
 a sprig o' glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two! an' I've divil 
 a scrap to give, good or bad. I've nothin' at all in the 
 wide wurruld but the clothes an me back, an' thim 
 hangin' on the underbrush!" giving a little twist to 
 the twigs. "An' many a meal an' many a dipper o' 
 drink she's guv me, little smiles dancin' at her lips." 
 
 He sat down in the doorway again, with his face 
 turned towards Pierre, and the back of his head in the 
 sun. He was a picture of perfect health, sumptuous, 
 huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out 
 of his eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing. 
 
 Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, 
 then he said languidly: "Never mind your clothes, give 
 yourself." 
 
 "Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o' vinegar. Give 
 meself! What's that for? A purty weddin' gift, says 
 I? Handy thing to have in the house! Use me for a
 
 50 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy 
 bower aw yis, wid a hole in me face that'd ate thim 
 out o' house and home!" 
 
 Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and 
 wrote on it with a burnt match. Presently he held it up. 
 " Voila, my simple king, the thing for you to do : a grand 
 gift, and to cost you nothing now. Come, read it out, 
 and tell me what you think." 
 
 Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judicial way, 
 read slowly: 
 
 11 On demand, for value received, I promise to pay to 
 . . . IDA HILTON ... or order, meself, Tim Mac- 
 avoy, standirf seven foot three on me bare fut, wid interest 
 at nothin' at all." 
 
 Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. 
 "MGuire!" he said, and nothing more. 
 
 M c Guire was his strongest expression. In the most 
 important moments of his career he had said it, and 
 it sounded deep, strange, and more powerful than 
 many usual oaths. A moment later he said again: 
 "M c Guire!" Then he read the paper once more out 
 loud. " What's that, me Frinchman?" he asked. "What 
 Ballzeboob's tricks are y'at now?" 
 
 Pierre was complacently eyeing his handiwork on 
 the saddle. He now settled back with his shoulders to 
 the wall, and said: "See, then, it's a little promissory 
 note for a wedding-gift to Ida. When she says some day, 
 'Tun Macavoy, I want you to do this or that, or to go 
 here or there, or to sell you or trade you, or use you for 
 a clothes-horse, or a bridge over a canyon, or to hold 
 up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, or be my second 
 husband,' you shall say, 'Here I am'; and you shall 
 travel from Heaven to Halifax, but you shall come at 
 the call of this promissory. "
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 51 
 
 Pierre's teeth glistened behind a smile as he spoke, 
 and Macavoy broke into a roar of laughter. "Black's 
 the white o' yer eye," he said at last, "an' a joke's a 
 joke. Seven fut three I am, an' sound av wind an' limb 
 an' a weddin'-gift to that swate rose o' the valley! 
 Aisy, aisy, Pierre. A bit o' foolin' 'twas ye put on the 
 paper, but truth I'll make it, me cock o' the walk. 
 That's me gift to her an' Hilton, an' no other. An' a 
 dab wid red wax it shall have, an' what more be the 
 word o' Freddy Tarlton the lawyer?" 
 
 "You're a great man," said Pierre with a touch of 
 gentle irony, for his natural malice had no play against 
 the huge ex-king of his own making. With these big 
 creatures he had connived with several in his tune 
 he had ever been superior, protective, making them to 
 feel that they were as children beside him. He looked 
 at Macavoy musingly, and said to himself: "Well, why 
 not? If it is a joke, then it is a joke; if it is a thing to 
 make the world stand still for a minute sometime, so 
 much the better. He is all waste now. By the holy, 
 he shall do it. It is amusing, and it may be great by 
 and by." 
 
 Presently Pierre said aloud: "Well, my Macavoy, 
 what will you do? Send this good gift? " 
 
 "Aw yis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the crown 
 av me head to the sole av me fut sure. Face like a 
 mornin' in May, and hands like the tunes of an organ, 
 she has. Spakes wid a look av her eye and a twist av 
 her purty lips an' swaying body, an' talkin' to you 
 widout a word. Aw motion motion motion; yis, 
 that's it. An' I've seen her an tap av a hill wid the 
 wind blowin' her hair free, and the yellow buds on the 
 tree, and the grass green beneath her feet, the world 
 smilin' betune her and the sun: pictures pictures,
 
 52 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 aw yis! Promissory notice on demand is it anny toime? 
 Seven fut three on me bare toes but Father o' Sin! 
 when she calls I come, yis." 
 
 "On your oath, Macavoy?" asked Pierre; "by the 
 book av the Mass?" 
 
 Macavoy stood up straight till his head scraped the 
 cobwebs between the rafters, the wild indignation of a 
 child in his eye. "D'ye think I'm a thafe, to stale me 
 own word? Hut! I'll break ye in two, ye wisp o' straw, 
 if ye doubt me word to a lady. There's me note av 
 hand, and ye shall have me fist on it, in writin', at 
 Freddy Tarlton's office, wid a blotch av red an' the 
 Queen's head at the bottom. M c Guire!" he said again, 
 and paused, puffing his lips through his beard. 
 
 Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving his 
 fingers idly, said, "So, my straw-breaker! Then to- 
 morrow morning at ten you will fetch your wedding- 
 gift. But come so soon now to M'sieu' Tarlton's office, 
 and we will have it all as you say, with the red seal and 
 the turn of your fist yes. Well, well, we travel far 
 in the world, and sometimes we see strange things, 
 and no two strange things are alike no; there is only 
 one Macavoy in the world, there was only one Shon 
 MGann. Shon M c Gann was a fine fool, but he did 
 something at last, truly yes: Tim Macavoy, perhaps, will 
 do something at last on his own hook. Hey, I wonder! " 
 
 He felt the muscles of Macavoy's arm musingly, and 
 then laughed up in the giant's face. "Once I made 
 you a king, my own, and you threw it all away; now 
 I make you a slave, and we shall see what you will do. 
 Come along, for M'sieu' Tarlton." 
 
 Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre's shoulder. 
 
 "'Tis hard to be a king, Pierre, but 'tis aisy to be a 
 slave for the likes o' her. I'd kiss her dirty shoe sure ! "
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 53 
 
 As they passed through the door, Pierre said, "Dis 
 done, perhaps, when all is done, she will sell you for old 
 bones and rags. Then I will buy you, and I will burn 
 your bones and the rags, and I will scatter to the four 
 winds of the earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, 
 and an Irishman truly!" 
 
 "Bedad, ye'll have more earth in yer hands then, 
 Pierre, than ye'll ever earn, and more heaven than ye'll 
 ever shtand in." 
 
 Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarlton's 
 office on the banks of the Little Big Swan, which 
 tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of the early 
 autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a gift of humour, 
 entered into the spirit of the thing, and treated it seri- 
 ously; but in vain did he protest that the large red seal 
 with Her Majesty's head on it was unnecessary; Mac- 
 avoy insisted, and wrote his name across it with a large 
 indistinctness worthy of a king. Before the night was 
 over everybody at Guidon Hill, save Hilton and Ida, 
 knew what gift would come from Macavoy to the 
 wedded pair. 
 
 II 
 
 THE next morning was almost painfully beautiful, so 
 delicate in its clearness, so exalted by the glory of the 
 hills, so grand in the limitless stretch of the green-brown 
 prairie north and south. It was a day for God's crea- 
 tures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown 
 round the boundaries of that spacious domain, to return 
 again to the nest of home on the large plateau between 
 the sea and the stars. Gathered about Ida's home was 
 everybody who lived within a radius of a hundred miles. 
 In the large front room all the presents were set: 
 rich furs from the far north, cunningly carved bowls,
 
 54 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 rocking-chairs made by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a 
 copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the Protestant 
 missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of 
 gold from the Long Light River; and outside the door, 
 a horse, Hilton's own present to his wife, on which was 
 put Pierre's saddle, with its silver mounting and Ida's 
 name branded deep on pommel and flap. When Mac- 
 avoy arrived, a cheer went up, which was carried on 
 waves of laughter into the house to Hilton and Ida, who 
 even then were listening to the first words of the brief 
 service which begins, "7 charge you both if you do know 
 any just cause or impediment " and so on. 
 
 They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that 
 moment they themselves were the very centre of the 
 universe. Ida being deaf and dumb, it was necessary 
 to interpret to her the words of the service by signs, as 
 the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre 
 himself, the half-breed Catholic, the man who had 
 brought Hilton and Ida together, for he and Ida had 
 been old friends. After Father Corraine had taught 
 her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from 
 her, until at last his gestures had become as vital as her 
 own. The delicate precision of his every movement, 
 the suggestiveness of look and motion, were suited to a 
 language which was nearer to the instincts of his own 
 nature than word of mouth. All men did not trust 
 Pierre, but all women did; with those he had a touch 
 of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign of Mephis- 
 topheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he 
 showed outward tenderness to either : which was equally 
 effective. He had learnt, or knew by instinct, that ex- 
 clusiveness as to men and indifference as to women are 
 the greatest influences on both. As he stood there, 
 slowly interpreting to Ida, by graceful allusive signs,
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 55 
 
 the words of the service, one could not think that behind 
 his impassive face there was any feeling for the man or 
 for the woman. He had that disdainful smile which men 
 acquire who are all their lives aloof from the hopes of 
 the hearthstone and acknowledge no laws but their own. 
 
 More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, 
 as the pregnancy of some phrase in the service came 
 home to her. Her face responded to Pierre's gestures, 
 as do one's nerves to the delights of good music, and 
 there was something so unique, so impressive in the 
 ceremony, that the laughter which had greeted Macavoy 
 passed away, and a dead silence, beginning from where 
 the two stood, crept out until it covered all the prairie. 
 Nothing was heard except Hilton's voice in strong tones 
 saying, "/ take thee to be my wedded wife,' 7 etc. ; but when 
 the last words of the service were said, and the new- 
 made bride turned to her husband's embrace, and a 
 little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty 
 of noise and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the 
 doorway, or rather outside it, stooping to look in upon 
 the scene. Someone had lent him the cinch of a broncho 
 and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying 
 his clothes about "on the underbrush." Hilton laughed 
 and stretched out his hand. "Come in, King," he said, 
 "come and wish us joy." 
 
 Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, 
 and instantly was stooping before the pair for he 
 could not stand upright in the room. 
 
 "Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that's pluckin' 
 the rose av the valley, snatchin' the stars out av the 
 sky! aw, Hilton, the like o' that! Travel down I did 
 yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word I knew 
 till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night and no 
 time for a present, for a wedding-gift no, aw no!"
 
 56 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the 
 shoulder. He smiled down on her, puffing and blowing 
 in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet knowing no 
 word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, 
 and he patted Hilton's shoulder, and he took their hands 
 and joined them together, hers on top of Hilton's, and 
 shook them in one of his own till she almost winced. 
 Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded in reply, 
 Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss Macavoy, the 
 idle, ill-cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became 
 red like that of a child caught in an awkward act, and 
 with an absurd shyness he stooped and touched her 
 cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, 
 "Aw, the rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide 
 wurruld! aw, the bloom o' the hills! I'd have kissed 
 her dirty shoe. M e Guire ! " 
 
 A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear ah 1 of the 
 prairie, and the hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of 
 life. Then it was that Macavoy, following Hilton and 
 Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the horse, drew 
 from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had 
 written, and said, " Yis, but all the weddin'-gifts aren't 
 in. 'Tis nothin' I had to give divil a cent in the 
 wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for the fire, 
 or a bit av linin for the table; nothin' but meself and 
 me dirty clothes, standin' seven fut three an me bare 
 toes. What was I to do? There was only meself to 
 give, so I give it free and hearty, and here it is wid the 
 Queen's head an it, done in Mr. Tarlton's office. Ye'd 
 better had had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, 
 or a saddle, or a quart o' brown brandy; but such as 
 it is I give it ye I give it to the rose o j the valley 
 and the star o' the wide wurruld." 
 
 In a loud voice he read the promissory note, and
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 57 
 
 handed it to Ida. Men laughed till there were tears in 
 their eyes, and a keg of whisky was opened; but some- 
 how Ida did not laugh. She and Pierre had seen a 
 serious side to Macavoy's gift: the childlike manliness 
 in it. It went home to her woman's heart without a 
 touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of laughter. 
 
 Ill 
 
 AFTER a time the interest in this wedding-gift declined 
 at Fort Guidon, and but three people remembered it 
 with any singular distinctness Ida, Pierre, and Mac- 
 avoy. Pierre was interested, for in his primitive mind 
 he knew that, however wild a promise, life is so wild in 
 its events, there comes the hour for redemption of all 
 lOU's. 
 
 Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple of 
 years passed, Macavoy and Pierre coming and going, 
 sometimes together, sometimes not, in all manner of 
 words at war, in all manner of fact at peace. And Ida, 
 out of the bounty of her nature, gave the two vagabonds 
 a place at her fireside whenever they chose to come. 
 Perhaps, where speech was not given, a gift of divina- 
 tion entered into her instead, and she valued what 
 others found useless, and held aloof from what others 
 found good. She had powers which had ever been the 
 admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds and animals were her 
 friends she called them her kinsmen. A peculiar 
 sympathy joined them; so that when, at last, she 
 tamed a white wild duck, and made it do the duties 
 of a carrier-pigeon, no one thought it strange. 
 
 Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, lived her 
 sister and her sister's children; and, by and by, the duck 
 carried messages back and forth, so that when, in the
 
 58 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 winter, Ida's health became delicate, she had comfort 
 in the solicitude and cheerfulness of her sister, and the 
 gaiety of the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many 
 a sprightly message and tales of their good vagrancy 
 in the hills. In these days Pierre and Macavoy were 
 little at the Post, save now and then to sit with Hilton 
 beside the fire, waiting for spring and telling tales. 
 Upon Hilton had settled that peaceful, abstracted ex- 
 pectancy which shows man at his best, as he waits for 
 the time when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood, 
 he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood spread- 
 ing up the world which, all being said and done, is that 
 place called Home. Something gentle came over him 
 while he grew stouter in body and in all other ways 
 made a larger figure among the people of the West. 
 
 As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be trusted 
 than his general morality, "It is strange that most men 
 think not enough of themselves till a woman shows them 
 how. But it is the great wonder that the woman does 
 not despise him for it. Quel caractere! She "has so often 
 to show him his way like a babe, and yet she says to him, 
 Mon grand homme! my master! my lord! Pshaw! I 
 have often thought that women are half saints, half 
 fools, and men half fools, half rogues. But quelle vie! 
 what life! without a woman you are half a man; with 
 one you are bound to a single spot in the world, you are 
 tied by the leg, your wing is clipped you cannot have 
 all. Quelle vie what life!" 
 
 To this Macavoy said: "Spit-spat! But what the 
 devil good does all yer thinkin' do ye, Pierre? It's 
 argufy here and argufy there, an' while yer at that, me 
 an' the rest av us is squeezin' the fun out o' life. Aw, 
 go 'long wid ye. Y'are only a bit o' hell and grammar, 
 annyway. Wid all yer cuttin' and carvin' things to see
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 59 
 
 the internals av thim, I'd do more to the call av a 
 woman's finger than for all the logic and knowalogy 
 y' ever chewed an' there y'are, me little tailor o' 
 jur'sprudince!" 
 
 "To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh?" 
 
 Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's enigmatical 
 tone meant. A wild light showed in his eyes, and his 
 tongue blundered out: "Yis, Hilton's wife's finger, or 
 a look av her eye, or nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye wasp ! 
 Ye'd go stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself , so ye would. 
 But the tongue av ye hut, it's gall to the tip. " 
 
 "Maybe, my king. But I'd go hunting because I 
 wanted; you because you must. You're a slave to 
 come and to go, with a Queen's seal on the promissory." 
 
 Macavoy leaned back and roared. " Aw, that! The 
 rose o' the valley the joy o' the wurruld ! S't, Pierre 
 his voice grew softer on a sudden, as a fresh thought 
 came to him "did y' ever think that the child might be 
 dumb like the mother?" 
 
 This was a day in the early spring, when the snows 
 were melting in the hills, and freshets were sweeping 
 down the valleys far and near. That night a warm 
 heavy rain came on, and in the morning every stream 
 and river was swollen to twice its size. The mountains 
 seemed to have stripped themselves of snow, and the 
 vivid sun began at once to colour the foothills with 
 green. As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, 
 looking out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy 
 suddenly said: "Aw, look, look, . Pierre her white 
 duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!" 
 
 They both shaded their eyes with their hands. 
 Circling round two or three tunes above the Post, the 
 duck then stretched out its neck to the west, and floated 
 away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view.
 
 60 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while 
 Macavoy smoked, and sat looking into the distance, 
 surveying the sweet warmth and light. His face blos- 
 somed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of 
 an irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and 
 puffed in his beard, but perhaps that was involuntary, 
 or was, maybe, a vague reflection of his dreams, them- 
 selves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and 
 ah* and life. 
 
 Within an hour they saw the wild duck again passing 
 the crest of Guidon, and they watched it sailing down 
 to the Post, Pierre idly fondling the gun, Macavoy half 
 roused from his dreams. But presently they were alto- 
 gether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on 
 their feet; for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir 
 at the Post, and Hilton could be seen running from the 
 store to his house, not far away. 
 
 "Something's wrong there," said Pierre. 
 
 "D'ye think 'twas the duck brought it?" asked 
 Macavoy. 
 
 Without a word Pierre started away towards the 
 Post, Macavoy following. As they did so, a half-breed 
 boy came from the house, hurrying towards them. 
 
 Inside the house Hilton's wife lay in her bed, her 
 great hour coming on before the tune, because of ill 
 news from beyond the Guidon. There was with her an 
 old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her tune, had brought 
 many children into the world, whose heart brooded 
 tenderly, if uncouthly, over the dumb girl. She it was 
 who had handed to Hilton the paper the wild duck had 
 brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on 
 the floor. 
 
 The message that had felled the young wife was brief 
 and awful. A cloud-burst had fallen on Champak Hill,
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 61 
 
 had torn part of it away, and a part of this part had 
 swept down into the path that led to the little house, 
 having been stopped by some falling trees and a great 
 boulder. It blocked the only way to escape above, and 
 beneath, the river was creeping up to sweep away the 
 little house. So, there the mother and her children 
 waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing 
 death below and above. The wild duck had carried 
 the tale in its terrible simplicity. The last words were, 
 " There mayn't be any help for me and my sweet chicks, 
 but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. 
 But send soon, for we are cut off, and the end may come 
 any hour." 
 
 Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew 
 from Hilton all there was to know. At once Pierre 
 began to gather men, though what one or many could 
 do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians 
 watched the wild duck sailing away again from the 
 bedroom window where Ida lay, to carry a word of 
 comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked 
 for Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by 
 Hilton. He saw a pale, almost unearthly, yet beautiful 
 face, flushing and paling with a coming agony, looking 
 up at him; and presently two trembling hands made 
 those mystic signs which are the primal language of the 
 soul. Hilton interpreted to him this: "I have sent for 
 you. There is no man so big or strong as you in the 
 north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to re- 
 deem the note. I want my gift, and I will give you your 
 paper with the Queen's head on it. Those little lives, 
 those pretty little dears, you will not see them die. If 
 there is a way, any way, you will save them. Sometimes 
 one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my 
 wedding-gift: I claim you now."
 
 62 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid 
 the piece of brown paper in Macavoy's hand. He held 
 it for a moment as delicately as if it were a fragile bit 
 of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush by 
 touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed 
 beside her and said, looking Hilton in the eyes, "Tell 
 her, the slip av a saint she is, if the breakin' av me bones, 
 or the lettin' av me blood's what'll set all right at Cham- 
 pak Hill, let her mind be aisy aw yis!" 
 
 Soon afterwards they were all on their way all save 
 Hilton, whose duty was beside this other danger, for the 
 old nurse said that, "like as not," her life would hang 
 upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill came, his 
 place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink. 
 
 In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Cham- 
 pak Hill, looking down. There stood the little house, 
 as it were, between two dooms. Even Pierre's face 
 became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours 
 or minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, 
 had answered no question since they had left the Post. 
 There was in his eye the large seriousness, the intentness 
 which might be found in the face of a brave boy, who 
 had not learned fear, and yet saw a vast ditch of danger 
 at which he must leap. There was ever before him the 
 face of the dumb wife; there was in his ears the sound 
 of pain that had followed him from Hilton's house out 
 into the brilliant day. 
 
 The men stood helpless, and looked at each other. 
 They could not say to the river that it must rise no 
 farther, and they could not go to the house, nor let a 
 rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of the 
 hill which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it 
 was sheer precipice without trees. 
 
 There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 63 
 
 Pierre did not know, and at last, when despair seemed 
 to settle on the group, Macavoy, having spoken a low 
 word to Pierre, said: " There's wan way, an' maybe 
 I can an' maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up 
 the river to an aisy p'int a mile above, get in, and drift 
 down to a p'int below there, thin climb up and loose 
 the stuff." 
 
 Every man present knew the double danger: the 
 swift headlong river, and the sudden rush of rocks and 
 stones, which must be loosed on the side of the narrow 
 ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing 
 to say to the head-shakes of the others, and they did 
 not try to dissuade him; for women and children were 
 in the question, and there they were below beside the 
 house, the children gathered round the mother, she 
 waiting waiting. 
 
 Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only 
 a hatchet and a coil of rope tied round him, started 
 away alone up the river. The others waited, now and 
 again calling comfort to the woman below, though their 
 words could not be heard. About half an hour passed, 
 and then someone called out : " Here he comes!" Pres- 
 ently they could see the rough head and the bare shoul- 
 ders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There 
 was only one point where he could get a hold on the 
 hillside the jutting bole of a tree just beneath them, 
 and beneath the dyke of rock and trees. 
 
 It was a great moment. The current swayed him 
 out, but he plunged forward, catching at the bole. His 
 hand seized a small branch. It held him an instant, as 
 he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand 
 clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre 
 prompted, Macavoy drew himself up. After that they 
 could not see him. He alone was studying the situation.
 
 64 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To 
 loosen it was to divert the slide away, or partly away, 
 from the little house. But it could not be loosened from 
 above, if at all, and he himself would be in the path of 
 the destroying hill. 
 
 " Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. " It's 
 the woman and the darlins av her, an' the rose o' the 
 valley down there at the Post!" 
 
 A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory 
 sapling, he began to pry at the boulder which held the 
 mass. Presently a tree came crashing down, and a small 
 rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men above 
 and the woman and children below stood still for an 
 instant. An hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a 
 strange careful skill and a superhuman concentration. 
 His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat dripped 
 like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the key- 
 rock and the pile, alert, measuring, intent. At last he 
 paused. He looked round at the hills down at the 
 river, up at the sky humanity was shut away from his 
 sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke from his 
 pressed lips, stirring his big red beard. Then he gave 
 a call, a long call that echoed through the hills weirdly 
 and solemnly. 
 
 It reached the ears of those above like a greeting 
 from an outside world. They answered, " Right, Mac- 
 avoy!" 
 
 Years afterwards these men told how then there 
 came hi reply one word, ringing roundly through the 
 hills the note and symbol of a crisis, the fantastic 
 cipher of a soul 
 
 "M'Guire!" 
 
 There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, 
 the ravine split into the swollen stream its choking
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 65 
 
 mouthful of earth and rock; and a minute afterwards 
 the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it 
 came the unharmed children and their mother, who, 
 from the warm peak sent the wild duck "to the rose o' 
 the valley," which, till the message came, was trembling 
 on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous healer, 
 kept it blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, 
 whose happy tongue was taught in after years to tell 
 of the gift of the Simple King; who had redeemed, on 
 demand, the promissory note for ever.
 
 MALACHI 
 
 "HE'LL swing just the same to-morrow. Exit Mala- 
 chi!" said Freddy Tarlton gravely. 
 
 The door suddenly opened on the group of gossips, 
 and a man stepped inside and took the only vacant 
 seat near the fire. He glanced at none, but stretched 
 out his hands to the heat, looking at the coals with 
 drooping introspective eyes. 
 
 "Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft ironical 
 voice, but did not look up. 
 
 "By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring 
 from?" asked Tarlton genially. 
 
 "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and " Pierre 
 responded, with a little turn of his fingers. 
 
 "And the wind doesn't tell where it's been, but that's 
 no reason Pierre shouldn't," urged the other. 
 
 Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. 
 
 "He was a tough," said a voice from the crowd. 
 "To-morrow he'll get the breakfast he's paid for." 
 
 Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a 
 cold inquisitive stare. "Mon Dieu!" he said presently, 
 "here's this Gohawk playing preacher. What do you 
 know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of you 
 know about Malachi? A little of this, a little of that, 
 a drink here, a game of euchre there, a ride after cattle, 
 a hunt behind Guidon Hill! But what is that? You 
 have heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him 
 carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, but 
 what do you know of the eagle's nest? Mais non. 
 
 06
 
 MALACHI 67 
 
 The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don't 
 know the eagle till you've been there. And you, Go- 
 hawk, would not understand, if you saw the nest. 
 Such cancan!" 
 
 "Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk. "D'ye 
 think I'm going to stand your " 
 
 Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. "Keep 
 quiet, Gohawk. What good will it do?" Then he 
 said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they're hanging 
 him for the lamb in the morning." 
 
 "Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre asked. 
 
 "I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I could, 
 but the game was dead against him from the start. 
 The sheriff was popular, and young; young that was 
 the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! 
 It was sure from the start; besides, Malachi would say 
 nothing didn't seem to care." 
 
 "No, not to care," mused Pierre. "What did you 
 say for him to the jury? I mean the devil of a thing 
 to make them sit up and think, 'Poor Malachi!' like 
 that." 
 
 "Best speech y'ever heard," Gohawk interjected; 
 "just emptied the words out, split 'em like peas, by 
 gol! till he got to one place right before the end. Then 
 he pulled up sudden, and it got so quiet you could 
 'a heard a pin drop. 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' says 
 Freddy Tarlton here gen'kmen, by gol! all. that lot 
 Lagan and the rest! 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' he 
 says, 'be you danged well sure that you're at one with 
 God A'mighty in this; that you've got at the core of 
 justice here; that you've got evidence to satisfy Him 
 who you've all got to satisfy some day, or git out. 
 Not evidence as to shootin', but evidence as to what 
 that shootin' meant, an' whether it was meant to kill,
 
 68 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 an' what for. The case is like this, gen'lemen of the 
 jury/ says Freddy Tarlton here. 'Two men are in a 
 street alone. There's a shot, out comes everybody, 
 and sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the ground, his 
 mouth in the dust, and a full-up gun in his fingers. 
 Not forty feet away stands Malachi with a gun smokin' 
 in his fist. It seems to be the opinion that it was 
 cussedness just cussedness that made Malachi turn 
 the sheriffs boots to the sun. For Malachi was quar- 
 relsome. I'll give you a quarter on that. And the 
 sheriff was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like 
 as if he's lift himself over the fence with his boot- 
 straps. So when Malachi come and saw the sheriff 
 steppin' round in his paten' leathers, it give him the 
 needle, and he got a bead on him and away went 
 Sheriff Fargo right away! That seems to be the sense 
 of the public.' And he stops again, soft and quick, 
 and looks the twelve in the eyes at once. 'But,' says 
 Freddy Tarlton here, 'are you goin' to hang a man on 
 the little you know? Or are you goin' to credit him 
 with somethin' of what you don't know? You haint 
 got the inside of this thing, and Malachi doesn't let 
 you know it, and God keeps quiet. But be danged 
 well sure that you've got the bulge on iniquity here; 
 for gen'lemen with pistols out in the street is one thing, 
 and sittin' weavin' a rope in a court-room for a man's 
 neck is another thing,' says Freddy Tarlton here. 
 'My client has refused to say one word this or that 
 way, but don't be sure that Some One that knows the 
 inside of things won't speak for him in the end.' Then 
 he turns and looks at Malachi, and Malachi was standin' 
 still and steady like a tree, but his face was white, and 
 sweat poured on his forehead. 'If God has no voice 
 to be heard for my client in this court-room to-day, is
 
 MALACHI 69 
 
 there no one on earth no man or woman who can 
 speak for one who won't speak for himself?' says 
 Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol! for the first time 
 Malachi opened. 'There's no one,' he says. 'The 
 speakin' is all for the sheriff. But I spoke once, and 
 the sheriff didn't answer.' Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon 
 in it. It struck cold. ' I leave his case in the hands of 
 twelve true men,' says Freddy Tarlton here, and he 
 sits down." 
 
 "So they said he must walk the ah*?" suggested 
 Pierre. 
 
 "Without leavin' then* seats," someone added in- 
 stantly. 
 
 "So. But that speech of 'Freddy Tarlton here'?" 
 
 "It was worth twelve drinks to me, no more, and 
 nothing at all to Malachi," said Tarlton. "When I 
 said I'd come to him to-night to cheer him up, he said 
 he'd rather sleep. The missionary, too, he can make 
 nothing of him. 'I don't need anyone here,' he says. 
 'I eat this off my own plate.' And that's the end of 
 Malachi." 
 
 "Because there was no one to speak for him eh? 
 Well, well." 
 
 "If he'd said anything that'd justify the thing 
 make it a manslaughter business or a quarrel then! 
 But no, not a word, up or down, high or low. Exit 
 Malachi!" rejoined Freddy Tarlton sorrowfully. "I 
 wish he'd given me half a chance." 
 
 "I wish I'd been there," said Pierre, taking a match 
 from Gohawk, and lighting his cigarette. 
 
 "To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nodding 
 towards Tarlton. 
 
 "To tell the truth about it all. T'sh, you bats, you 
 sheep, what have you in your skulls? When a man
 
 70 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 will not speak, will not lie to gain a case for his lawyer 
 or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to 
 me, and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then 
 you shall judge. 
 
 "I never saw such a face as that girl had down there 
 at Lachine in Quebec. I knew her when she was a 
 child, and I knew Malachi when he was on the river 
 with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look 
 all open then as the sun yes. Happy? Yes, as 
 happy as a man ought to be. Well, the mother of the 
 child died, and Malachi alone was left to take care of 
 the little Norice. He left the river and went to work 
 in the mills, so that he might be with the child; and 
 when he got to be foreman there he used to bring her 
 to the mill. He had a basket swung for her just in- 
 side the mill not far from him, right where she was in 
 the shade; but if she stretched out her hand it would 
 be in the sun. I've seen a hundred men turn to look 
 at her where she swung, singing to herself, and then 
 chuckle to themselves afterwards as they worked. 
 
 "When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw 
 her, he swore, and was going to sack Malachi, but the 
 child that little Norice leaned over the basket, and 
 offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then 
 he reached up, took the apple, turned round, and went 
 out of the mill without a word so. Next month 
 when he come he walked straight to her, and handed 
 up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 'That's 
 to call me when you want me,' he said, as he put the 
 whistle to her lips, and then he put the gold string of 
 it round her neck. She was a wise little thing, that 
 Norice, and noticed things. I don't believe that Tre- 
 voor or Malachi ever knew how sweet was the smell 
 of the fresh sawdust till she held it to their noses; and
 
 MALACHI 71 
 
 it was she that had the saws all sizes start one after 
 the other, making so strange a tune. She made up a 
 little song about fairies and others to sing to that tune. 
 And no one ever thought much about Indian Island, 
 off beyond the sweating, baking piles of lumber, and 
 the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till she told 
 stories about it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut 
 doors and open windows of those empty houses, all 
 white without in the sun and dark within, and not a 
 human to be seen, you could believe almost anything. 
 You can think how proud Malachi was. She used to 
 get plenty of presents from the men who had no wives 
 or children to care for little silver and gold things as 
 well as others. She was fond of them, but no, not 
 vain. She loved the gold and silver for their own 
 sake." 
 
 Pierre paused. "I knew a youngster once," said 
 Gohawk, "that" 
 
 Pierre waved his hand. "I am not through, M'sieu' 
 Gohawk the talker. Years went on. Now she took 
 care of the house of Malachi. She wore the whistle 
 that Trevoor gave her. He kept saying to her still, 
 'If ever you need me, little Norice, blow it, and I will 
 come.' He was droll, that M'sieu' Trevoor, at tunes. 
 Well, she did not blow, but still he used to come every 
 year, and always brought her something. One year 
 he brought his nephew, a young fellow of about twenty- 
 three. She did not whistle for him either, but he kept 
 on coming. That was the beginning of 'Exit Malachi.' 
 The man was clever and bad, the girl believing and 
 good. He was young, but he knew how to win a 
 woman's heart. When that is done, there is nothing 
 more to do she is yours for good or evil; and if a man, 
 through a woman's love, makes her to sin, even his
 
 72 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 mother cannot be proud of him no. But the man 
 married Norice, and took her away to Madison, down 
 in Wisconsin. Malachi was left alone Malachi and 
 Trevoor, for Trevoor felt towards her as a father. 
 
 "Alors, sorrow come to the girl, for her husband 
 began to play cards and to drink, and he lost much 
 money. There was the trouble the two together. 
 They lived in a hotel. One day a lady missed a dia- 
 mond necklace from her room. Norice had been with 
 her the evening before. Norice come into her own 
 room the next afternoon, and found detectives search- 
 ing. In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away 
 in the pocket of an old dress, was found the necklace. 
 She was arrested. She said nothing for she waited 
 for her husband, who was out of town that day. He 
 only come hi time to see her in court next morning. 
 She did not deny anything; she was quiet, like Mala- 
 chi. The man played his part well. He had hid the 
 necklace where he thought it would be safe, but when 
 it was found, he let the wife take the blame a little 
 innocent thing. People were sorry for them both. 
 She was sent to jail. Her father was away in the 
 Rocky Mountains, and he did not hear; Trevoor was 
 in Europe. The husband got a divorce, and was gone. 
 Norice was in jail for over a year, and then she was set 
 free, for her health went bad, and her mind was going, 
 they thought. She did not know till she come out that 
 she was divorced. Then she nearly died. But then 
 Trevoor come." 
 
 Freddy Tarlton's hands were cold with excitement, 
 and his fingers trembled so he could hardly light a 
 cigar. 
 
 "Go on, go on, Pierre," he said huskily. 
 
 "Trevoor said to her he told me this himself
 
 MALACHI 73 
 
 'Why did you not whistle for me, Norice? A word 
 would have brought me from Europe.' 'No one 
 could help me, no one at all/ she answered. Then 
 Trevoor said, 'I know who did it, for he has robbed 
 me too.' She sank in a heap on the floor. 'I could 
 have borne it and anything for him, if he hadn't di- 
 vorced me,' she said. Then they cleared her name 
 before the world. But where was the man? No one 
 knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, 
 heard of her trouble, for Norice wrote to him, but told 
 him not to do the man any harm, if he ever found him 
 ah, a woman, a woman! . . . But Malachi met the 
 man one day at Guidon Hill, and shot him in the 
 street." 
 
 "Fargo the sheriff!" roared half-a-dozen voices. 
 
 "Yes; he had changed his name, had come up here, 
 and because he was clever and spent money, and had 
 a pull on someone, got it at cards perhaps, he was 
 made sheriff." 
 
 "In God's name, why didn't Malachi speak?" said 
 Tarlton; "why didn't he tell me this?" 
 
 "Because he and I had our own plans. The one evi- 
 dence he wanted was Norice. If she would come to 
 him in his danger, and in spite of his killing the man, 
 good. If not, then he would die. Well, I went to 
 find her and fetch her. I found her. There was no 
 way to send word, so we had to come on as fast as we 
 could. We have come just in time." 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Pierre, that she's here?" said 
 Gohawk. 
 
 Pierre waved his hand emphatically. "And so we 
 came on with a pardon." 
 
 Every man was on his feet, every man's tongue was 
 loosed, and each ordered liquor for Pierre, and asked
 
 74 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 him where the girl was. Freddy Tarlton wrung his 
 hand, and called a boy to go to his rooms and bring 
 throe bottles of wine, which he had kept for two years, 
 to drink when he had won his first big case. 
 
 Gohawk was importunate. " Where is the girl, 
 Pierre?" he urged. 
 
 "Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is with her 
 father." 
 
 A half-hour later, hi a large sitting-room, Freddy 
 Tarlton was making eloquent toasts over the wine. 
 As they all stood drinking to Pierre, the door opened 
 from the hall-way, and Malachi stood before them. 
 At his shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a 
 kind of happiness too; and the eyes had depths which 
 any man might be glad to drown his heart in. 
 
 Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or 
 awkwardness fell on the group at the table. 
 
 But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: "May 
 we come in?" 
 
 In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and 
 had her by the hand, her and her father, drawing them 
 over. 
 
 His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for 
 many a day. 
 
 And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy.
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 
 
 WHEN Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so 
 called, Pierre said: "Because of the Great Slave;" 
 and then paused. 
 
 Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If 
 he wished to tell, he would in his own time; if not, 
 nothing could draw it from him. It was nearly an 
 hour before Pierre eased off from the puzzle he was 
 solving with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He 
 began as if they had been speaking the moment before: 
 
 "They have said it is legend, but I know better. I 
 have seen the records of the Company, and it is all 
 there. I was at Fort O'Glory once, and in a box two 
 hundred years old the factor and I found it. There 
 were other papers, and some of them had large red 
 seals, and a name scrawled along the end of the page." 
 
 Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. 
 He was a born story-teller. Tybalt was aching with 
 interest, for he scented a thing of note. 
 
 "How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, 
 begin?" he asked. 
 
 11 'To our dearly-beloved,' or something like that," 
 answered Pierre. "There were letters also. Two of 
 them were full of harsh words, and these were signed 
 with the scrawl." 
 
 "What was that scrawl?" asked Tybalt. 
 
 Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words 
 with his finger. "Like that," he answered. 
 
 Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew 
 
 75
 
 76 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 a long breath. "Charles Rex," he said, hardly above 
 his breath. 
 
 Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. "That 
 name was droll, eh?" 
 
 Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of discov- 
 ery. " It is a great name," he said shortly. 
 
 "The Slave was great the Indians said so at the 
 last." 
 
 "But that was not the name of the Slave?" 
 
 "Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex like that! 
 was the man who wrote the letters." 
 
 "To the Great Slave?" 
 
 Pierre made a gesture of impatience. "Very sure." 
 
 "Where are those letters now?" 
 
 "With the Governor of the Company." 
 
 Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe savagely. 
 
 "You'd have liked one of those papers?" asked 
 Pierre provokingly. 
 
 "I'd give five hundred dollars for one," broke out 
 Tybalt. 
 
 Pierre lifted his eyebrows. "T'sh, what's the good 
 of five hundred dollars up here? What would you do 
 with a letter like that?" 
 
 Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for Pierre was 
 clearly "rubbing it in." 
 
 "Perhaps for a book?" gently asked Pierre. 
 
 "Yes, if you like." 
 
 "It is a pity. But there is a way." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Put me in the book. Then" 
 
 "How does that touch the case?" 
 
 Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he thought 
 Tybalt was unusually obtuse. Tybalt thought so 
 himself before the episode ended.
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 77 
 
 "Go on," he said, with clouded brow, but interested 
 eye. Then, as if with sudden thought: "To whom 
 were the letters addressed, Pierre?" 
 
 "Wait!" was the reply. "One letter said: 'Good 
 cousin, We are evermore glad to have thee and thy 
 most excelling mistress near us. So, fail us not at our 
 cheerful doings, yonder at Highgate.' Another a year 
 after said: 'Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, 
 get thee gone into some distant corner of our pasturage 
 the farthest doth please us most. We would not 
 have thee on foreign ground, for we bear no ill-will to 
 our brother princes, and yet we would not have thee 
 near our garden of good loyal souls, for thou hast a 
 rebel heart and a tongue of divers tunes. Thou lovest 
 not the good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying 
 us, thy lady shall keep thine estates untouched; failing 
 obedience, thou wilt make more than thy prince un- 
 happy. Fare thee well.' That was the way of two 
 letters," said Pierre. 
 
 "How do you remember so?" 
 
 Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. "It is easy with 
 things like that." 
 
 "But word for word?" 
 
 "I learned it word for word." 
 
 "Now for the story of the Lake if you won't tell 
 me the name of the man." 
 
 "The name afterwards perhaps. Well, he came to 
 that, farthest corner of the pasturage, to the Hudson's 
 Bay country, two hundred years ago. What do you 
 think? Was he so sick of all, that he would go so 
 far he could never get back? Maybe those 'cheerful 
 doings' at Highgate, eh? And the lady who can tell? " 
 
 Tybalt seized Pierre's arm. "You know more. 
 Damnation, can't you see I'm on needles to hear?
 
 78 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Was there anything in the letters about the lady? 
 Anything more than you've told?" 
 
 Pierre liked no man's hand on him. He glanced 
 down at the eager fingers, and said coldly: 
 
 "You are a great man; you can tell a story in many 
 ways, but I in one way alone, and that is my way 
 mais oui!" 
 
 "Very well, take your own tune." 
 
 "Bien. I got the story from two heads. If you 
 hear a thing like that from Indians, you call it 'legend'; 
 if from the Company's papers, you call it 'history.' 
 Well, in this there is not much difference. The papers 
 tell precise the facts; the legend gives the feeling, is 
 more true. How can you judge the facts if you don't 
 know the feeling? No! what is bad turns good some- 
 times, when you know the how, the feeling, the place. 
 Well, this story of the Great Slave eh? . . . There 
 is a race of Indians hi the far north who have hair 
 so brown like yours, m'sieu', and eyes no darker. 
 It is said they are of those that lived at the Pole, be- 
 fore the sea swamped the Isthmus, and swallowed up 
 so many islands. So. In those days the fair race 
 came to the south for the first time, that is, far below 
 the Circle. They had their women with them. I have 
 seen those of to-day: fine and tall, with breasts like 
 apples, and a cheek to tempt a man like you, m'sieu'; 
 no grease in the hair no, M'sieu' Tybalt." 
 
 Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, but 
 his eyes were fixed intently on Pierre, his mind ever 
 travelling far ahead of the tale. 
 
 "Alors: the 'good cousin' of Charles Rex, he made 
 a journey with two men to the Far-off Metal River, 
 and one day this tribe from the north come on his 
 camp. It was summer, and they were camping in the
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 79 
 
 Valley of the Young Moon, more sweet, they say, than 
 any in the north. The Indians cornered them. There 
 was a fight, and one of the Company's men was killed, 
 and five of the other. But when the king of the people 
 of the Pole saw that the great man was fair of face, he 
 called for the fight to stop. 
 
 " There was a big talk all by signs, and the king said 
 for the great man to come and be one with them, for 
 they liked his fair face their forefathers were fair 
 like hun. He should have the noblest of their women 
 for his wife, and be a prince among them. He would 
 not go: so they drew away again and fought. A 
 stone-axe brought the great man to the ground. He 
 was stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave 
 up, and said he would be one of them if they would 
 take hun. They would have killed him but for one 
 of their women. She said that he should live to tell 
 them tales of the south country and the strange people, 
 when they came again to their camp-fires. So they 
 let him live, and he was one of them. But the chief 
 man, because he was stubborn and scorned them, and 
 had killed the son of their king in the fight, they made 
 a slave, and carried him north a captive, till they came 
 to this lake the Lake of the Great Slave. 
 
 "In all ways they tried hun, but he would not yield, 
 neither to wear their dress nor to worship their gods. 
 He was robbed of his clothes, of his gold-handled 
 dagger, his belt of silk and silver, his carbine with rich 
 chasing, and all, and he was among them almost naked, 
 it was summer, as I said, yet defying them. He was 
 taller by a head than any of them, and his white skin 
 rippled in the sun like soft steel." 
 
 Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he knew all 
 this, but he held his peace. Pierre, as if divining his 
 thoughts, continued:
 
 80 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "You ask how I know these things. Very good: 
 there are the legends, and there were the papers of 
 the Company. The Indians tried every way, but it 
 was no use; he would have nothing to say to them. 
 At last they came to this lake. Now something great 
 occurred. The woman who had been the wife of the 
 king's dead son, her heart went out in love of the 
 Great Slave; but he never looked at her. One day 
 there were great sports, for it was the feast of the Red 
 Star. The young men did feats of strength, here on 
 this ground where we sit. The king's wife called out 
 for the Great Slave to measure strength with them 
 all. He would not stir. The king commanded him; 
 still he would not, but stood among them silent and 
 looking far away over their heads. At last, two young 
 men of good height and bone threw arrows at his bare 
 breast. The blood came in spots. Then he gave a 
 cry through his beard, and was on them like a lion. 
 He caught them, one hi each arm, swung them from 
 the ground, and brought their heads together with a 
 crash, breaking their skulls, and dropped them at his 
 feet. Catching up a long spear, he waited for the 
 rest. But they did not come, for, with a loud voice, 
 the king told them to fall back, and went and felt the 
 bodies of the men. One of them was dead; the other 
 was his second son he would live. 
 
 "'It is a great deed,' said the king, 'for these were 
 no children, but strong men.' 
 
 "Then again he offered the Great Slave women to 
 marry, and fifty tents of deerskin for the making of a 
 village. But the Great Slave said no, and asked to be 
 sent back to Fort O'Glory. 
 
 "The king refused. But that night, as he slept in 
 his tent, the girl- widow came to him, waked him, and 
 told him to follow her. He came forth, and she led
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 81 
 
 him softly through the silent camp to that wood which 
 we see over there. He told her she need not go on. 
 Without a word, she reached over and kissed him on 
 the breast. Then he understood. He told her that 
 she could not come with him, for there was that lady 
 in England his wife, eh? But never mind, that will 
 come. He was too great to save his life, or be free at 
 the price. Some are born that way. They have their 
 own commandments, and they keep them. 
 
 "He told her that she must go back. She gave a 
 little cry, and sank down at his feet, saying that her 
 life would be in danger if she went back. 
 
 "Then he told her to come, for it was in his mind to 
 bring her to Fort 0' Glory, where she could marry an 
 Indian there. But now she would not go with him, 
 and turned towards the village. A woman is a strange 
 creature yes, like that! He refused to go and leave 
 her. She was in danger, and he would share it, what- 
 ever it might be. So, though she prayed him not, he 
 went back with her; and when she saw that he would 
 go in spite of all, she was glad : which is like a woman. 
 
 "When he entered the tent again, he guessed her 
 danger, for he stepped over the bodies of two dead 
 men. She had killed them. As she turned at the 
 door to go to her own tent, another woman faced her. 
 It was the wife of the king, who had suspected, and 
 had now found out. Who can tell what it was? 
 Jealousy, perhaps. The Great Slave could tell, maybe, 
 if he could speak, for a man always knows when a 
 woman sets him high. Anyhow, that was the way it 
 stood. In a moment the girl was marched back to 
 her tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie of the 
 widow of the king's son. 
 
 "To it there was an end after the way of their laws.
 
 82 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 The woman should die by fire, and the man, as the 
 king might will. So there was a great gathering in the 
 place where we are, and the king sat against that big 
 white stone, which is now as it was then. Silence was 
 called, and they brought the girl-widow forth. The 
 king spoke: 
 
 '"Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, didst 
 go in the night to the tent of the slave who killed thy 
 husband; whereby thou also becamest a slave, and 
 didst shame the greatness which was given thee. Thou 
 shalt die, as has been set in our laws.' 
 
 "The girl- widow rose, and spoke. 'I did not know, 
 O king, that he whom thou madest a slave slew my 
 husband, the prince of our people, and thy son. That 
 was not told me. But had I known it, still would I 
 have set him free, for thy son was killed in fair battle, 
 and this man deserves not slavery or torture. I did 
 seek the tent of the Great Slave, and it was to set him 
 free no more. For that did I go, and, for the rest, 
 my soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I have done 
 naught, and never did, nor ever will, that might shame 
 a king, or the daughter of a king, or the wife of a king, 
 or a woman. If to set a great captive free is death for 
 me, then am I ready. I will answer all pure women 
 in the far Camp of the Great Fires without fear. 
 There is no more, king, that I may say, but this: 
 she who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may choose 
 who shall light the faggots is it not so?' 
 
 "Then the king replied: 'It is so. Such is our law.' 
 
 "There was counselling between the king and his 
 oldest men, and so long were they handling the matter 
 backwards and forwards that it seemed she might go 
 free. But the king's wife, seeing, came and spoke to 
 the king and the others, crying out for the honour of
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 83 
 
 her dead son; so that in a moment of anger they all 
 cried out for death. 
 
 "When the king said again to the girl that she must 
 die by fire, she answered : ' It is as the gods will. But 
 it is so, as I said, that I may choose who shall light 
 the fires?' 
 
 "The king answered yes, and asked her whom she 
 chose. She pointed towards the Great Slave. And 
 all, even the king and his councillors, wondered, for 
 they knew little of the heart of women. What is a 
 man with a matter like that? Nothing nothing at 
 all. They would have set this for punishment: that 
 she should ask for it was beyond them. Yes, even the 
 king's wife it was beyond her. But the girl herself, 
 see you, was it not this way? If she died by the hand 
 of him she loved, then it would be easy, for she could 
 forget the pain, in the thought that his heart would ache 
 for her, and that at the very last he might care, and 
 she should see it. She was great hi her way also 
 that girl, two hundred years ago. 
 
 " AlorSj they led her a little distance off, there is 
 the spot, where you see the ground heave a little, 
 and the Great Slave was brought up. The king told 
 him why the girl was to die. He went like stone, 
 looking, looking at them. He knew that the girl's 
 heart was like a little child's, and the shame and cruelty 
 of the thing froze him silent for a minute, and the 
 colour flew from his face to here and there on his body, 
 as a flame on marble. The cords began to beat and 
 throb in his neck and on his forehead, and his eyes gave 
 out fire like flint on an arrow-head. 
 
 "Then he began to talk. He could not say much, 
 for he knew so little of their language. But it was 
 'No!' every other word. 'No no no no!' the
 
 84 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 words ringing from his chest. 'She is good!' he said. 
 'The other no!' and he made a motion with his 
 hand. 'She must not die no! Evil? It is a lie! I 
 will kill each man that says it, one by one, if he dares 
 come forth. She tried to save me well?' Then he 
 made them know that he was of high place in a far 
 country, and that a man like him would not tell a lie. 
 That pleased the king, for he was proud, and he saw 
 that the Slave was of better stuff than himself. Be- 
 sides, the king was a brave man, and he had strength, 
 and more than once he had laid his hand on the chest 
 of the other, as one might on a grand animal. Per- 
 haps, even then, they might have spared the girl was 
 it not for the queen. She would not hear of it. Then 
 they tried the Great Slave, and he was found guilty. 
 The queen sent him word to beg for pardon. So he 
 stood out and spoke to the queen. She sat up straight, 
 with pride in her eyes, for was it not a great prince, as 
 she thought, asking? But a cloud fell on her face, for 
 he begged the girl's life. Since there must be death, 
 let him die, and die by fire in her place! It was then 
 two women cried out: the poor girl for joy not at 
 the thought that her life would be saved, but because 
 she thought the man loved her now, or he would not 
 offer to die for her; and the queen for hate, because 
 she thought the same. You can guess the rest: they 
 were both to die, though the king was sorry for the 
 man. 
 
 "The king's speaker stood out and asked them if 
 they had anything to say. The girl stepped forward, 
 her face without any fear, but a kind of noble pride 
 in it, and said: 'I am ready, king/ 
 
 "The Great Slave bowed his head, and was thinking 
 much. They asked him again, and he waved his hand
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 85 
 
 at. them. The king spoke up in anger, and then he 
 smiled and said: 'O king, I am not ready; if I die, I 
 die.' Then he fell to thinking again. But once more 
 the king spoke: 'Thou shalt surely die, but not by 
 fire, nor now; nor till we have come to our great camp 
 in our own country. There thou shalt die. But the 
 woman shall die at the going down of the sun. She 
 shall die by fire, and thou shalt light the faggots for 
 the burning.' 
 
 "The Great Slave said he would not do it, not 
 though he should die a hundred deaths. Then the 
 king said that it was the woman's right to choose who 
 should start the fire, and he had given his word, which 
 should not be broken. 
 
 "When the Great Slave heard this he was wild for a 
 little, and then he guessed altogether what was in the 
 girl's mind. Was not this the true thing in her, the 
 very truest? Mais oui! That was what she wished 
 to die by his hand rather than by any other; and 
 something troubled his breast, and a cloud came in his 
 eyes, so that for a moment he could not see. He 
 looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Perhaps she 
 understood. So, after a tune, he got calm as the farthest 
 light in the sky, his face shining among them all with 
 a look none could read. He sat down, and wrote upon 
 pieces of bark with a spear-point those bits of bark 
 I have seen also at Fort O'Glory. He pierced them 
 through with dried strings of the slippery-elm tree, and 
 with the king's consent gave them to the Company's 
 man, who had become one of the people, telling him, 
 if ever he was free, or could send them to the Company, 
 he must do so. The man promised, and shame came 
 upon him that he had let the other suffer alone; and 
 he said he was willing to fight and die if the Great
 
 86 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Slave gave the word. But he would not; and he 
 urged that it was right for the man to save his life. 
 For himself, no. It could never be; and if he must 
 die, he must die. 
 
 "You see, a great man must always live alone and 
 die alone, when there are only such people about him. 
 So, now that the letters were written, he sat upon the 
 ground and thought, looking often towards the girl, 
 who was placed apart, with guards near. The king 
 sat thinking also. He could not guess why the Great 
 Slave should give the letters now, since he was not yet 
 to die, nor could the Company's man show a reason 
 when the king asked him. So the king waited, and 
 told the guards to see that the Great Slave did not kill 
 himself. 
 
 "But the queen wanted the death of the girl, and 
 was glad beyond telling that the Slave must light the 
 faggots. She was glad when she saw the young braves 
 bring a long sapling from the forest, and, digging a 
 hole, put it stoutly in the ground, and fetch wood, 
 and heap it about. 
 
 "The Great Slave noted that the bark of the sap- 
 ling had not been stripped, and more than once he 
 measured, with his eye, the space between the stake 
 and the shores of the Lake: he did this most private, 
 so that no one saw but the girl. 
 
 "At last the time was come. The Lake was all rose 
 and gold out there in the west, and the water so still- 
 so still. The cool, moist scent of the leaves and grass 
 came out from the woods and up from the plain, and 
 the world was so full of content that a man's heart 
 could cry out, even as now, while we look eh, is it not 
 good? See the deer drinking on the other shore there ! " 
 
 Suddenly Pierre became silent, as if he had forgotten
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 87 
 
 the story altogether. Tybalt was impatient, but he 
 did not speak. He took a twig, and in the sand he 
 wrote " Charles Rex" Pierre glanced down and saw it. 
 
 "There was beating of the little drums," he con- 
 tinued, "and the crying of the king's speaker; and 
 soon all was ready, and the people gathered at a dis- 
 tance, and the king and the queen, and the chief men 
 nearer; and the girl was brought forth. 
 
 "As they led her past the Great Slave, she looked 
 into his eyes, and afterwards her heart was glad, for 
 she knew that at the last he would be near her, and that 
 his hand should light the fires. Two men tied her to 
 the stake. Then the king's man cried out again, telling 
 of her crime, and calling for her death. The Great 
 Slave was brought near. No one knew that the palms 
 of his hands had been rubbed in the sand for a pur- 
 pose. When he was brought beside the stake, a torch 
 was given him by his guards. He looked at the girl, 
 and she smiled at him, and said: 'Good-bye. For- 
 give. I die not afraid, and happy.' 
 
 "He did not answer, but stooped and lit the sticks 
 here and there. All at once he snatched a burning 
 stick, and it and the torch he thrust, like lightning, in 
 the faces of his guards, blinding them. Then he sprang 
 to the stake, and, with a huge pull, tore it from the 
 ground, girl and all, and rushed to the shore of the 
 Lake, with her tied so in his arms. 
 
 "He had been so swift that, at first, no one stirred. 
 He reached the shore, rushed into the water, dragging 
 a boat out with one hand as he did so, and, putting the 
 girl in, seized a paddle and was away with a start. A 
 few strokes, and then he stopped, picked up a hatchet 
 that was in the boat with many spears, and freed the 
 girl. Then he paddled on, trusting, with a small hope,
 
 88 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 that through his great strength he could keep ahead 
 till darkness came, and then, in the gloom, they might 
 escape. The girl also seized an oar, and the canoe 
 the king's own canoe came on like a swallow. 
 
 "But the tribe was after them in fifty canoes, some 
 coming straight along, some spreading out to close in 
 later. It was no equal game, for these people were so 
 quick and strong with the oars, and they were a hun- 
 dred or more to two. There could be but one end. 
 It was what the Great Slave had looked for: to fight 
 till the last breath. He should fight for the woman 
 who had risked all for him just a common woman of 
 the north, but it seemed good to lose his life for her; 
 and she would be happy to die with him. 
 
 "So they stood side by side when the spears and 
 arrows fell round them, and they gave death and wounds 
 for wounds in their own bodies. When, at last, the 
 Indians climbed into the canoe, the Great Slave was 
 dead of many wounds, and the woman, all gashed, lay 
 with her lips to his wet, red cheek. She smiled as they 
 dragged her away; and her soul hurried after his to 
 the Camp of the Great Fires." 
 
 It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said : 
 " If I could but tell it as you have told it to me, Pierre ! " 
 
 Pierre answered: "Tell it with your tongue, and 
 this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What 
 English have I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not 
 write it, mais non! Writing wanders from the matter. 
 The eyes, and the tongue, and the tune, that is the 
 thing. But in a book it will sound all cold and thin. 
 It is for the north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk 
 before a man rolls into his blanket, and is at peace. 
 No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere with 
 your tongue."
 
 THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 89 
 
 "And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, 
 tell me more about the letters at Fort O' Glory. You 
 know his name what was it?" 
 
 "You said five hundred dollars for one of those 
 letters. Is it not?" 
 
 "Yes." Tybalt had a new hope. 
 
 "T'sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! 
 But, here, answer me a question: Was the lady his 
 wife, she that was left in England a good woman? 
 Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. 
 If you say right you shall have a letter one that I 
 have by me." 
 
 Tybalt's heart leapt into his throat. After a little 
 he said huskily: "She was a good woman he believed 
 her that, and so shall I." 
 
 "You think he could not have been so great unless, 
 eh? And that 'Charles Rex/ what of him?" 
 
 "What good can it do to call him bad now?" 
 
 Without a word, Pierre drew from a leather wallet 
 a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting sun, Tybalt 
 read it, then read it again, and yet again. 
 
 "Poor soul! poor lady!" he said. "Was ever such 
 another letter written to any man? And it came too 
 late; this, with the king's recall, came too late!" 
 
 "So so. He died out there where that wild duck 
 flies a Great Slave. Years after, the Company's 
 man brought word of all." 
 
 Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of 
 the letter. 
 
 "How do they call that name?" asked Pierre. "It 
 is like none I've seen no." 
 
 Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not 
 answer.
 
 THE RED PATROL 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE'S, Canterbury, had given him its licen- 
 tiate's hood, the Bishop of Rupert's Land had ordained 
 him, and the North had swallowed him up. He had 
 gone forth with surplice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the 
 prayer-book, and that other Book of all. Indian camps, 
 trappers' huts, and Company's posts had given him 
 hospitality, and had heard him with patience and con- 
 sideration. At first he wore the surplice, stole, and hood, 
 took the eastward position, and intoned the service, 
 and no man said him nay, but watched him curiously 
 and was sorrowful he was so youthful, clear of eye, 
 and bent on doing heroical things. 
 
 But little by little there came a change. The hood 
 was left behind at Fort 0' Glory, where it provoked 
 the derision of the Methodist missionary who followed 
 him; the sermon-case stayed at Fort O'Battle; and at 
 last the surplice itself was put by at the Company's post 
 at Yellow Quill. He was too excited and in earnest at 
 first to see the effect of his ministrations, but there 
 came slowly over him the knowledge that he was talking 
 into space. He felt something returning on him out of 
 the ah* into which he talked, and buffeting him. It was 
 the Spirit of the North, in which lives the terror, the 
 large heart of things, the soul of the past. He awoke to 
 his inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to whom 
 he talked, listened, and only listened, and treated him 
 with a gentleness which was almost pity as one might 
 a woman. He had talked doctrine, the Church, the 
 
 90
 
 THE RED PATROL 91 
 
 sacraments, and at Fort O'Battle he faced definitely the 
 futility of his work. What was to blame the Church 
 religion himself? 
 
 It was at Fort O'Battle that he met Pierre, and heard 
 a voice say over his shoulder, as he walked out into the 
 icy dusk: " The voice of one crying in the wilderness . . . 
 and he had sackcloth about his loins, and his food was 
 locusts and wild honey." 
 
 He turned to see Pierre, who in the large room of the 
 Post had sat and watched him as he prayed and 
 preached. He had remarked the keen, curious eye, the 
 musing look, the habitual disdain at the lips. It had 
 all touched him, confused him; and now he had a kind 
 of anger. 
 
 "You know it so well, why don't you preach your- 
 self?" he said feverishly. 
 
 "I have been preaching all my Me," Pierre answered 
 drily. 
 
 "The devil's games: cards and law-breaking; and 
 you sneer at men who try to bring lost sheep into the 
 fold." 
 
 "The fold of the Church yes, I understand all that," 
 Pierre answered. "I have heard you and the priests 
 of my father's Church talk. Which is right? But as 
 for me, I am a missionary. Cards, law-breaking these 
 are what I have done; but these are not what I have 
 preached." 
 
 "What have you preached?" asked the other, walk- 
 ing on into the fast-gathering night, beyond the Post 
 and the Indian lodges, into the wastes where frost and 
 silence lived. 
 
 Pierre waved his hand towards space. "This," he 
 said suggestively. 
 
 "What's this!" asked the other fretfully.
 
 92 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "The thing you feel round you here." 
 
 "I feel the cold," was the petulant reply. 
 
 "I feel the immense, the far off," said Pierre slowly. 
 
 The other did not understand as yet. " You've 
 learned big words," he said disdainfully. 
 
 "No; big things," rejoined Pierre sharply "a few." 
 
 "Let me hear you preach them," half snarled Sher- 
 burne. 
 
 "You will not like to hear them no." 
 
 "I'm not likely to think about them one way or 
 another," was the contemptuous reply. 
 
 Pierre's eyes half closed. The young, impetuous half- 
 baked college man. To set his little knowledge against 
 his own studious vagabondage! At that instant he 
 determined to play a game and win; to turn this man 
 into a vagabond also; to see John the Baptist become a 
 Bedouin. He saw the doubt, the uncertainty, the shat- 
 tered vanity in the youth's mind, the missionary's half 
 retreat from his cause. A crisis was at hand. The youth 
 was fretful with his great theme, instead of being severe 
 upon himself. For days and days Pierre's presence had 
 acted on Sherburne silently but forcibly. He had 
 listened to the vagabond's philosophy, and knew that it 
 was of a deeper so much deeper knowledge of life 
 than he himself possessed, and he knew also that it was 
 terribly true; he was not wise enough to see that it 
 was only true hi part. The influence had been insidious, 
 delicate, cunning, and he himself was only "a voice 
 crying in the wilderness," without the simple creed of 
 that voice. He knew that the Methodist missionary 
 was believed in more, if less liked, than himself. 
 
 Pierre would work now with all the latent devilry of 
 his nature to unseat the man from his saddle. 
 
 "You have missed the great thing, alors, though you
 
 THE RED PATROL 93 
 
 have been up here two years," he said. "You do not 
 feel, you do not know. What good have you done? 
 Who has got on his knees and changed his life because 
 of you? Who has told his beads or longed for the Mass 
 because of you? Tell me, who has ever said, * You have 
 showed me how to live '? Even the women, though they 
 cry sometimes when you sing-song the prayers, go on 
 just the same when the little 'bless-you' is over. Why? 
 Most of them know a better thing than you tell them. 
 Here is the truth : you are little eh, so very little. You 
 never lied direct; you never stole the waters that are 
 sweet; you never knew the big dreams that come with 
 wine in the dead of night; you never swore at your own 
 soul and heard it laugh back at you; you never put 
 your face in the breast of a woman do not look so wild 
 at me! you never had a child; you never saw the world 
 and yourself through the doors of real life. You never 
 have said, 'I am tired; I am sick of all; I have seen all.' 
 You have never felt what came after understanding. 
 Chut, your talk is for children and missionaries. You 
 are a prophet without a call, you are a leader without a 
 man to lead, you are less than a child up here. For here 
 the children feel a peace in their blood when the stars 
 come out, and a joy in their brains when the dawn comes 
 up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, and the west 
 wind shouts at them. Holy Mother ! we in the far north, 
 we feel things, for all the great souls of the dead are up 
 there at the Pole in the pleasant land, and we have seen 
 the Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You have 
 seen nothing. You have only heard, and because, like 
 a child, you have never sinned, you come and preach 
 to us!" ' 
 
 The night was folding down fast, all the stars were 
 shooting out into then 1 places, and in the north the
 
 94 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 white lights of the aurora were flying to and fro. Pierre 
 had spoken with a slow force and precision, yet, as he 
 went on, his eyes almost became fixed on those shift- 
 ing flames, and a deep look came into them, as he was 
 moved by his own eloquence. Never in his life had he 
 made so long a speech at once. He paused, and then 
 said suddenly: "Come, let us run." 
 
 He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sherburne did 
 the same. With their arms gathered to their sides they 
 ran for quite two miles without a word, until the heavy 
 breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up suddenly. 
 
 "You do not run well," he said; "you do not run 
 with the whole body. You know so little. Did you 
 ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite 
 know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like 
 an animal's ways, and a man's face like like the writ- 
 ing on the wall." 
 
 "Like the writing on the wall," said Sherburne, mu- 
 sing; for, under the other's influence, his petulance was 
 gone. He knew that he was not a part of this life, that 
 he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was vital in 
 it and in men and women. 
 
 "I think you began this too soon. You should have 
 waited; then you might have done good. But here we 
 are wiser than you. You have no message no real 
 message to give us; down in your heart you are not 
 even sure of yourself." 
 
 Sherburne sighed. "I'm of no use," he said. "I'll 
 get out. I'm no good at all." 
 
 Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered how, the 
 day before, this youth had said hot words about his 
 card-playing; had called him in effect a thief; had 
 treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of 
 St. Augustine's, Canterbury.
 
 95 
 
 "It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said, "that 
 no man shall look for this or that of you. Just to do as 
 far as you feel, as far as you are sure that is the best. 
 In this you are not sure no. Hein, is it not?" 
 
 Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, wretched- 
 ness, the spirit of the alien, loneliness, were alive in him. 
 The magnetism of this deep penetrating man, possessed 
 of a devil, was on him, and in spite of every reasonable 
 instinct he turned to him for companionship. 
 
 "It's been a failure," he burst out, "and I'm sick of 
 it sick of it; but I can't give it up." 
 
 Pierre said nothing. They had come to what seemed 
 a vast semicircle of ice and snow, a huge amphitheatre 
 in the plains. It was wonderful : a great round wall on 
 which the northern lights played, into which the stars 
 peered. It was open towards the north, and in one side 
 was a fissure shaped like a Gothic arch. Pierre pointed 
 to it, and they did not speak till they had passed through 
 it. Like great seats the steppes of snow ranged round, 
 and in the centre was a kind of plateau of ice, as it might 
 seem a stage or an altar. To the north there was a great 
 opening, the lost arc of the circle, through which the 
 mystery of the Pole swept in and out, or brooded there 
 where no man may question it. Pierre stood and looked. 
 Time and again he had been here, and had asked the 
 same question: Who had ever sat on those frozen benches 
 and looked down at the drama on that stage below? 
 Who played the parts? Was it a farce or a sacrifice? To 
 him had been given the sorrow of imagination, and he 
 wondered and wondered. Or did they come still those 
 strange people, whoever they were and watch ghostly 
 gladiators at their fatal sport? If they came, when was 
 it? Perhaps they were there now unseen. In spite of 
 himself he shuddered. Who was the keeper of the house?
 
 96 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Through his mind there ran pregnant to him for the 
 first time a chanson of the Scarlet Hunter, the Red 
 Patrol, who guarded the sleepers in the Kimash Hills 
 against the time they should awake and possess the 
 land once more: the friend of the lost, the lover of the 
 vagabond, and of all who had no home: 
 
 "Strangers come to the outer walls 
 
 (Why do the sleepers stir?) 
 Strangers enter the Judgment House 
 
 (Why do the sleepers sigh ?) 
 Slow they rise in their judgment seats, 
 Sieve and measure the naked souls, 
 Then with a blessing return to sleep 
 
 (Quiet the Judgment House.} 
 Lone and sick are the vagrant souls 
 
 (When shall the world come home f) " 
 
 He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of awe 
 came over him, for he had been in the White Valley 
 and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But there came at 
 once also a sinister desire to play a game for this man's 
 life-work here. He knew that the other was ready for 
 any wild move; there was upon him the sense of failure 
 and disgust; he was acted on by the magic of the night, 
 the terrible delight of the scene, and that might .be 
 turned to advantage. 
 
 He said: " Am I not right? There is something in the 
 world greater than the creeds and the book of the Mass. 
 To be free and to enjoy, that is the thing. Never 
 before have you felt what you feel here now. And I 
 will show you more. I will teach you how to know, I 
 will lead you through all the north and make you to 
 understand the big things of life. Then, when you have 
 known, you can return if you will. But now see : I will
 
 THE RED PATROL 97 
 
 tell you what I will do. Here on this great platform we 
 will play a game of cards. There is a man whose life 
 I can ruin. If you win I promise to leave him safe, and 
 to go out of the far north for ever, to go back to Quebec " 
 he had a kind of gaming fever in his veins. "If I 
 win, you give up the Church, leaving behind the prayer- 
 book, the Bible and all, coming with me to do what I 
 shall tell you, for the passing of twelve moons. It is a 
 great stake will you play it? Come" he leaned for- 
 ward, looking into the other's face "will you play it? 
 They drew lots those people in the Bible. We will 
 draw lots, and see, eh? and see?" 
 
 "I accept the stake," said Sherburne, with a little 
 gasp. 
 
 Without a word they went upon that platform, shaped 
 like an altar, and Pierre at once drew out a pack of 
 cards, shuffling them with his mittened hands. Then 
 he knelt down and said, as he laid out the cards one by 
 one till there were thirty: "Whoever gets the ace of 
 hearts first, wins hein?" 
 
 Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards lay 
 back upwards in three rows. For a moment neither 
 stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, the small 
 crescent moon beheld it, and the deep wonder of night 
 made it strange and dreadful. Once or twice Sher- 
 burne looked round as though he felt others present, 
 and once Pierre looked out to the wide portals, as though 
 he saw some one entering. But there was nothing to the 
 eye nothing. Presently Pierre said: "Begin." 
 
 The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, then 
 the other, then Pierre again; and so on. How slow the 
 game was! Neither hurried, but both, kneeling, looked 
 and looked at the card long before drawing and turning 
 it over. The stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the
 
 98 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 game more than he cared about the stake. Sherburne 
 cared nothing about the game, but all his soul seemed 
 set upon the hazard. There was not a sound out of the 
 night, nothing stirring but the Spirit of the North. 
 Twenty, twenty-five cards were drawn, and then Pierre 
 paused. 
 
 "In a minute all will be settled," he said. "Will you 
 go on, or will you pause?" 
 
 But Sherburne had got the madness of chance in his 
 veins now, and he said: "Quick, quick, go on!" 
 
 Pierre drew, but the great card held back. Sherburne 
 drew, then Pierre again. There were three left. Sher- 
 burne's face was as white as the snow around him. His 
 mouth was open, and a little white cloud of frosted 
 breath came out. His hand hungered for the card, drew 
 back, then seized it. A moan broke from him. Then 
 Pierre, with a little weird laugh, reached out and turned 
 over the ace of hearts! 
 
 They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "You have lost," he said. 
 
 Sherburne threw back his head with a reckless laugh. 
 The laugh seemed to echo and echo through the amphi- 
 theatre, and then from the frozen seats, the hillocks of 
 ice and snow, there was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, 
 and a voice came after: 
 
 " Sleep sleep! Blessed be the just and the keepers of 
 vows." 
 
 Sherburne stood shaking, as though he had seen a 
 host of spirits. His eyes on the great seats of judgment, 
 he said to Pierre: 
 
 "See, see, how they sit there, grey and cold and 
 awful!" 
 
 But Pierre shook his head.
 
 THE RED PATROL 99 
 
 " There is nothing," he said, " nothing;" yet he knew 
 that Sherburne was looking upon the men of judgment 
 of the Kimash Hills, the sleepers. He looked round, 
 half fearfully, for if here were those great children of the 
 ages, where was the keeper of the house, the Red Patrol? 
 
 Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a noble 
 face and a high pride of bearing stood before them, not 
 far away. Sherburne clutched his arm. 
 
 Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter spoke: 
 
 "Why have you sinned your sins and broken your 
 vows within our house of judgment? Know ye not that 
 in the new springtime of the world ye shall be outcast, 
 because ye have called the sleepers to judgment before 
 their time? But I am the hunter of the lost. Go you," 
 he said to Sherburne, pointing, "where a sick man lies 
 in a hut in the Shikam Valley. In his soul find thine 
 own again." Then to Pierre: "For thee, thou shalt 
 know the desert and the storm and the lonely hills; 
 thou shalt neither seek nor find. Go, and return no 
 more." 
 
 The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped down 
 and moved to the open plain. They turned at the great 
 entrance and looked back. Where they had stood there 
 rested on his long bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and 
 a flaming arrow flew through the sky towards the south. 
 They followed its course, and when they looked back a 
 little afterwards, the great judgment-house was empty, 
 and the whole north was silent as the sleepers. 
 
 At dawn they came to the hut in the Shikam Valley, 
 and there they found a trapper dying. He had sinned 
 greatly, and he could not die without someone to show 
 him how, to tell him what to say to the angel of the 
 cross-roads. 
 
 Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own new soul
 
 100 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 moved by a holy fire, and, first praying for himself, he 
 said to the sick man: "For if we confess our sins, He 
 is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse 
 us from all unrighteousness." 
 
 Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and he heard 
 the sick man say, ere he journeyed forth to the cross- 
 roads: 
 
 "You have shown me the way. I have peace." 
 
 "Speak for me in the Presence," said Sherburne 
 softly. 
 
 The dying man could not answer, but that moment, 
 as he journeyed forth on the Far Trail, he held Sher- 
 burne's hand.
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 "WHY don't she come back, father?" 
 
 The man shook his head, his hand fumbled with the 
 wolf-skin robe covering the child, and he made no reply. 
 
 "She'd come if she knew I was hurted, wouldn't 
 she?" 
 
 The father nodded, and then turned restlessly toward 
 the door, as though expecting someone. The look was 
 troubled, and the pipe he held was not alight, though 
 he made a pretence of smoking. 
 
 "Suppose the wild cat had got me, she'd be sorry 
 when she comes, wouldn't she?" 
 
 There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the language 
 of primitive man; but the big body shivered a little, 
 and the uncouth hand felt for a place in the bed where 
 the lad's knee made a lump under the robe. He felt 
 the little heap tenderly, but the child winced. 
 
 "S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin's most too 
 much on me, isn't it, father?" 
 
 The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the robe, 
 folded it back, and slowly uncovered the knee. The leg 
 was worn away almost to skin and bone, but the knee 
 itself was swollen with inflammation. He bathed it with 
 some water, mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew 
 down the deer-skin shirt at the child's shoulder, and did 
 the same with it. Both shoulder and knee bore the 
 marks of teeth where a huge wild cat had made havoc 
 and the body had long red scratches. 
 
 Presently the man shook his head sorrowfully, and 
 
 101
 
 102 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 covered up the small disfigured frame again, but this 
 time with a tanned skin of the caribou. The flames of 
 the huge wood fire dashed the walls and floor with a 
 velvety red and black, and the large iron kettle, bought 
 of the Company at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers 
 of steam. 
 
 The place was a low hut with parchment windows 
 and rough mud-mortar lumped between the logs. Skins 
 hung along two sides, with bullet-holes and knife-holes 
 showing: of the great grey wolf, the red puma, the 
 bronze hill-lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; 
 and in one corner was a huge pile of them. Bare of the 
 usual comforts as the room was, it had a sort of refine- 
 ment also, joined to an inexpressible loneliness; you 
 could scarce have told how or why. 
 
 "Father," said the boy, his face pinched with pain 
 for a moment, "it hurts so all over, every once in a 
 while." 
 
 His fingers caressed the leg just below the knee. 
 
 "Father," he suddenly added, "what does it mean 
 when you hear a bird sing in the middle of the night?" 
 
 The woodsman looked down anxiously into the boy's 
 face. "It hasn't no meaning, Dominique. There ain't 
 such a thing on the Labrador Heights as a bird singin' 
 in the night. That's only in warm countries where 
 there's nightingales. So bien sur!" 
 
 The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative look. 
 "Well, I guess it was a nightingale it didn't sing 
 like any I ever heard." 
 
 The look of nervousness deepened in the woodsman's 
 face. "What did it sing like, Dominique?" 
 
 "So it made you shiver. You wanted it to go on, 
 and yet you didn't want it. It was pretty, but you felt 
 as if something was going to snap inside of you."
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 103 
 
 "When did you hear it, my son?" 
 
 "Twice last night and and I guess it was Sunday 
 the other tune. I don't know, for there hasn't been no 
 Sunday up here since mother went away has there?" 
 
 "Mebbenot." 
 
 The veins were beating like live cords in the man's 
 throat and at his temples. 
 
 "'Twas just the same as Father Corraine bein' here, 
 when mother had Sunday, wasn't it?" 
 
 The man made no reply, but a gloom drew down his 
 forehead, and his lips doubled in as if he endured phys- 
 ical pain. He got to his feet and paced the floor. For 
 weeks he had listened to the same kind of talk from this 
 wounded, and, as he thought, dying son, and he was 
 getting less and less able to bear it. The boy at nine 
 years of age was, in manner of speech, the merest child, 
 but his thoughts were sometimes large and wise. The 
 only white child within a compass of three hundred miles 
 or so; the lonely life of the hills and plains, so austere 
 in whiter, so melted to a sober joy in summer; listen- 
 ing to the talk of his elders at camp-fires and on the 
 hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, he was 
 swung in a blanket from a tree or was packed in the 
 torch-crane of a canoe; and, more than all, the care of 
 a good, loving if passionate little mother: all these 
 had made him far wiser than his years. He had been 
 hours upon hours each day alone with the birds, and 
 squirrels, and wild animals, and something of the keen 
 scent and instinct of the animal world had entered into 
 his body and brain, so that he felt what he could not 
 understand. 
 
 He saw that he had worried his father, and it 
 troubled him. He thought of something. 
 
 "Daddy," he said, "let me have it."
 
 104 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 A smile struggled for life in the hunter's face, as he 
 turned to the wall and took down the skin of a silver 
 fox. He held it on his palm for a moment, looking at it 
 in an interested, satisfied way, then he brought it over 
 and put it into the child's hands; and the smile now 
 shaped itself, as he saw an eager pale face buried in the 
 soft fur. 
 
 "Good! good!" he said involuntarily. 
 
 "Bon! bon!" said the boy's voice from the fur, in 
 the language of his mother, who added a strain of In- 
 dian blood to her French ancestry. 
 
 The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on the low 
 bed, and stroking the fur very gently. It could scarcely 
 be thought that such pride should be spent on a little 
 pelt by a mere backwoodsman and his nine-year-old son. 
 One has seen a woman fingering a splendid necklace, her 
 eyes fascinated by the bunch of warm, deep jewels 
 a light not of mere vanity, or hunger, or avarice in her 
 face only the love of the beautiful thing. But this 
 was an animal's skin. Did they feel the animal under- 
 neath it yet, giving it beauty, life, glory? 
 
 The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, and this 
 one was of the boy's own harvesting. While his father 
 was away he saw the fox creeping by the hut. The joy 
 of the hunter seized him, and guided his eye over the 
 sights of his father's rifle, as he rested the barrel on 
 the window-sill, and the annual was his ! Now his finger 
 ran into the hole made by the bullet, and he gave a little 
 laugh of modest triumph. Minutes passed as they 
 studied, felt, and admired the skin, the hunter proud of 
 his son, the son alive with a primitive passion, which 
 inflicts suffering to get the beautiful thing. Perhaps the 
 tenderness as well as the wild passion of the animal gets 
 into the hunter's blood, and tips his fingers at times with
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 105 
 
 an exquisite kindness as one has noted in a lion fond- 
 ling her young, or in tigers as they sport upon the sands 
 of the desert. This boy had seen his father shoot a 
 splendid moose, and as it lay dying, drop down and kiss 
 it in the neck for sheer love of its handsomeness. Death 
 is no insult. It is the law of the primitive world war, 
 and love in war. 
 
 They sat there for a long time, not speaking, each 
 busy in his own way : the boy full of imaginings, strange, 
 half -heathen, half -angelic feelings; the man roaming in 
 that savage, romantic, superstitious atmosphere which 
 belongs to the north, and to the north alone. At last 
 the boy lay back on the pillow, his finger still in the 
 bullet-hole of the pelt. His eyes closed, and he seemed 
 about to fall asleep, but presently looked up and whis- 
 pered: "I haven't said my prayers, have I?" 
 
 The father shook his head in a sort of rude confu- 
 sion. 
 
 "I can pray out loud if I want to, can't I?" 
 
 "Of course, Dominique." The man shrank a little. 
 
 "I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, 
 for I said it when the bird was singing. It isn't one out 
 of the book Father Corraine sent mother by Pretty 
 Pierre; it's one she taught me out of her own head. 
 P'r'aps I'd better say it." 
 
 "PYaps, if you want to." The voice was husky. 
 
 The boy began: 
 
 "0 bon Je"su, who died to save us from our sins, and 
 to lead us to Thy country, where there is no cold, nor 
 hunger, nor thirst, and where no one is afraid, listen to 
 Thy child. . . . When the great winds and rains come 
 down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor 
 the woods cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us; and 
 do not let the prairie-fires burn us. Keep wild beasts
 
 106 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 from killing us in our sleep, and give us good hearts 
 that we may not kill them in anger." 
 
 His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole 
 hi the pelt, and he paused a moment. 
 
 "Keep us from getting lost, gracious Saviour." 
 
 Again there was a pause, his eyes opened wide, and he 
 said: 
 
 "Do you think mother's lost, father?" 
 
 A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he 
 replied haltingly: "Mebbe, mebbe so." 
 
 Dominique's eyes closed again. ' ' I'll make up some," 
 he said slowly. "And if mother's lost, bring her back 
 again to us, for everything's going wrong." 
 
 Again he paused, then went on with the prayer as it 
 had been taught him. 
 
 "Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou callest, and 
 to see Thee when Thou visitest us, and let the blessed 
 Mary and all the saints speak often to Thee for us. 
 Christ, hear us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ 
 have mercy upon us. Amen." 
 
 Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, and said: 
 "I'll go to sleep now, I guess." 
 
 The man sat for a long time looking at the pale, shin- 
 ing face, at the blue veins showing painfully dark on the 
 temples and forehead, at the firm little white hand, 
 which was as brown as a butternut a few weeks before. 
 The longer he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into 
 his soul. His wife had gone, he knew not where, his 
 child was wasting to death, and he had for his sorrows 
 no inner consolation. He had ever had that touch of 
 mystical imagination inseparable from the far north, 
 yet he had none of that religious belief which swallowed 
 up natural awe and turned it to the refining of life, and 
 to the advantage of a man's soul. Now it was forced
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 107 
 
 in upon him that his child was wiser than himself, wiser 
 and safer. His life had been spent in the wastes, with 
 rough deeds and rugged habits, and a youth of hardship, 
 danger, and almost savage endurance, had given him a 
 half-barbarian temperament, which could strike an 
 angry blow at one moment and fondle to death at the 
 next. 
 
 When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his religion 
 reached little farther than a belief in the Scarlet Hunter 
 of the Kimash Hills and those voices that could be 
 heard calling in the night, till their tune of sleep be past, 
 and they should rise and reconquer the north. 
 
 Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were like 
 those of his Master, could ever bring him to a more 
 definite faith. His wife had at first striven with him, 
 mourning yet loving. Sometimes the savage in him 
 had broken out over the little creature, merely because 
 barbaric tyranny was in him torture followed by the 
 passionate kiss. But how was she philosopher enough 
 to understand the cause? 
 
 When she fled from their hut one bitter day, as he 
 roared some wild words at her, it was because her nerves 
 had all been shaken from threatened death by wild 
 beasts (of which he did not know), and his violence 
 drove her mad. She had run out of the house, and on, 
 and on, and on and she had never come back. That 
 was weeks ago, and there had been no word nor sign of 
 her since. The man was now busy with it all, in a slow, 
 cumbrous way. A nature more to be touched by things 
 seen than by things told, his mind was being awakened 
 in a massive kind of fashion. He was viewing this crisis 
 of his life as one sees a human face in the wide searching 
 light of a great fire. He was restless, but he held him- 
 self still by a strong effort, not wishing to disturb the
 
 108 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 sleeper. His eyes seemed to retreat farther and farther 
 back under his shaggy brows. 
 
 The great logs hi the chimney burned brilliantly, and 
 a brass crucifix over the child's head now and again 
 reflected soft little flashes of light. This caught the 
 hunter's eye. Presently there grew up in him a vague 
 kind of hope that, somehow, this symbol would bring 
 him luck that was the way he put it to himself. He 
 had felt this and something more when Dominique 
 prayed. Somehow, Dominique's prayer was the only 
 one he had ever heard that had gone home to him, had 
 opened up the big sluices of his nature, and let the light 
 of God flood in. No, there was another : the one Lucette 
 made on the day that they were married, when a won- 
 derful timid reverence played through his hungry love 
 for her. 
 
 Hours passed. All at once, without any other motion 
 or gesture, the boy's eyes opened wide with a strange, 
 intense look. 
 
 " Father," he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, 
 "when you hear a sweet horn blow at night, is it the 
 Scarlet Hunter calling?" 
 
 "P'r'aps. Why, Dominique?" He made up his 
 mind to humour the boy, though it gave him strange 
 aching forebodings. He had seen grown men and wo- 
 men with these fancies and they had died. 
 
 "I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds 
 seemed to wave over my head. Perhaps he's calling 
 someone that's lost." 
 
 "Mebbe." 
 
 "And I heard a voice singing it wasn't a bird to- 
 night." 
 
 "There was no voice, Dominique." 
 
 u Yes, yes." There was something fine in the grave,
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 109 
 
 courteous certainty of the lad. "I waked and you were 
 sitting there thinking, and I shut my eyes again, and I 
 heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words." 
 
 "What were the words?" In spite of himself the 
 hunter felt awed. 
 
 "I've heard mother sing them, or something most like 
 them: 
 
 " Why does the fire no longer burn? 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Why does the tent-door swing outward? 
 
 (I have no home.) 
 Oh, let me breathe hard in your face! 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me? 
 
 (I have no home.) " 
 
 The boy paused. 
 
 "Was that all, Dominique?" 
 
 "No, not all." 
 
 "Let us make friends with the stars; 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Give me your hand, I will hold it. 
 
 (I have no home.) 
 Let us go hunting together. 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 We will sleep at God's camp to-night. 
 
 (I have no home.) " 
 
 Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with 
 a sort of chanting inflection. 
 
 "What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, 
 father?" 
 
 "I don't know. Who told your mother the song ? " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. i l suppose she just made them 
 up she and God. . . . There! There it is again? 
 Don't you hear it don't you hear it, daddy?"
 
 110 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "No, Dominique, it's only the kettle singing." 
 /"A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy He paused a 
 little, then went on, hesitatingly "I saw a white swan 
 fly through the door over your shoulder, when you came 
 in to-night." 
 
 "No, no, Dominique; it was a flurry of snow blowing 
 over my shoulder." 
 
 "But it looked at me with two shining eyes." 
 
 "That was two stars shining through the door, my 
 son." 
 
 "How could there be snow flying and stars shining 
 too, father?" 
 
 "It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars 
 were shining above, Dominique." 
 
 The man's voice was anxious and unconvincing, his 
 eyes had a hungry, hunted look. The legend of the 
 White Swan had to do with the passing of a human soul. 
 The swan had come in would it go out alone? He 
 touched the boy's hand it was hot with fever; he felt 
 the pulse it ran high; he watched the face it had a 
 glowing light. Something stirred within him, and passed 
 like a wave to the farthest courses of his being. Through 
 his misery he had touched the garment of the Master 
 of Souls. As though a voice said to him there, "Some- 
 one hath touched me," he got to his feet, and, with a 
 sudden blind humility, lit two candles, placed them on a 
 shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, 
 as he had seen his wife do. Then he picked a small hand- 
 ful of fresh spruce twigs from a branch over the chimney, 
 and laid them beside the candles. After a short pause 
 he came slowly to the head of the boy's bed. Very sol- 
 emnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the cross 
 with the tips of his fingers, and brought them to his 
 lips with an indescribable reverence. After a moment,
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 111 
 
 standing with eyes fixed on the face of the crucified 
 figure, he said, in a shaking voice: 
 
 "Pardon, bon Jesu ! Sauvez mon enfant ! Ne me 
 laissez pas seul !" 
 
 The boy looked up with eyes again grown unnaturally 
 heavy, and said: 
 
 "Amen! . . . Bon Jesu! . . . Encore! Encore, mon 
 pere!" 
 
 The boy slept. The father stood still by the bed for 
 a time, but at last slowly turned and went toward the 
 fire. 
 
 Outside, two figures were approaching the hut a 
 man and a woman; yet at first glance the man might 
 easily have been taken for a woman, because of the long 
 black robe which he wore, and because his hah* fell loose 
 on his shoulders and his face was clean-shaven. 
 
 "Have patience, my daughter," said the man. "Do 
 not enter till I call you. But stand close to the door, if 
 you will, and hear all." 
 
 So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of benedic- 
 tion, passed to the door, and after tapping very softly, 
 opened it, entered, and closed it behind him not so 
 quickly, however, but that the woman caught a glimpse 
 of the father and the boy. In her eyes there was the 
 divine look of motherhood. 
 
 "Peace be to this house!" said the man gently as he 
 stepped forward from the door. 
 
 The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as if 
 he had seen a spirit. 
 
 "M'sieu' le cure"!" he said in French, with an accent 
 much poorer than that of the priest, or even of his own 
 son. He had learned French from his wife; he himself 
 was English. 
 
 The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles
 
 112 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 at the little shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed 
 aspect of the man. 
 
 "The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking 
 round. "Ah, the boy!" he added, and going toward 
 the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice: "Dom- 
 inique is ill?" 
 
 Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wild-cat and 
 then fever, Father Corraine." 
 
 The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close 
 personal look he spoke hardly above his breath, yet 
 distinctly too : 
 
 "Your wife, Bagot?" 
 
 "She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was low and 
 gloomy. 
 
 "Where is she, Bagot?" 
 
 "I do not know, m'sieu'." 
 
 "When did you see her last?" 
 
 "Four weeks ago, m'sieu'." 
 
 "That was September, this is October winter. On 
 the ranches they let their cattle loose upon the plains 
 in winter, knowing not where they go, yet looking for 
 them to return in the spring. But a woman a woman 
 and a wife is different. . . . Bagot, you have been a 
 rough, hard man, and you have been a stranger to 
 your God, but I thought you loved your wife and 
 child!" 
 
 The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked light 
 flashed up into his eyes; but the calm, benignant gaze 
 of the other cooled the tempest in his veins. The 
 priest sat down on the couch where the child lay, and 
 took the fevered hand in his very softly. 
 
 "Stay where you are, Bagot," he said; "just there 
 where you are, and tell me what your trouble is, and 
 why your wife is not here. . . . Say all honestly by
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 113 
 
 the name of the Christ!" he added, lifting up a large 
 iron crucifix that hung on his breast. 
 
 Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace, the 
 light playing on his bronzed, powerful face, his eyes shin- 
 ing beneath his heavy brows like two coals. After a 
 moment he began: 
 
 "I don't know how it started. I'd lost a lot of pelts 
 stolen they were, down on the Child o' Sin River. 
 Well, she was hasty and nervous, like as not she always 
 was brisker and more sudden than I am. I I laid my 
 powder-horn and whisky-flask up there!" 
 
 He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where 
 now his candles were burning. The priest's grave eyes 
 did not change expression at all, but looked out wisely, 
 as though he understood everything before it was 
 told. 
 
 Bagot continued: "I didn't notice it, but she had 
 put some flowers there. She said something with an 
 edge, her face all snapping angry, threw the things down, 
 and called me a heathen and a wicked heretic and I 
 don't say now but she'd a right to do it. But I let out 
 then, for them stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw. 
 I said something pretty rough, and made as if I was 
 goin' to break her in two just fetched up my hands, 
 and went like this! With a singular simplicity he 
 made a wild gesture with his hands, and an animal-like 
 snarl came from his throat. Then he looked at the 
 priest with the honest intensity of a boy. 
 
 "Yes, that is what you did what was it you said 
 which was 'pretty rough'?" 
 
 There was a slight hesitation, then came the reply: 
 
 "I said there was enough powder spilt on the floor 
 to kill all the priests in heaven." 
 
 A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine's face,
 
 114 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 and his lips tightened for an instant, but presently he 
 was as before, and he said : 
 
 "How that will face you one day, Bagot! Go on. 
 What else?" 
 
 Sweat began to break out on Bagot's face, and he 
 spoke as though he were carrying a heavy weight on his 
 shoulders, low and brokenly. 
 
 "Then I said, 'And if virgins has it so fine, why didn't 
 you stay one? ' ' 
 
 "Blasphemer!" said the priest in a stern, reproachful 
 voice, his face turning a little pale, and he brought the 
 crucifix to his lips. "To the mother of your child 
 shame ! What more? ' ' 
 
 "She threw up her hands to her ears with a wild cry, 
 ran out of the house, down the hills, and away. I went 
 to the door and watched her as long as I could see her, 
 and waited for her to come back but she never did. 
 I've hunted and hunted, but I can't find her." Then, 
 with a sudden thought, "Do you know anything of her, 
 
 m'sieu'?" 
 
 The priest appeared not to hear the question. Turn- 
 ing for a moment toward the boy who now was in a deep 
 sleep, he looked at him intently. Presently he spoke. 
 
 "Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond, you 
 have stood in the way of her duty, Bagot. How well 
 I remember that first day when you knelt before me! 
 Was ever so sweet and good a girl with her golden eyes 
 and the look of summer in her face, and her heart all 
 pure! Nothing had spoiled her you cannot spoil such 
 women God is in their hearts. But you, what have 
 you cared? One day you would fondle her, and the 
 next you were a savage and she, so gentle, so gentle all 
 the time. Then, for her religion and the faith of her 
 child she has fought for it, prayed for it, suffered for
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 115 
 
 it. You thought you had no need, for you had so much 
 happiness, which you did not deserve that was it. 
 But she: with all a woman suffers, how can she bear 
 life and man without God? No, it is not possible. 
 And you thought you and your few superstitions were 
 enough for her. Ah, poor fool! She should worship 
 you! So selfish, so small, for a man who knows in his 
 heart how great God is. You did not love her." 
 
 "By the Heaven above, yes!" said Bagot, half start- 
 ing to his feet. 
 
 "Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no! nor the child. For 
 true love is unselfish and patient, and where it is the 
 stronger, it cares for the weaker; but it was your wife 
 who was unselfish, patient, and cared for you. Every 
 time she said an ave she thought of you, and her every 
 thanks to the good God had you therein. They know 
 you well in heaven, Bagot through your wife. Did 
 you ever pray ever since I married you to her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "An hour or so ago." 
 
 Once again the priest's eyes glanced towards the 
 lighted candles. 
 
 Presently he said: "You asked me if I had heard 
 anything of your wife. Listen, and be patient while you 
 listen. . . . Three weeks ago I was camping on the 
 Sundust Plains, over against the Young Sky River. In 
 the morning, as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my 
 young Cree Indian with me, I saw coming over the crest 
 of a land-wave, from the very lips of the sunrise, as it 
 were, a band of Indians. I could not quite make them 
 out. I hoisted my little flag on the tent, and they hur- 
 ried on to me. I did not know the tribe they had 
 come from near Hudson's Bay. They spoke Chinook,
 
 116 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 and I could understand them. Well, as they came near 
 I saw that they had a woman with them." 
 
 Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, every muscle 
 tense. "A woman?" he said, as if breathing gave him 
 sorrow ' ' my wife ? ' ' 
 
 " Your wife." 
 
 " Quick! Quick! Go on oh, go on, m'sieu' good 
 father." 
 
 "She fell at my feet, begging me to save her. . . . 
 I waved her off." 
 
 The sweat dropped from Bagot's forehead, a low 
 growl broke from him, and he made such a motion as a 
 lion might make at its prey. 
 
 "You wouldn't wouldn't save her you coward!" 
 He ground the words out. 
 
 The priest raised his palm against the other's violence. 
 "Hush! . . . She drew away, saying that God and man 
 had deserted her. . . . We had breakfast, the chief and 
 I. Afterwards, when the chief had eaten much and was 
 in good humour, I asked him where he had got the 
 woman. He said that he had found her on the plains 
 she had lost her way. I told him then that I wanted to 
 buy her. He said to me, 'What does a priest want of 
 a woman? ' I said that I wished to give her back to her 
 husband. He said that he had found her, and she was 
 his, and that he would marry her when they reached the 
 great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It would not 
 do to make him angry. I wrote down on a piece of bark 
 the things that I would give him for her: an order on 
 the Company at Fort o' Sin for shot, blankets, and 
 beads. He said no." 
 
 The priest paused. Bagot's face was all swimming 
 with sweat, his body was rigid, but the veins of his neck 
 knotted and twisted.
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 117 
 
 "For the love of God, go on!" he said hoarsely. 
 
 " Yes, 'for the love of God.' I have no money, I am 
 poor, but the Company will always honour my orders, 
 for I pay sometimes, by the help of Christ. Bien, I 
 added some things to the list : a saddle, a rifle, and some 
 flannel. But no, he would not. Once more I put many 
 things down. It was a big bill it would keep me poor 
 for five years. To save your wife, John Bagot, you who 
 drove her from your door, blaspheming, and railing at 
 such as I. ... I offered the things, and told him that 
 was all that I could give. After a little he shook his 
 head, and said that he must have the woman for his 
 wife. I did not know what to add. I said 'She is 
 white, and the white people will never rest till they have 
 killed you all, if you do this thing. The Company will 
 track you down.' Then he said, ' The whites must catch 
 me and fight me before they kill me.' . . . What was 
 there to do?' 
 
 Bagot came near to the priest, bending over him sav- 
 agely. 
 
 "You let her stay with them you with hands like 
 a man!" 
 
 "Hush!" was the calm, reproving answer. "I was 
 one man, they were twenty." 
 
 "Where was your God to help you, then?" 
 
 "Her God and mine was with me." 
 
 Bagot's eyes blazed. "Why didn't you offer rum 
 rum? They'd have done it for that one five ten 
 kegs of rum!" 
 
 He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet then* 
 voices hardly rose above a hoarse whisper all the time. 
 
 "You forget," answered the priest, "that it is against 
 the law, and that as a priest of my order, I am vowed 
 to give no rum to an Indian."
 
 118 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "A vow? A vow? Name of God! what is a vow be- 
 side a woman my wife?" 
 
 His misery and his rage were pitiful to see. 
 
 "Perjure my soul? Offer rum? Break my vow in 
 the face of the enemies of God's Church? What have 
 you done for me that I should do this for you, John 
 Bagot?" 
 
 "Coward!" was the man's despairing cry, with a 
 sudden threatening movement. " Christ Himself would 
 have broke a vow to save her." 
 
 The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the other's 
 fierce gaze, and quieted the wild storm that was about 
 to break. 
 
 "Who am I that I should teach my Master?" he said 
 solemnly. "What would you give Christ, Bagot, if He 
 had saved her to you?" 
 
 The man shook with grief, and tears rushed from his 
 eyes, so suddenly and fully had a new emotion passed 
 through him. 
 
 "Give give?" he cried; "I would give twenty years 
 of my life!" 
 
 The figure of the priest stretched up with a gentle 
 grandeur. Holding out the iron crucifix, he said: "On 
 your knees and swear it, John Bagot." 
 
 There was something inspiring, commanding, in the 
 voice and manner, and Bagot, with a new hope rushing 
 through his veins, knelt and repeated his words. 
 
 The priest turned to the door, and called, "Madame 
 Lucette!" 
 
 The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed suddenly. 
 
 "Mother! mother!" he cried, as the door flew open. 
 
 The mother came to her husband's arms, laughing 
 and weeping, and an instant afterwards was pouring 
 out her love and anxiety over her child.
 
 THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 119 
 
 Father Corraine now faced the man, and with a soft 
 exaltation of voice and manner, said: 
 
 " John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I.demand twenty 
 years of your life of love and obedience of God. I 
 broke my vow, I perjured my soul, I bought your wife 
 with ten kegs of rum!" 
 
 The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, and caught 
 the priest's hand to kiss it. 
 
 "No, no this!" the priest said, and laid his iron 
 crucifix against the other's lips. 
 
 Dominique's voice came clearly through the room : 
 
 "Mother, I saw the white swan fly away through the 
 door when you came in." 
 
 "My dear, my dear," she said, "there was no white 
 swan." But she clasped the boy to her breast protect- 
 ingly, and whispered an ave. 
 
 "Peace be to this house," said the voice of the priest. 
 
 And there was peace: for the child lived, and the 
 man has loved, and has kept his vow, even unto this 
 day. 
 
 For the visions of the boy, who can know the divers 
 ways in which God speaks to the children of men?
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM 
 
 His trouble came upon him when he was old. To the 
 hour of its coming he had been of shrewd and humour- 
 ous disposition. He had married late in life, and his 
 wife had died, leaving him one child a girl. She grew 
 to womanhood, bringing him daily joy. She was be- 
 loved in the settlement; and there was no one at Bam- 
 ber's Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, but was 
 startled and sorry when it turned out that Dugard, the 
 river-boss, was married. He floated away down the 
 river, with his rafts and drives of logs, leaving the girl 
 sick and shamed. They knew she was sick at heart, 
 because she grew pale and silent; they did not know for 
 some months how shamed she was. Then it was that 
 Mrs. Lauder, the sister of the Roman Catholic mis- 
 sionary, Father Halen, being a woman of notable char- 
 acter and kindness, visited her and begged her to tell 
 all. 
 
 Though the girl Nora was a Protestant, Mrs. 
 Lauder did this: but it brought sore grief to her. At 
 first she could hardly bear to look at the girl's face, it 
 was so hopeless, so numb to the world: it had the in- 
 difference of despair. Rumour now became hateful 
 fact. When the old man was told, he gave one great 
 cry, then sat down, his hands pressed hard between his 
 knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring before him. 
 
 It was Father Halen who told him. He did it as man 
 to man, and not as a priest, having travelled fifty miles 
 
 120
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM 121 
 
 for the purpose. "George Magor," said he, "it's bad, 
 I know, but bear it with the help of God. And be 
 kind to the girl." 
 
 The old man answered nothing. "My friend," the 
 priest continued, "I hope you'll forgive me for telling 
 you. I thought 'twould be better from me, than to have 
 it thrown at you in the settlement. We've been friends 
 one way and another, and my heart aches for you, and 
 my prayers go with you." 
 
 The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their keen 
 humour gone, and spoke as though each word were dug 
 from his heart. "Say no more, Father Halen." Then 
 he reached out, caught the priest's hand in his gnarled 
 fingers, and wrung it. 
 
 The father never spoke a harsh word to the girl. 
 Otherwise he seemed to harden into stone. When the 
 Protestant missionary came, he would not see him. The 
 child was born before the river-drivers came along again 
 the next year with their rafts and logs. There was a 
 feeling abroad that it would be ill for Dugard if he 
 chanced to camp at Bamber's Boom. The look of the 
 old man's face was ominous, and he was known to have 
 an iron will. 
 
 Dugard was a handsome man, half French, half 
 Scotch, swarthy and admirably made. He was proud of 
 his strength, and showily fearless in danger. For there 
 were dangerous hours to the river life: when, for in- 
 stance, a mass of logs became jammed at a rapids, and 
 must be loosened; or a crib struck into the wrong 
 channel, or, failing to enter a slide straight, came at a 
 nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and tore apart, 
 and its crew, with their great oars, were plumped into 
 the busy current. He had been known to stand singly 
 in some perilous spot when one log, the key to the jam,
 
 122 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 must be shifted to set free the great tumbled pile. He 
 did everything with a dash. The handspike was waved 
 and thrust into the best leverage, the long robust cry, 
 "O-hee-hee-hoi!" rolled over the waters, there was a 
 devil's jumble of logs, and he played a desperate game 
 with them, tossing here, leaping there, balancing else- 
 where, till, reaching the smooth rush of logs in the 
 current, he ran across them to the shore as they spun 
 beneath his feet. 
 
 His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives of 
 logs, came sweeping down one beautiful day of early 
 summer, red-shirted, shouting, good-tempered. It was 
 about this tune that Pierre came to know Magor. 
 
 It was the old man's duty to keep the booms of several 
 great lumbering companies, and to watch the logs when 
 the river-drivers were engaged elsewhere. Occasionally 
 he took a place with the men, helping to make cribs 
 and rafts. Dugard worked for one lumber company, 
 Magor for others. Many in the settlement showed 
 Dugard how much he was despised. Some warned him 
 that Magor had said he would break him into pieces; 
 it seemed possible that Dugard might have a bad hour 
 with the people of Bamber's Boom. Dugard, though 
 he swelled and strutted, showed by a furtive eye and 
 a sinister watchfulness that he felt himself in an atmos- 
 phere of danger. But he spoke of his wickedness lightly 
 as, "A slip a little accident, mon ami." 
 
 Pierre said to him one day: "Bien, Dugard, you are 
 a bold man to come here again. Or is it that you think 
 old men are cowards?" 
 
 Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly upon his 
 case-knife. 
 
 Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came over, 
 and throwing out his perfectly formed but not robust
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM 123 
 
 chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: "Ho, ho, mon- 
 sieur the butcher, take your time at that. There is too 
 much blood in your carcass. You have quarrels plenty 
 on your hands without this. Come, don't be a fool and 
 a scoundrel too." 
 
 Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn the thing 
 off as a joke, and Pierre, who laughed still a little 
 more, said: "It would be amusing to see old Magor and 
 Dugard fight. It would be so equal." There was a 
 keen edge to Pierre's tones, but Dugard dared not re- 
 sent it. 
 
 One day Magor and Dugard must meet. The square- 
 timber of the two companies had got tangled at a cer- 
 tain point, and gangs from both must set them loose. 
 They were camped some distance from each other. 
 There was rivalry between them, and it was hinted that 
 if any trouble came from the meeting of Magor and 
 Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores with each 
 other. Pierre wished to prevent this. It seemed to 
 him that the two men should stand alone in the affair. 
 He said as much here and there to members of both 
 camps, for he was free of both: a tribute to his genius at 
 poker. 
 
 The girl, Nora, was apprehensive for her father; 
 she hated the other man now. Pierre was courteous to 
 her, scrupulous in word and look, and fond of her child. 
 He had always shown a gentleness to children, which 
 seemed little compatible with his character; but for 
 this young outlaw in the world he had something more. 
 He even laboured carefully to turn the girl's father in 
 its favour ; but as yet to little purpose. He was thought- 
 ful of the girl too. He only went to the house when he 
 knew her father was present, or when she was away. 
 Once while he was there, Father Halen and his sister,
 
 124 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Mrs. Lauder, came. They found Pierre with the child, 
 rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so an old 
 song of the coureurs de bois: 
 
 " Out of the hills comes a little white deer, 
 
 Poor little vaurien, o, ci, ci! 
 Come to my home, to my home down here, 
 Sister and brother and child o' me 
 
 Poor little, poor little vaurien!" 
 
 Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who had 
 cared for the home since Nora's trouble came. The 
 priest was anxious lest any harm should come from 
 Dugard's presence at Bamber's Boom. He knew 
 Pierre's doubtful reputation, but still he knew he 
 could speak freely and would be answered honestly. 
 
 "What will happen?" he abruptly asked. 
 
 "What neither you nor I should try to prevent, 
 m'sieu'," was Pierre's reply. 
 
 "Magor will do the man injury?" 
 
 "What would you have? Put the matter on your own 
 hearthstone, eh? . . . Pardon, if I say these things 
 bluntly." Pierre still lightly rocked the cradle with 
 one foot. 
 
 "But vengeance is in God's hands." 
 
 "M'sieu'," said the half-breed, "vengeance also is 
 man's, else why did we ten men from Fort Cypress 
 track down the Indians who murdered your brother, 
 the good priest, and kill them one by one?" 
 
 Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, and 
 helped her to a chair, then turned a sad face on Pierre. 
 "Were you were you one of that ten?" he asked, over- 
 come; and he held out his hand. 
 
 The two river-driving camps joined at Mud Cat 
 Point, where was the crush of great timber. The two
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM 125 
 
 men did not at first come face to face, but it was noticed 
 by Pierre, who smoked on the bank while the others 
 worked, that the old man watched his enemy closely. 
 The work of undoing the great twist of logs was exciting, 
 and they fell on each other with a great sound as they 
 were pried off, and went sliding, grinding, into the water. 
 At one spot they were piled together, massive and high. 
 These were left to the last. 
 
 It was here that the two met. Old Magor's face was 
 quiet, if a little haggard, and his eyes looked out from 
 under his shaggy brows piercingly. Dugard's manner 
 was swaggering, and he swore horribly at his gang. 
 Presently he stood at a point alone, working at an ob- 
 stinate log. He was at the foot of an incline of timber, 
 and he was not aware that Magor had suddenly ap- 
 peared at the top of that incline. He heard his name 
 called out sharply. Swinging round, he saw Magor 
 thrusting a handspike under a huge timber, hanging at 
 the top of the incline. He was standing in a hollow, a 
 kind of trench. He was shaken with fear, for he saw 
 the old man's design. He gave a cry and made as if to 
 jump out of the way, but with a laugh Magor threw his 
 whole weight on the handspike, the great timber slid 
 swiftly down and crushed Dugard from his thighs to 
 his feet, breaking his legs terribly. The old man called 
 down at him: "A slip a little accident, mon ami!" 
 Then, shouldering his handspike, he made his way 
 through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on home- 
 wards. 
 
 Magor had done what he wished. Dugard would be 
 a cripple for life; his beauty was all spoiled and broken: 
 there was much to do to save his life.
 
 126 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 II 
 
 NORA also about this time took to her bed with fever. 
 Again and again Pierre rode thirty miles and back to 
 get ice for her head. All were kind to her now. The 
 vengeance upon Dugard seemed to have wiped out much 
 of her shame in the eyes of Bamber's Boom. Such is 
 the way of the world. He that has the last blow is in 
 the eye of advantage. When Nora began to recover, 
 the child fell ill also. In the sickness of the child the old 
 man had a great temptation far greater than that con- 
 cerning Dugard. As the mother grew better the child 
 became much worse. One night the doctor came, driv- 
 ing over from another settlement, and said that if the 
 child got sleep till morning it would probably live, for 
 the crisis had come. He left an opiate to procure the 
 sleep, the same that had been given to the mother. If 
 it did not sleep, it would die. Pierre was present at this 
 tune. 
 
 All through the child's illness the old man's mind 
 had been tossed to and fro. If the child died, the living 
 stigma would be gone; there would be no reminder of 
 his daughter's shame in the eyes of the world. They 
 could go away from Bamber's Boom, and begin life 
 again somewhere. But, then, there was the child itself 
 which had crept into his heart, he knew not how, 
 and would not be driven out. He had never, till it was 
 taken ill, even touched it, nor spoken to it. To destroy 
 its life! Well, would it not be better for the child to go 
 out of all possible shame, into peace, the peace of the 
 grave? 
 
 This night he sat down beside the cradle, holding 
 the bottle of medicine and a spoon in his hand. The 
 hot, painful face of the child fascinated him. He looked
 
 AT BAMBER'S BOOM 127 
 
 from it to the bottle, and back, then again to the bottle. 
 He started, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. 
 For though the doctor had told him in words the proper 
 dose, he had by mistake written on the label the same 
 dose as for the mother! Here was the responsibility 
 shifted in any case. More than once the old man un- 
 corked the bottle, and once he dropped out the opiate 
 in the spoon steadily; but the child opened its suffering 
 eyes at him, its little wasted hand wandered over the 
 coverlet, and he could not do it just then. But again the 
 passion for its destruction came on him, because he 
 heard his daughter moaning in the other room. He said 
 to himself that she would be happier when it was gone. 
 But as he stooped over the cradle, no longer hesitating, 
 the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. The old 
 man shuddered, and drew back from the cradle. Pierre 
 saw the look of guilt in the old man's face, and his in- 
 stinct told him what was happening. He took the 
 bottle from the trembling hand, and looked at the 
 label. 
 
 "What is the proper dose?" he asked, seeing that a 
 mistake had been made by the doctor. 
 
 In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. "It may be too 
 late," Pierre added. He knelt down, with light fingers 
 opened the child's mouth, and poured the medicine in 
 slowly. The old man stood for a tune rigid, looking at 
 them both. Then he came round to the other side of 
 the cradle, and seated himself beside it, his eyes fixed 
 on the child's face. For a long time they sat there. 
 At last the old man said: "Will he die, Pierre?" 
 
 "I am afraid so," answered Pierre painfully. "But 
 we shall see." Then early teaching came to him, 
 never to be entirely obliterated, and he added: "Has 
 the child been baptised?"
 
 128 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 The old man shook his head. "Will you do it?" 
 asked Pierre hesitatingly. 
 
 "I can't I can't," was the reply. 
 
 Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if at himself, got 
 some water in a cup, came over, and said: 
 
 " Remember, I'm a Papist!" 
 
 A motion of the hand answered him. 
 
 He dipped his fingers in the water, and dropped it 
 ever so lightly on the child's forehead. 
 
 "George Magor," it was the old man's name, "I 
 baptise thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
 and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Then he drew the 
 sign of the cross on the infant's forehead. 
 
 Sitting down, he watched beside the child. After 
 a little he heard a long choking sigh. Looking up, he 
 saw tears slowly dropping from Magor's eyes. 
 
 And to this day the child and the mother of the child 
 are dear to the old man's heart.
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 
 
 IT stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. 
 These were approaches to the big covered bridge span- 
 ning the main channel of the Madawaska River, and 
 when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two 
 flanking channels divided at the foundations of the 
 house, and rustled away through the narrow paths of 
 the small bridges to the rapids. You could stand at any 
 window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing cur- 
 rent, 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 stepped from 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 way- 
 farer, like its patrons the river-drivers, with whom it 
 was most popular. You felt that it had no part in the 
 career of the village on either side, but was like a rock 
 in a channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant 
 fish loitered. 
 
 Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the spring- 
 tune or early summer, 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 because Finley, the owner, a rich man, came 
 to hate the place his brother's blood stained the bar- 
 room floor. He would have destroyed the house but 
 that John Rupert, the beggared gentleman, came to 
 him, and wished to rent it for a dwelling. 
 
 129
 
 130 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor 
 for many years, but he had a breeding and a manner 
 superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. He was too old 
 for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship ; his little 
 money was gone in foolish speculations, and he was de- 
 pendent on his granddaughter's slight earnings from 
 music teaching and needlework. But he rented an acre 
 of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he gathered 
 driftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made 
 up the accounts of the storekeeper occasionally. Yet it 
 was merely keeping off starvation. He was not popular. 
 He had no tongue for the meaningless village talk. Peo- 
 ple held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean 
 satisfaction when they saw him shouldering driftwood, 
 and piling it on the shore to be dragged away the last 
 resort of the poor, for which they blush. 
 
 When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew 
 the chances were he would not get the rental; yet, be- 
 cause he was sorry for the old man, he gave it to him at 
 a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and 
 it was never opened afterwards. 
 
 So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his grand- 
 daughter, came to live there. Judith was a blithe, lis- 
 some creature, who had never known comfort or riches : 
 they were taken from her grandfather before she was 
 born, and her father and mother both died when she was 
 a little child. But she had been taught by her grand- 
 mother, when she lived, and by her grandfather, and 
 she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she had a 
 singular sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. 
 She was glad when they came to live at the Bridge 
 House, and shamed too: glad because they could live 
 apart from the other villagers; shamed because it ex- 
 posed her to the curiosity of those who visited the
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 131 
 
 House, thinking it was still a tavern. But that was 
 only for a time. 
 
 One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped 
 with his men at Bamber's Boom. He was of parents 
 Scotch and French, and the amalgamation of races in 
 him made a striking product. He was cool and indom- 
 itable, yet hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch 
 him at the head of his men, breaking up a jam of logs, 
 and it was a delight to hear him of an evening 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 was strong, and the 
 logs came on swiftly. As Brydon's gang worked, they 
 saw a man out upon a small raft of driftwood, which 
 had been suddenly caught in 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 old man, evidently hopeless, laid 
 down his pike-pole, folded his hands, and drifted with 
 the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They 
 began to 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 caught up a pike- 
 pole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. 
 The old man's face was white, but there was no fear in 
 his eyes.
 
 132 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "I cannot run the logs," he said at once; "I never 
 did; I am too old, and I slip. It's no use. It is my 
 granddaughter at that window. Tell her that I'll think 
 of her to the last. ... Good-bye!" 
 
 Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice 
 was husky; he could not cry 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 the channel, coming straight between two 
 piers. He measured his chances. He knew 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 them was a bad business. If they once 
 closed over there was an end of everything. 
 
 "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 who were gathering on 
 the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, the bridge 
 was closed, and there was only a small opening at the 
 piers. For one of these piers Brydon was making. He 
 ran hard. Once he slipped and nearly fell, but recovered. 
 Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up and struck him, 
 so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, 
 and strained for the pier. He was within a few feet of 
 it as they came to the bridge. The people gave a cry 
 of fear, for they saw that there was no chance of both 
 making it; because, too, at the critical moment a space 
 of clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised 
 John Rupert up, balanced himself, and tossed him at 
 the pier, where two river-drivers stood stretching out 
 their arms. An instant afterwards the old man was with
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 133 
 
 his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the 
 roots of a tree bore him down, and he was gone beneath 
 the logs! 
 
 There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all 
 was still. But below the bridge they saw an arm thrust 
 up between the logs, and then another arm crowding 
 them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. 
 Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was 
 square, and did not roll. In a moment he was standing 
 on it. There was a wild shout of encouragement. He 
 turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridge 
 for an instant, and, with a wave of the hand and a sharp 
 look towards the rapids below, once more sprang out. 
 It was a brave sight, for the logs were in a narrower 
 channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of 
 his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling forest 
 gave him no quarter, but he came on, rocking with 
 weakness, to within a few rods of the shore. Then a 
 half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs, they were 
 packed 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 they thought. The old man and the 
 girl met them at the door. Judith gave a little cry when 
 she saw the blood and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted 
 his head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their 
 looks meeting, he took his hat off. Her face flushed; 
 she dropped her eyes. Her grandfather seized Brydon's 
 big hand, and said some trembling words of thanks. 
 The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the 
 sofa, and got him something to drink. She was very 
 cool; she immediately asked Pierre to go for the young 
 doctor who had lately come to the place, and made 
 ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's
 
 134 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 blood-stained face and hands, and then gave him some 
 brandy. His comrades standing round watched her ad- 
 miringly, she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if 
 to be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, 
 and came up quickly to a sitting posture, saying, 
 "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turned sick immedi- 
 ately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders 
 as he fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on 
 her bosom. At this she blushed, but a look of singular 
 dignity came into her face. Those standing by were 
 struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to the 
 daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sen- 
 sitive face spoke a wonderful language: a divine grati- 
 tude and thankfulness; and her eyes had a clear mois- 
 ture which did not dun them. The situation was trying 
 to the river-drivers it was too refined; and they 
 breathed more freely when they got outside and left 
 the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and the young doctor 
 alone with the injured man. 
 
 That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the con- 
 clusion of events from the start. The young doctor did 
 not. From the hour when he bound up Brydon's head, 
 Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his blood 
 new to him. When he came to know exactly what it 
 meant, and acted, it was too late. He was much sur- 
 prised that his advances were gently repulsed. He 
 pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an 
 idea, not uncommon in such cases, that he was confer- 
 ring an honour. But he was very young. A gold medal 
 in anatomy is likely to turn a lad's head at the start. He 
 falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the 
 medulla dblongata should likewise suffice to convince the 
 heart of a maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew 
 life all round; he had boxed the compass of experience.
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 135 
 
 He belived in Judith. The old man interested him: he 
 was a wreck out of an unfamiliar life. 
 
 "Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as 
 they sat on the high cross-beams of the little bridge, 
 ' ' you can't kill it in a man what he was 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 the wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, 
 you remember, he took off his hat 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 it if she tried. She plays the piano, 
 and looks all silk in calico. Made for this? " he waved 
 his hand towards the Bridge House. "No, no! made 
 for" 
 
 He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit 
 of wood on the swift current. 
 
 Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a 
 pretty cottage on the hillside. "Made for homes like 
 that, not this," he said, and he nodded first towards the 
 hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage be- 
 longed 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, then at 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.
 
 136 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 What you expect they will not 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 in the open where the river welts and washes, 
 and a man the great man of the 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 the girl: speak." 
 
 As he said this, there showed beneath them the front 
 timbers of a small crib of logs with a crew of two men, 
 making for the rapids and the slide below. Here was 
 an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight a 
 craft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, meas- 
 uring the distance, and with a "Look out, below!" 
 swiftly let himself down by his arms as far as he could, 
 and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it were 
 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 into the teeth of the 
 rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and falling 
 to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and 
 the craft against the tall dark walls of the river in strong 
 relief, and Brydon was carried away from what Pierre 
 had been saying. He had a solid pleasure in watching, 
 and he sat up with a call of delight when he saw the crib 
 drive 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 same to you," he added, looking down at 
 her over his shoulder. "You don't care for things so 
 rough, mebbe?"
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 137 
 
 "I love the river," she said quietly. 
 
 "We're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. 
 It's a rowdy business." 
 
 "I never noticed that," she replied, gravely smiling. 
 "When I was small I used to go to the river-drivers' 
 camps with my brother, and they were always kind to 
 us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke: 
 but I didn't think then that they were rowdy, and I 
 don't now. They were never rough with us." 
 
 "No one'd ever be rough with you," was the reply. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said suddenly, and turned her head 
 away. She was thinking of what the young doctor had 
 said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had 
 acted : upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreason- 
 able things, as young egoists always do. In years she 
 was younger than he, but hi wisdom much older : in all 
 things more wise and just. He had not struck her, but 
 with his 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; and then she 
 leaned over the railing and looked into the water. 
 
 "I'd break the man into pieces that was rough with 
 you," he said between his teeth. 
 
 "Would you?" she asked in a whisper. Then, not 
 giving him a chance to reply, "We are very poor, you 
 know, and some people are rough with the poor and 
 proud. I remember," she went on, simply, dreamily, 
 and as if talking to herself, "the day when we first came 
 to the Bridge House. I sat down on a box and looked 
 at the furniture it was so little and cried. Coming 
 here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. 
 I couldn't help it. He sat down too, and didn't say any- 
 thing. He was very pale, and I saw that his eyes ached 
 as he looked at me. Then I got angry with myself,
 
 138 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 and sprang up and went to work and we get along 
 pretty well." 
 
 She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: "I 
 love the river. I don't believe I could be happy away 
 from it. I should like to live on it, and die on it, and be 
 buried in it." 
 
 His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so 
 frail and dainty that his voice, to himself, sounded rude. 
 Still, his hand blundered along the railing to hers, and 
 covered it tenderly for so big a hand. She drew her 
 fingers away, but not very quickly. "Don't! " she said, 
 "and and someone is coming!" 
 
 There were footsteps behind them. It was her grand- 
 father, carrying a board fished from the river. He 
 grasped the situation, and stood speechless with wonder. 
 He had never thought of this. He was a gentleman, in 
 spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss. 
 Presently he drew himself up with an ah*. The heavy 
 board was still in his arms. Brydon came over and took 
 the board, looking him squarely in the 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 man nodded. 
 
 "Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I'm going 
 to ask you to draw no more driftwood from the Mada- 
 waska not a stick, now or ever." 
 
 "It is the only way we can keep from freezing in 
 winter." Mr. Rupert scarcely knew what he said. 
 
 Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, then 
 answered: "Til keep you from freezing, if you'll let 
 me, you and Judith." 
 
 "Oh, please let us go into the house," Judith said 
 hastily.
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 139 
 
 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 behind him at the Bridge House, where 
 she and her grandfather were to stay until the next sum- 
 mer. Then there would be a journey from B amber's 
 Boom to a new home. 
 
 In the late autumn he came, before he went away 
 to the shanties in the backwoods, and again in the win- 
 ter just before the babe was born. Then he went far up 
 the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down the 
 drives of logs for his Company. June came, and then 
 there was a sudden sorrow at the Bridge House. How 
 great it was, Pierre's words as he stood at the door one 
 evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: 
 "Save the child, and you shall have back the I U on 
 your house." Which was also evidence that the young 
 doctor had fallen into the habit of gambling. 
 
 The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a 
 selfish nature. "You can only do what you can do," 
 he said. 
 
 Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not save it, 
 one would guess why." 
 
 The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: 
 "You think I'm a coward. We shall see. There is a 
 way, but it may fail." 
 
 And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from 
 the child's throat, it died the next night. 
 
 Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won 
 was handed back with such good advice as only a world- 
 wise adventurer can give. 
 
 Of the child's death its father did not know. They 
 were not certain where he was. But when the mother 
 took to her bed again, the young doctor said it was best 
 that Brydon should come. Pierre had time and incli-
 
 140 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 nation to go for him. But before he went he was taken 
 to Judith's bedside. Pierre had seen life and death in 
 many forms, but never anything quite like this: a 
 delicate creature floating away upon a summer current : 
 travelling in those valleys which are neither of this life 
 nor of that; but where you hear the echoes of both, and 
 are visited by solicitous spirits. There was no pain in 
 her face she heard a little, familiar voice from high 
 and pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are the dying, 
 that her husband was travelling after her, and that they 
 would be all together soon. But she did not speak of 
 that. For the knowledge born 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 fingers played with the coverlet, "for I 
 wish to comfort him. . . . Someone said that you were 
 bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorry when 
 my baby went away. I am going away too. But 
 do not tell him that. Tell Him I cannot walk about. I 
 want him to carry me to carry me. Will you?" 
 
 Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the 
 coverlet to him; but it was only instinct that guided 
 him, for he could not see. He started on his journey 
 with his hat pulled down over his eyes. 
 
 One evening when the river was very high and it was 
 said that Brydon's drives of logs would soon be down, 
 a strange thing happened at the Bridge House. 
 
 The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert 
 that he would come back 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 in 
 the little back room a woman's voice said: 
 
 "Is it morning yet, father?"
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 141 
 
 "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 no one 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 was so cool and sweet. There was 
 only the sound of the force-pump and the swallowing of 
 the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, 
 and that 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 think it 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 be- 
 neath that window, where the sunshine falls in the 
 evening; and it looked down once before its spirit
 
 142 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will 
 stay, for him 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 the sun- 
 shine." 
 
 "Dear, carry me to the window." 
 
 When this was done she suddenly leaned forward 
 with shining eyes and anxious 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 the last, "Oh, my dear, 
 my dear!" 
 
 And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. 
 
 Later he was left alone with his dead. The young 
 doctor and others had come and gone. He would 
 watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to 
 the world. At last he started, for he heard a low clear 
 call behind the House. He went out quickly to the 
 little platform, and saw through the dusk a man draw- 
 ing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old 
 man's shoulders convulsively. ' ' How is she? " he asked. 
 
 "Come in, my son," was the low reply. The old man 
 saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband 
 to the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. 
 
 "She is better, as you see," he said bravely. 
 
 The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one 
 on either side. They knew not what was going on in 
 the world. 
 
 As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat
 
 THE BRIDGE HOUSE 143 
 
 silent in that cottage on the hillside. They were roused 
 at last. There came up to Pierre's keen ears the sound 
 of the river. 
 
 ' ' Let us go out, ' ' he said ; "the river is flooding. You 
 can hear the logs." 
 
 They came out and watched. The river went swish- 
 ing, swilling past, and the dull boom of the logs as they 
 struck the piers of the bridge or some building on the 
 shore came rolling to them. 
 
 "The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre said. 
 
 He pointed to the camps far up the river. By the 
 light of the camp-fires there appeared a wide weltering 
 flood of logs and debris. Pierre's eyes shifted to the 
 Bridge House. In one room was a light. He stepped 
 out and down, and the other followed. They had almost 
 reached the shore, when Pierre cried out sharply: 
 "What's that?" 
 
 He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon 
 the Bridge House. It was a big shed that had been 
 carried away, and, jammed between timbers, had not 
 broken up. There was no tune for warning. It came on 
 swiftly, heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grind- 
 ing sound, and then they saw the light of that one room 
 move on, waving a little to and fro on to the rapids, 
 the cohorts of logs crowding hard after. 
 
 Where the light was two men had started to their 
 feet when the crash came. They felt the House move. 
 ' ' Run save yourself ! ' ' cried the old man quietly. ' ' 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 not go." 
 
 They could hear the rapids below. The old man
 
 144 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 steadied himself in the deep water on the floor, and 
 caught out yearningly at the cold hands. 
 
 "Come close, come close," said Brydon. "Closer; 
 put your arms round her." 
 
 The old man did so. They were locked in each other's 
 arms dead and living. 
 
 The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: "We 
 therefore commit her body 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 his daughter sat 
 near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her fine buck- 
 skin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles 
 the trader had put a great indignity upon Athabasca. 
 A factor of twenty years before, in recognition of the 
 chief's merits and in reward of his services, had pre- 
 sented him with a pah* of epaulettes, left hi the Fort 
 by some officer hi Her Majesty's service. A good, 
 solid, honest pah* of epaulettes, well fitted to stand the 
 wear and tear of those high feasts and functions at 
 which the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. 
 They were the admiration of his own tribe, the wonder 
 of others, the envy of many chiefs. It was said that 
 Athabasca wore them creditably, and was no more im- 
 mobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus 
 honoured above his kind. 
 
 But the years went, and there came a man to Fort 
 Pentecost who knew not Athabasca. He was young, 
 and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knew naught 
 of human nature, was possessed by a pride more mas- 
 terful than his wisdom, and a courage stronger than 
 his tact. He was ever for high-handedness, brooked 
 no interference, and treated the Indians more as Com- 
 pany's serfs than as Company's friends and allies. 
 Also, he had an eye for Mitawawa, and found favour 
 in return, though to what depth it took a long time te 
 
 145
 
 146 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires of 
 the young braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, 
 a deft and dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a 
 particular fortune with a bow and arrow, and the 
 fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles 
 the white man came to sit often in Athabasca's lodge. 
 He knew of this, but heeded not at all. At last Konto, 
 a young brave who very accurately guessed at Fyles' 
 intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey Horse 
 Trail, and in a soft, indolent voice begged him to prove 
 his regard in a fight without weapons, to the death, 
 the survivor to give the other burial where he fell. 
 Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It would have been 
 foolish to run the risk of leaving Fort and people mas- 
 terless for an Indian's whim; it would have been cow- 
 ardly to do nothing. So he whipped out a revolver, 
 and bade his rival march before him to the Fort ; which 
 Konto 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 at least banish Konto from his 
 tribe, hinting the while that he might have to 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 surprised that Athabasca let them 
 pass unmoved. But that chief, after long consideration, 
 during which he drank Company's coffee and ate Com- 
 pany's pemmican, declared that he could do nothing: 
 for Konto had made a fine offer, and a grand chance 
 of a great fight had been missed. This was in the pres- 
 ence of several petty officers and Indians and woods- 
 men at the Fort. Fyles had vanity and a nasty tem- 
 per. He swore a little, and with words of bluster went 
 over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief's shoulders
 
 THE EPAULETTES 147 
 
 as a punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief 
 said nothing. 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 his shoulders. 
 It was wont before to lie loosely about him, to show his 
 badges of captaincy and alliance. 
 
 This was about the time that the Indians were mak- 
 ing ready for the buffalo, 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 making 
 trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: 
 he would settle it in his own way. He would not go 
 to the hunt. Konto, he said, should take his place; and 
 when his braves came back there should be great feast- 
 ing, for then the matter would be ended. 
 
 Half the course of the moon and more, and Atha- 
 basca came out of his lodge the first tune in the sun- 
 light since the day of his disgrace. He and his daughter 
 sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been 
 no word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word be- 
 tween Mitawawa and Fyles. The Fort was well-nigh 
 tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone after 
 buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed 
 cook were left. 
 
 Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience : she had 
 held her peace so long that even her slow Indian nature 
 could endure no more. ' ' What will my father 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 Men of 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
 
 148 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 rusty. My people were full of wonder when they stood 
 before me, and the tribes had envy as they passed. It 
 is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon 
 since the Great Company put them on my shoulders. 
 They were light to carry, but it was as 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 if I 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 who rule. 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 I know 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 will speak plain. I love the man: but I 
 love my father also." 
 
 She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one 
 hand clasped proudly on her breast. "I cannot re- 
 member my mother; but I remember when I first 
 looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and 
 saw my father sitting by the fire. It was in the evening 
 like this, but darker, for the pines made great shadows. 
 I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid 
 me between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat 
 from the pot. He talked much to me, and his voice 
 was finer than any other. There is no one like my 
 father Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white 
 man, Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not
 
 THE EPAULETTES 149 
 
 know, and I listened. Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, 
 because he was a great man of the Company, would 
 not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made 
 my father as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would 
 give my life for Fyles the trader, but I would give more 
 than my life to wipe out my father'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 have ridden 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 look could you have told that he heard 
 his daughter's words. For a moment he was silent, 
 then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy 
 brows drew up so that the frown of anger was gone. 
 At last, as she waited, he arose, put out a hand and 
 touched her forehead. 
 
 "Mitawawa has spoken well," he said. "There will 
 be an end. The yokes of 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 shall fight me. I am as great as many men I have 
 carried the golden yokes: we will fight for them. I 
 thought long, for I was afraid my daughter loved the 
 man more than her people: but now I will break him 
 in pieces. Has Mitawawa seen him since the shameful 
 day?" 
 
 "He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him 
 in unless he brought the 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 as the ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there 
 is no tongue like his in the world ; he is tall and beauti- 
 ful, and has the face of a spirit."
 
 150 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair 
 of field-glasses he could follow their actions, could al- 
 most read their faces. "There'll be a lot of sulking 
 about those epaulettes, Mallory," he said at last, turn- 
 ing 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 at Fort 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 the north which can turn from dove to serpent and 
 from serpent to lion in the moment. 
 
 "Give 'em back, Mallory? I'll see him in Jericho 
 first, unless he goes on 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 so before this. Besides, the girl !" 
 
 Mallory looked long and earnestly at his master, 
 whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little 
 eyes moved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once 
 or twice. At last he said: "I'd give the girl the go-by, 
 Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I meant to marry her." 
 
 Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your place, 
 blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One'd 
 think you were a missionary." Then with a sudden 
 burst of anger: "Damn it all, if my men don't stand by 
 me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I'd better 
 get out." 
 
 "Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I've 
 served three traders here, and my record is pretty clean, 
 Mr. Fyles. But I'll say it to your face, whether you 
 like it or not, that you're not as good a judge of the
 
 THE EPAULETTES 151 
 
 Injin as me, or even Due 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 up the glass, and looked towards 
 Athabasca's lodge. " They 're gone," he said presently; 
 "I'll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must 
 do what I want, or there'll be ructions." 
 
 The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Atha- 
 basca entered the silent yard. The dogs growled, but 
 Indian dogs growl without reason, and no one heeds 
 them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the 
 windows, upon which slush-lights were throwing heavy 
 shadows. He went to Fyles' window: no one was in 
 the room. He went to another : Mallory and Due were 
 sitting at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking 
 at them and fingering the hooks by which Athabasca 
 had fastened them on. Due was laughing: he reached 
 over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it and 
 threw it down with a guffaw. Then the door opened, 
 and Athabasca walked in, seized the epualettes, and 
 went swiftly out again. Just outside the door Mallory 
 clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Due caught at the 
 epaulettes. 
 
 Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was 
 a cold white flash, and Due came huddling to Mallory's 
 feet. For a brief instant Mallory and the Indian fell 
 apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness 
 tossed his knife away, and ran in on his man. They 
 closed; strained, swayed, became a tangled wrenching 
 mass; and then Mallory was lifted high into the air, 
 and came down with a broken back. 
 
 Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried 
 away, breathing hard, and hugging them to his bare 
 red-stained breast. He had nearly reached the gate
 
 152 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy 
 stone caught him high in the shoulders, and he fell on 
 his face and lay clutching the epaulettes in his out- 
 stretched hands. 
 
 Fyles' own hands were yet lifted with the effort of 
 throwing, when he heard the soft rush of footsteps, 
 and someone came swiftly into his embrace. 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 at his throat. 
 
 In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with 
 wild eyes by her father'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, yet strong a mezzo-soprano without any cul- 
 ture save that of practice and native taste. It had a 
 singular charm a sweet, fantastic sincerity. He stood 
 still and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods 
 away. It stood on a knoll perching above Fort Ste. 
 Anne. Years had passed since Pierre had visited the 
 Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, after many 
 wanderings. The house had stood here in the old days, 
 and he remembered 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 slats broken and a dark stain 
 in one corner. Something more of John Marcey than 
 memory attached to that shutter. His eyes dwelt on 
 
 153
 
 154 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 it long he recalled the scene: a night with stars and 
 no moon, a huge bonfire to light the Indians, at their 
 dance, and Marcey, Laforce, and many others there, 
 among whom was Lucille, the little daughter of Gyng 
 the Factor. Marcey and Laforce were only boys then, 
 neither yet twenty-three, and they were friendly rivals 
 with the sweet little coquette, who gave her favors 
 with a singular impartiality and justice. Once Marcey 
 had given her a gold spoon. Laforce responded with 
 a tiny, fretted silver basket. Laforce was delighted to 
 see her carrying her basket, till she opened it and 
 showed the spoon inside. There were many mock quar- 
 rels, in one of which Marcey sent her a letter by the 
 Company's courier, covered with great seals, saying, 
 "I return you the hairpin, the egg-shell, and the white 
 wolf's tooth. Go to your Laforce, or whatever his 
 ridiculous name may be." 
 
 In this way the pretty game ran on, the little golden- 
 haired, golden-faced, golden-voiced child dancing so 
 gayly in their hearts, but nestling in them too, after 
 her wilful fashion, until the serious thing came the 
 tragedy. 
 
 On the mad night when all ended, she was in the 
 gayest, the most elf-like spirits. All went well until 
 Marcey dug a hole in the ground, put a stone in it, 
 and, burying it, said it was Laforce's heart. Then 
 Laforce pretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Mar- 
 cey's slight stutter. That was the beginning of the 
 trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of the world, troubled 
 at Laforce's unkindness, tried to smooth things over 
 tried very gravely. But the playful rivalry of many 
 months changed its composition suddenly as through 
 some delicate yet powerful chemical action, and the 
 savage hi both men broke out suddenly. Where motives
 
 HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER 155 
 
 and emotions are few they are the more vital, their 
 action is the more violent. No one knew 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, and had their duel out in the half -shadows, 
 no one knowing, till the shots rang on the night, and 
 John Marcey, without a cry, sprang into the air and fell 
 face upwards, shot through the heart. 
 
 They tried to take the child away, but she would not 
 go; and when they carried Marcey on the shutter she 
 followed close by, resisting her father's wishes and com- 
 mands. And just before they made a prisoner of 
 Laforce, she said to him very quietly so like a woman 
 she was "I will give you back the basket, and the 
 riding-whip, and the other things, and I will never for- 
 give 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 had been stripped 
 from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own state- 
 ment had 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 tune. But he knew that 
 Gyng was dead, and that his widow and her child had 
 gone south or east somewhere; of Laforce after his sen- 
 tence he had never heard. 
 
 He stood looking at the house from the shade of 
 the solitary pine-tree near it, recalling every incident of 
 that fatal night. He had the gift of looking at a thing 
 in its true proportions, perhaps because he had little 
 emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early 
 in life his emotions were rationalised. Presently he 
 heard the voice again:
 
 156 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "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 young girl's golden face and golden hair. 
 It was summer, and the window with the broken shutter 
 was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of 
 the house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, 
 with rich, yellow hair falling loosely about her head; 
 she had a strong, finely cut chin and 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 against the tree, and she started 
 as from a spirit. 
 
 "Monsieur!" she said "Pierre!" and stepped for- 
 ward again from the doorway. 
 
 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.
 
 HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER 157 
 
 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 is only 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 were trying to find what she actually 
 thought. She was one after Pierre's own heart, and he 
 knew it; but just here he wondered where all that 
 ancient coquetry was gone, for there were no traces of 
 it left; she was steady of eye, 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 she was just now she was always, or nearly so, for 
 the habits of a life leave their mark, and show through 
 every phase of emotion and incident whether it 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 fought the Indians when 
 the others left. Only men said bad things of you, 
 and my father did not like you, and you spoke so little 
 to me ever. Yet I mind how you used to sit and watch 
 me, and I also mind when you rode the man 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 a bullet, 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 great advantage to live 
 where nothing was required of her but truth, she had 
 not suffered that sickness, social artifice.
 
 158 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "I never knew," she said, "that he had shot at you 
 never! You did not tell that." 
 
 "There is a tune for everything the tune 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 be merciful to the sinner. But this man 
 this Brickney was a vile scoundrel always, and I 
 wanted him locked up. I would have shot him myself, 
 but I was tired of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes," 
 he added, as he saw her smile a little. "It is so. I 
 have love for justice, even I, Pretty Pierre. Why not 
 justice on myself? Ha! The law does not its duty. 
 And maybe some day I shall have to do its work on 
 myself. Some are coaxed out of life, some are kicked 
 out, and some open the doors quietly for themselves, 
 and go a-hunting Outside." 
 
 "They used to talk as if one ought to fear you," she 
 said, "but" she looked him straight in the eyes "but 
 maybe that's because you've never hid any badness." 
 
 "It is no matter, anyhow," he answered. "I live 
 in the open, I walk in the 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 sen- 
 tentiously. 
 
 "Come inside," she said quietly, and turned to the 
 door. 
 
 Without a word he turned also, but instead of going 
 direct to the door came and touched the broken shutter 
 and the dark stain on one corner with a delicate fore- 
 finger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her 
 on the doorstep, looking intently.
 
 HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER 159 
 
 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, ten years Abroad, John 
 Marcey!" Then, as if still musing, he turned to the 
 girl: "He had no father or mother no one, of course; 
 so that it wasn't so bad after all. If you've lived with 
 the tongue in the last hole of the buckle as you've gone, 
 what matter when you go! C'est 6gal it is all the 
 same. " 
 
 Her face had become pale as he spoke, but no muscle 
 stirred; only her eyes 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 Pierre slowly rolled a cigarette and 
 lighted it. 
 
 "How long have you lived here?" he asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "It is seven years since we came first," she replied. 
 "After that night they said the place was haunted, and 
 no one would live in it, but when my father died my 
 mother and I came for three years. Then we went east, 
 and again came back, and here we have been." 
 
 "The shutter?" Pierre asked. 
 
 They needed few explanations their minds were 
 moving with the same thought. 
 
 "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 no one, Sergeant Laforce a 
 mother."
 
 160 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "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 near the Fort. 
 
 "His mother died," she added again, quietly. "It 
 killed her the gaol for 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. "La- 
 force has his own reckoning 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 still hung there, why the 
 matter had settled so deeply on her. He remembered 
 the song she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet 
 Hunter, the fabled Savior 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 truth of things by allusive, far-off reflec- 
 tions, rather than by the sharp questioning of the wit- 
 ness-box. He had imagination, refinement in such 
 things. 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?)"
 
 HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER 161 
 
 But why did she live here? To get used to a thought, 
 to have it so near her, that if the man if Laforce him- 
 self came, she would have herself schooled 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 she would never forgive the other, who 
 had sent him back the fretted-silver basket, the riding- 
 whip, and other things, had kept the criminal in her 
 mind 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 that she had not quite forgiven him, that, 
 whatever was, she had not hidden the criminal in her 
 heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heart was 
 pleading for him for the criminal. Had she and her 
 mother gone to Winnipeg to be near Laforce, to com- 
 fort him? Was Laforce free now, and was she unwilling? 
 It was so strange that she should thus have carried on 
 her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed 
 her she had imagination. 
 
 "His mother died in my arms hi 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 the one against the other. Must a child not 
 be responsible? I was lam!" 
 
 "And so you punish yourself?" 
 
 "It was terrible for me even as a child. I said that 
 I could never forgive, but when his mother died, blessing 
 me, I did. Then there came something else." 
 
 "You saw him, chere amie?"
 
 162 
 
 "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. He 
 didn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. 
 And I wasn't ready 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 tome! There 
 was no 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 body to the Fort. 
 So he went away again, and we came here, and here we 
 have lived." 
 
 "He has not come here?" 
 
 "No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by 
 an Indian, saying that 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 one of 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 he could carry it. He once 
 stole the quarters from a dead man's eyes. Man Dieu! 
 to save Brickney's life, the courage to do that like 
 sticking your face 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 for them, eh you think that, eh?" 
 Pierre's eyes had a curious ironical light. 
 
 "I do not care for the Company," she said. "John 
 Marcey's life was his own." 
 
 "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, that he 
 would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn't killed 
 him." 
 
 "I know, I know," she said, "but I should have felt 
 the same if John Marcey had killed Stroke Laforce." 
 
 "It is a pity to throw your life away," he ventured. 
 He said this for a purpose. He did not think she was 
 throwing it away. 
 
 She was watching a little knot of horsemen coming 
 over a swell of the prairie far off. She withdrew her 
 eyes and fixed them on Pierre. "Do you throw your
 
 164 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 life away if you do what is the only thing you are told 
 to 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 all wrong 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 better times, for he was a man to make 
 another world sociable. Think of Laforce, for he has 
 his life to live, and he is a man to make this world soci- 
 able. 
 
 '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. She again 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 of the house. She turned
 
 HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER 165 
 
 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 settled and 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. "Every shot 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 Lucille had seen coming 
 over the hills. They were five, and one had to be helped 
 from his horse. It was Stroke Laforce, who had been 
 found near dead at the Metal River by a party of men 
 exploring in the north. 
 
 He had rescued the Englishman and his party, but 
 within a day of the finding the Englishman died, leav- 
 ing him his watch, a ring, and a cheque on the H. B. C. 
 at Winnipeg. He and the two survivors, one of whom 
 was Brickney, started south. One night Brickney 
 robbed him and made to get away, and on his seizing 
 the thief he was wounded. Then the other man came 
 to his help and shot Brickney: after that weeks of 
 wandering, and at last rescue and Fort Ste. Anne. 
 
 A half-hour after this Pierre left Laforce on the crest 
 of the hill above the Fort, and did not turn to go down 
 till he had seen the other pass within the house with 
 the broken shutter. And later he saw a little bonfire
 
 166 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 on the hill. The next evening he came to the house 
 again himself. 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 La- 
 force asleep on a couch. 
 
 Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he 
 turned towards the window. The broken shutter was 
 gone. 
 
 He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night 
 before.
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 
 
 ' ' Fingatt ! Fingall !Oh, Fingall ! " 
 
 A grey mist was rising from the river, the sun was 
 drinking it delightedly, the swift blue water showed 
 underneath it, and the top of Whitefaced Mountain 
 peaked the mist by a hand-length. The river brushed 
 the banks like rustling silk, and the only other sound, 
 very sharp and clear in the liquid monotone, was the 
 crack of a woodpecker's beak on a hickory tree. 
 
 It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome 
 Valley. Before night the deer would bellow reply to 
 the hunters' rifles, and the mountain-goat call to its 
 unknown gods; but now there was only the wild duck 
 skimming the river, and the high hilltop rising and 
 fading into the mist, the ardent 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 to the mountain-side beyond and above 
 them, and one said presently: 
 
 "The second time. It's a woman's voice, Pierre." 
 
 Pierre nodded, and abstractedly 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: 
 
 167
 
 168 
 
 "IknowFingall." 
 
 "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 flame of red and blue. Her 
 hah-, too then would trip her up, if it hung loose. 
 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 the earth beneath, and there 
 comes the great hunger, what is the good! A man 
 cannot 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 than a 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 no difference what others did; he 
 didn't think it was like breathing to him. How can 
 you tell the way things happen? Cynthie's father kept 
 the tavern at St. Gabriel's Fork, over against the great 
 saw-mill. Fingall was foreman of a gang in the lumber- 
 yard. Cynthie had a brother Fenn. Fenn was as 
 bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew 
 it well, though he hated the young skunk. The girl's 
 eyes were like two little 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 
 you wouldn't see him for a time. So it seemed to me 
 that he made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, 
 and to say nothing."
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 169 
 
 "Fingall! Fingall!0h, Fingall! J> 
 
 The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. 
 
 "She's coming this way, 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 did not come. 
 Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would 
 settle some other tune. That night a wicked thing 
 happened. We were sitting in the bar-room when we 
 heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the other 
 room; there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted 
 himself on his elbow, pointed at Fingall and fell 
 back. The father of the boy stood white and still a 
 few feet away. There was no pistol showing none 
 at all. 
 
 "The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir 
 he seemed to be thinking of something else. He had 
 a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men roared round him, 
 but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first 
 at the father, then at the son. I could not understand 
 at first. Someone pulled a pistol out of Fingall's pocket 
 and showed it. At that moment Cynthie came in. 
 She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear a 
 cry like that often. She fell on her knees beside the 
 boy, and caught his 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 tell her 
 his name, for they knew that she loved him. 
 
 "'Father.' she said all at once, 'have you killed the 
 man that killed Fenn?' 
 
 "The old man shook his head. There was a sick 
 colour in his face.
 
 170 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 '"Then I will kill him,' she said. 
 
 "She laid her brother's head down, and stood up. 
 Someone put in her hand the pistol, and told her it 
 was the same that had killed Fenn. She took it, and 
 came with us. The old man stood still where he was; 
 he was like stone. I looked at him for a minute and 
 thought ; then I turned round and went 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 was Fingall; he was looking at her very strange. It 
 was the rule to empty the gun into a man who had been 
 sentenced; and already Fingall had heard his, '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 pistol up up up, till I could see it was 
 just out of range of his head, and she fired. One! two! 
 three! four! five! Fingall never moved a muscle; but 
 the bullets spotted the wall at the side of his head. She 
 stopped after the five; but the arm was still held out, 
 and her finger was on the trigger; she seemed to be 
 all dazed. Only six chambers were in the gun, and of 
 course one chamber was empty. Fenn had its bullet 
 in his lungs, as we thought. So someone beside Cyn- 
 thie touched her arm, pushing it down. But there 
 was another shot, and this tune, because of the push, 
 the bullet lodged in Fingall's skull." 
 
 Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand towards 
 the mist which hung high up like a canopy between 
 the hills. 
 
 "But," said Lawless, not heeding the scene, "what 
 about that sixth bullet?" 
 
 ."Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot.
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 171 
 
 His revolver was full, every chamber, when Cynthie 
 first took it." 
 
 "Who killed the lad?" 
 
 "Can you not guess? There had been words be- 
 tween the father and the boy: both had fierce blood. 
 The father, in a mad minute, fired; the boy wanted 
 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, or ashamed 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 own son." 
 
 "What came after?" 
 
 "The worst. That night the girPs father killed him- 
 self, and the two were buried in the same grave. Cyn- 
 thie" 
 
 "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 was innocent. 
 The two were buried. Then we told her that Fingall 
 was not dead. She used to come and sit outside the 
 door, and listen to his breathing, 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 getting well, and then she didn't 
 come, but stayed at home, just saying his name over 
 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,
 
 172 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 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 just looked 
 at her as if he'd never seen her before, and passed by 
 without a sign, though afterwards a trouble came in 
 his face. Three days later he was gone, no one knew 
 where. That is two years ago. Ever since she has 
 been looking for him." 
 
 "Is she mad?" 
 
 "Mad? Holy Mother! it is not good to have one 
 thing in the head all the time! What do you think? 
 So much all at once! And then " 
 
 "Hush, Pierre! There she is!" said Lawless, point- 
 ing to a ledge of rock not far away. 
 
 The girl stood looking out across the valley, a weird, 
 rapt look in her face, her hair falling loose, a staff like 
 a shepherd's crook in one hand, the other hand over 
 her eyes as she slowly looked from point to point of 
 the horizon. 
 
 The two watched her without speaking. Presently 
 she saw them. She gazed at 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 on Pierre. 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. She sat facing them, and, taking 
 from a bag at her side some wild fruits, ate slowly, 
 saying nothing. Lawless noticed that her hair had 
 become grey at her temples, though she was but one- 
 and-twenty years old. Her face, brown as it was,
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 173 
 
 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 life was fusing. Lawless could not bear 
 to look long, for the fire that consumes 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 trem- 
 ulous activity 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 smile that almost hurt him, "When I have 
 found him, I will bring him to your camp-fire. Last 
 night the Voice said that he waits for me where the mist 
 rises 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 comes and the red 
 wolf cries, I must find him. Winter is the tune of sleep. 
 I will give him honey and dried meat. I know where 
 we shall live together. You never saw such roses! 
 Hush! I have a place where we can hide." 
 
 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 hour of death, and in the Day 
 of Judgment, Good Lord, deliver us!" 
 
 "Good Lord, deliver us!" repeated Lawless in a low 
 voice. Without looking at them, she slowly turned 
 away and passed up the hill-side, her eyes 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 they shouldered their kits and passed up 
 the river on the trail of the wapiti.
 
 174 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 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 a touch of cloud or mist from its 
 haunches to its crown. 
 
 They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer to a 
 voice, entered. The sunlight streamed hi over a woman, 
 lying upon a heap of dried flowers in a corner. A man 
 was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw 
 that the woman was Cynthie. 
 
 "Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling 
 man by the shoulder. 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 hi hers, was a sane light, and his voice, 
 as hers, said indescribable things. 
 
 Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; 
 she slept. Fingall laid her down with a sob in his 
 throat; then he sat up and clutched Pierre's hand. 
 
 "In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard 
 all," he said, pointing to her, "and I came to find her. 
 I was just hi tune; I found her yesterday." 
 
 "She knew you?" whispered Pierre. 
 
 "Yes, but this fever came on." He turned and looked 
 at her, and, kneeling, smoothed away the hah- 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."
 
 THE FINDING OF FINGALL 175 
 
 Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, 
 leaving the man alone with the woman he loved. 
 
 The two stood in silence, looking upon the river 
 beneath. Presently a voice 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 
 
 "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 his occupation, raised an eyebrow as if to 
 someone sitting at the other side of the fire, though 
 the room was empty save for the two and went on 
 reading: 
 
 11 '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 whirl- 
 wind. 
 
 "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, leaving the Bible open, laid it at his side. 
 Then he fell to studying the figure on the couch. The 
 body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had an ap- 
 pearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; 
 but the hair was grey, the beard was grizzled, and the 
 
 176
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 177 
 
 face was furrowed and seamed as though the man had 
 lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty years 
 old, the head sixty; the man's exact age was forty-five. 
 His most singular characteristic was a fine, almost 
 spiritual intelligence, which showed in the dewy bright- 
 ness of the eye, in the lighted face, in the cadenced 
 definiteness of his speech. One would have said, know- 
 ing nothing of him, that he was a hermit; but again, 
 noting the firm, graceful outlines of his body, that he 
 was a soldier. Within the past twenty-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, with- 
 out pause to say how much or how little he cares to go. 
 
 Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard 
 experiences here and there, had helped him back into 
 the world again, and was himself now a little astonished 
 at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant invalid. 
 Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with 
 him in memory, and Old Testament history was as wine 
 to his blood. The lofty tales sang in his veins : of primi- 
 tive man, adventure, mysterious and exalted romance. 
 For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he had read 
 aloud from these ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held 
 this Post of the Hudson's Bay Company hi the outer 
 wilderness. 
 
 Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to 
 find a half-breed trapper and an Indian helpless before 
 the sickness which was hurrying to close on John Faw- 
 dor's heart and clamp it hi the vice of death. He had 
 come just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what 
 ways the future should show, why this man, of such 
 unusual force and power, should have lived at a deso- 
 late post in Labrador for twenty-five years.
 
 178 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 '"This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the 
 lot of them that rob us ' " Fawdor repeated the words 
 slowly, and then said: "It is good to be out of the rest- 
 less world. Do you know the secret of life, Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre's fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible 
 at his side, drumming the leaves. His eyes wandered 
 over Fawdor's face, and presently he answered, "To 
 keep your own commandments." 
 
 "The ten?" asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. 
 
 Pierre's fingers closed the book. "Not the ten, for 
 they do not fit all; but one by one to make your own, 
 and never to break comme ga!" 
 
 "The answer is well," returned Fawdor; "but what 
 is the greatest commandment that a man can make for 
 himself?" 
 
 "Who can tell? What is the good of saying, 'Thou 
 shalt keep holy the Sabbath day,' when a man lives 
 where he does not know the days? What is the good of 
 saying, 'Thou shalt not steal,' when a man has no heart 
 to rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should 
 have a heart, an eye for justice. It is good for him to 
 make his commandments against that wherein he is a 
 fool or has a devil. Justice, that is the thing." 
 
 "'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy 
 neighbour'?" asked Fawdor softly. 
 
 "Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own 
 words, and keep the law 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 instant as his father, a chevalier of France, 
 might have felt if a peasant had presumed to finger 
 the orders upon his breast. It touched his native pride,
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 179 
 
 so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit 
 behind the question, and the meaning justified the man. 
 
 "Thou shalt think with the minds of twelve men, and 
 the heart of one woman," he said, and paused. 
 
 "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 tune, and Pierre's cold, 
 handsome face took on a kind of softness before he said, 
 "Remember the sorrow of thine own wife." 
 
 "It is a good commandment," said the sick man, "to 
 make all women safe whether they be true or foolish." 
 
 "The. strong should be ashamed to prey upon the 
 weak. Pshaw! such a sport ends in nothing. Man only 
 is man's game." 
 
 Suddenly Pierre added: "When you thought you 
 were going to die, you gave me some papers and 
 letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall 
 I give them back? Will you take them yourself?" 
 
 Fawdor understood : Pierre wished to know his story. 
 He reached out a hand, 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 packet over. 
 
 "I will tell you the story," Fawdor said, turning over 
 on his side, so that his eyes rested full on Pierre. 
 
 He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the 
 finest and yet wildest breed, which had been lying be- 
 fore the fire, stretched itself, opened its red eyes at the 
 two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and sniffed 
 at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing rest-
 
 180 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 lessly around the room. 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 
 of the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid's 
 head. There was something rarely savage and yet beau- 
 tifully soft in the dog's face, scarred as it was by the 
 whips of earlier owners. The sick man's hand went 
 up and caressed the wolfish head. "Good dog, good 
 Akim!" he said softly in French. "Thou dost know 
 when a storm is on the way; thou dost know, too, 
 when there is a storm in my heart." 
 
 Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, 
 and the parchment windows gave forth a soft booming 
 sound. Outside, Nature was trembling lightly in all 
 her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly 
 frozen 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 to a low, long gallop, de- 
 vouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though the dumb 
 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 sorrow of 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 of 
 words. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suf- 
 fer greatly, being given the woe of imagination, bring 
 forth inner history as a mother gasps life into the world. 
 
 "I was only a boy of twenty-one," Fawdor said from 
 the pillow, as he watched the dog noiselessly travelling 
 from corner to corner, "and I had been with the Com- 
 pany three years. They had said that I could rise fast; 
 I had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 181 
 
 thinking that I saw only one way to it, by patience, 
 industry, and much thinking. I read a great deal, and 
 cared for what I read; but I observed also, that in deal- 
 ing with men I might serve myself and the Company 
 wisely. 
 
 "One day the governor of the Company came from 
 England, and with him a sweet lady, his young niece, 
 and her brother. They arranged for a tour to the Great 
 Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command 
 of the boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had 
 come to me, and so said the factor at Lachine on the 
 morning we set forth. The girl was as winsome as you 
 can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a face 
 that would be finer old than young; and a dainty trick 
 of humour had she as well. The governor was a testy 
 man; he could not bear to be crossed in a matter; yet, 
 in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilful hardness. 
 It was a long journey, and we were set to our wits to 
 make it always interesting; but we did it somehow, for 
 there were fishing and shooting, and adventure of one 
 sort and another, and the lighter things, such as singing 
 and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the long 
 river. 
 
 "We talked of many things as we travelled, and I 
 was glad to listen to the governor, for he had seen and 
 read much. It was clear he liked to have us hang upon 
 his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a little 
 large in the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for 
 raillery, was now and again guilty of some witty imper- 
 tinence; but this was hard to bring home to him, for he 
 could assume a fine childlike look when he pleased, con- 
 fusing to his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder, 
 and said many a biting thing to both the governor and 
 myself, which more than once turned his sister's face
 
 182 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 pale with apprehension, for she had a nice sense of kind- 
 ness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his 
 delight to turn one against the other. Though I was 
 wary, and the girl understood his game, at last he had 
 his way. 
 
 "I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, 
 like most bookish young men, phrase and motto were 
 much on my tongue, though not always given forth. 
 One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke 
 from the woods and ran straight through the little circle 
 we were making, and disappeared in the bushes by the 
 riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but the governor 
 forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophical 
 point. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere 
 backwoodsman at such a sport, capped his aphorism 
 with a line from Shakespeare's Cymbeline. 
 
 '"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 that stepped in, and, 
 with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some galling 
 gibe at my 'distinguished learning.' I might have 
 known better than to let it pique me, but I spoke up 
 again, though respectfully enough, that I was not wrong. 
 It appeared to me all at once as if some principle were 
 at stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare; 
 so will vanity delude us. 
 
 "The governor I can see it as if it were yesterday 
 seemed to go like ice, for he loved to be thought infallible 
 in all such things as well as in great business affairs, 
 and his nephew was there to give an edge to th matter. 
 He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better 
 in the world if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop 
 with myself. That stung me, for not only was the young 
 lady looking on with a sort of superior pity, as I thought,
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 183 
 
 but her brother was murmuring to her under his breath 
 with a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be 
 treated like a schoolboy. 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 that his 
 excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakes- 
 peare than with myself. 'Well, well/ he answered, with 
 a severe look, ' our Company has need of great men for 
 hard tasks.' To this I made no answer, for I got a warn- 
 ing look from the young lady, a look which had a sort 
 of reproach and command too. She knew the twists and 
 turns of her uncle's temper, and how he was imperious 
 and jealous in little things. The matter dropped for 
 the time; but as the governor was going to his tent for 
 the night, the young lady said to me hurriedly, 'My 
 uncle is a man of great reading and power, Mr. Faw- 
 dor. I would set it right with him, if I were you.' For 
 the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how 
 fine an eye she had, and how her voice stirred one! She 
 said no more, but stepped inside her tent; and then I 
 heard the brother say over my shoulder, 'Oh, why 
 should the spirit of mortal be proud! ' Afterwards, with 
 a little laugh and a backward wave of the hand, as one 
 might toss a greeting to a 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 growled softly, and 
 the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling. 
 Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking 
 cry. The dog's mouth opened and closed in a noiseless 
 snarl, showing its keen, long teeth, and a ridge of hair 
 bristled on its back. But the two men made no sign or 
 motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them.
 
 184 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Presently the other continued: "I sat by the fire 
 and heard beasts howl like that, I listened to the river 
 churning over the rapids below, and I felt all at once a 
 loneliness that turned me sick. There were three people 
 in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor's 
 breathing; but I appeared to have no part in the life 
 of any human being, as if I were a kind of outlaw of God 
 and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I was at the 
 mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not 
 a human being who, so far as I knew, would shed a tear. 
 Well, you see I was only a boy, 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 
 so lonely as the young dreamer on the brink of life. 
 
 "I was lying by the fire. It was not a cold night, 
 and I fell asleep at last without covering. I did not wake 
 till morning, and then it was to find the governor's 
 nephew building up the fire again. 'Those who are 
 born great,' said he, 'are bound to rise.' But perhaps 
 he saw that I had had a 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 
 right with my uncle. It isn't such fast rising in the 
 Company that you can afford to quarrel with its gov- 
 ernor. I'd go on the other tack: don't be too honest.' 
 I thanked him, and no more was said; but I liked him 
 better, for I saw that he was one of those who take 
 pleasure hi dropping nettles 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 straightened that day; and because it was not 
 straightened then it was not to be at all; for at five 
 o'clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here the 
 governor and the others were to stop. During all the
 
 185 
 
 day I had waited for my chance to say a word of apology 
 to his excellency, but it was no use; nothing seemed to 
 help me, for he was busy with his papers and notes, and 
 I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, 
 and I saw my chances drift past. I knew that the 
 governor held the thing against me, and not the less 
 because he saw me more than once that day in speech 
 with his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, 
 and indeed I think we might have become excellent 
 friends had our ways run together. She could have 
 bestowed her friendship on me without shame to her- 
 self, for I had come of an old family in Scotland, the 
 Sheplaws of Canfire, which she knew, as did the gov- 
 ernor also, was a more ancient family than their own. 
 Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and I 
 went far to make it worse, since, under the spell of her 
 gentleness, I looked at her far from distantly, and at the 
 last, as she was getting from the boat, returned the 
 pressure of her hand with much interest. I suppose 
 something of the pride of that moment leaped up in 
 my eye, for I saw the governor's face harden more and 
 more, and the brother shrugged an ironical shoulder. 
 I was too young to see or know that the chief thing in 
 the girl's mind was regret that I had so hurt my chances; 
 for she knew, as I saw only too well afterwards, that I 
 might have been rewarded with a leaping promotion 
 in honour of the success of the journey. But though the 
 boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco and spirits, 
 nothing came to me save the formal thanks of the gov- 
 ernor, as he bowed me from his presence. 
 
 "The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. 
 There was little said between her and me, and it was 
 a long, long time before she knew the end of that day's 
 business. But the brother said, ' You've let the chance
 
 186 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 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 to my chief officer. The words 
 of a king are always wise while his head is on,' he de- 
 clared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls 
 and handed it to me. 'Will you wear that for me, Mr. 
 Fawdor?' he asked; and I, who had thought him but a 
 stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his hand and said 
 a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I said 
 it. I did not see him or his sister again. 
 
 "The next day was Sunday. About two o'clock I 
 was sent for by the governor. When I got to the Post 
 and was admitted to him, I saw that my misadventure 
 was not over. 'Mr. Fawdor,' said he coldly, spreading 
 out a map on the table before him, 'you will start at 
 once for Fort Ungava, at Ungava Bay, in Labrador.' 
 I felt my heart stand still for a moment, and then 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 the village 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 
 the night, for if the Indians remain in the village they 
 may get drunk. The next morning, at sunrise, you will 
 move on. The Indians know the trail across Labrador 
 to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will take 
 command of the Post and remain till further orders. 
 Your clothes are already at the village. I have had them 
 packed, and you will find there also what is necessary 
 for the journey. The factor at Ungava was there ten 
 years; he has gone to heaven.' 
 
 "I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, 
 that made me only bow my head in assent, and press 
 my lips together. I knew I was pale as death, for as I
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 187 
 
 turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in a 
 little mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised 
 myself. 
 
 '"Good-day, Mr. Fawdor/ said the governor, hand- 
 ing me the map. 'There is some brandy hi your stores; 
 be careful that none of your Indians get it. If they try 
 to desert, you know what to do.' With a gesture of 
 dismissal he turned, and began to speak with the chief 
 trader. 
 
 "For me, I went from that room like a man con- 
 demned to die. Fort Ungava in Labrador, a thou- 
 sand miles away, over a barren, savage country, and in 
 winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! 
 It was an exile to Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; 
 for there are many there to share the fellowship of 
 misery, and I was likely to be the only white man at 
 Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post 
 the words of Shakespeare which had brought all this 
 about sang in my ears." He ceased speaking, and sank 
 back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of the 
 enveloping silence Pierre's voice came softly: 
 
 "Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, 
 and the heart of one woman." 
 
 II 
 
 "THE journey to the village of Pont Croix was that of 
 a man walking over graves. Every step sent a pang to 
 my heart, a boy of twenty-one, grown old in a mo- 
 ment. It was not that I had gone a little lame from a 
 hurt got on the expedition with the governor, but my 
 whole life seemed suddenly lamed. Why did I go? 
 Ah, you do not know how discipline gets into a man's 
 bones, the pride, the indignant pride of obedience! At
 
 188 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 that hour I swore that I should myself be the governor 
 of that Company one day, the boast of loud-hearted 
 youth. I had angry visions, I dreamed absurd dreams, 
 but I did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard- 
 of journey at such a time, but I swore that I would do 
 it, that it should go into the records of the Company. 
 
 "I reached the village, found the Indians, and at 
 once moved on to the settlement where we were to stay 
 that night. Then my knee began to pain me. I feared 
 inflammation; so in the dead of night I walked back 
 to the village, roused a trader of the Company, got 
 some liniment and other trifles, and arrived again at 
 St. Saviour's before dawn. My few clothes and neces- 
 saries came in the course of the morning, and by noon 
 we were fairly started on the path to exile. 
 
 "I remember that we came to a lofty point on the 
 St. Lawrence just before we plunged into the woods, to 
 see the great stream no more. I stood and looked back 
 up the river towards the point where Lachine lay. All 
 that went 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 long months, eaten 
 with them, cared for them, used for them all the wood- 
 craft that I knew. I could not think that it would be 
 a young man's lifetime before I set eyes on that scene 
 again. Never from that day to this have I seen the 
 broad, sweet river where I spent the three happiest 
 years of my life. I can see now the tall shining heights 
 of Quebec, the pretty wooded Island of Orleans, the 
 winding channel, so deep, so strong. The sun was three- 
 fourths of its way down in the west, and already the 
 sky was taking on the deep red and purple of autumn. 
 Somehow, the thing that struck me most in the scene 
 was a bunch of pines, solemn and quiet, their tops bur-
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 189 
 
 nished 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, per- 
 haps because there was none nearer to make farewell 
 to, or I know not why, I waved my hand towards the 
 distant village of Lachine, and, with the sweet maid in 
 my mind who had so gently parted from me yesterday, 
 I cried, 'Good-bye, and God bless you." : 
 
 He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden cup, from 
 which he drank, and then continued: 
 
 "The journey went forward. You have seen the 
 country. You know what it is : those bare ice-plains and 
 rocky unfenced fields stretching to all points, the heav- 
 ing wastes of treeless country, the harsh frozen lakes. 
 God knows what insupportable horror would have 
 settled on me in that pilgrimage had it not been for 
 occasional glimpses of a gentler life for the deer and 
 caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, I was 
 so full of gratitude and love at the sight that I could 
 have thrown my arms round their necks and kissed 
 them. I could not raise a gun at them. My Indians 
 did that, and so inconstant is the human heart that I 
 ate heartily of the meat. My Indians were almost less 
 companionable to me than any animal would have been. 
 Try as I would, I could not bring myself to like them, 
 and I feared only too truly that they did not like me. 
 Indeed, I soon saw that they meant to desert me, kill 
 me, perhaps, if they could, although I trusted in the 
 wholesome and restraining fear which the Indian has 
 of the great Company. I was not sure that they were 
 guiding me aright, and I had to threaten death in case 
 they tried to mislead me or desert me. My knee at 
 times was painful, and cold, hunger, and incessant
 
 190 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 watchfulness wore on me vastly. Yet I did not yield to 
 my miseries, for there entered into me then not only the 
 spirit of endurance, but something of that sacred pride 
 in suffering which was the merit of my Covenanting 
 forefathers. 
 
 "We were four months on that bitter travel, and I 
 do not know how it could have been made at all, had 
 it not been for the deer that I had heart to eat and none 
 to kill. The days got shorter and shorter, and we were 
 sometimes eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus 
 you can imagine how 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 a vast coverlet of white, with the peering, un- 
 friendly sky above us; though it must be said that 
 through all those many, many weeks no cloud perched 
 in the zenith. When there was light there was sun, and 
 the courage of it entered into our bones, helping to save 
 us. You may think I have been made feeble-minded 
 by my sufferings, but I tell you plainly that, in the clos- 
 ing days of our journey, I used to see a tall figure walk- 
 ing beside me, who, whenever I would have spoken to 
 him, laid a warning finger on his lips; but when I would 
 have fallen, he spoke to me, always in the same words. 
 You have heard of him, the Scarlet Hunter of the 
 Kimash Hills. 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 with me to this 
 hour." 
 
 "I saw him once in the White Valley," Pierre said 
 in a low voice. "What was 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 of the Scarlet Hunter:
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 191 
 
 "'0 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! 
 
 te< 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 or delirium. My head was so light 
 that it appeared to spin like a star, and my feet were so 
 heavy that I dragged the whole earth after me. My 
 Indians seldom spoke. I never let them drop behind 
 me, for I did not trust their treacherous natures. But 
 in the end, as it would seem, they also had but one 
 thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava; for there was 
 no food left, none at all. We saw no tribes of Indians 
 and no Esquimaux, for we had not passed hi 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 rang through the aching, 
 sweet air. Bits of prayer and poetry I learned when a 
 boy flashed through my mind; equations in algebra; 
 the tingling scream of a great buzz-saw; the breath of 
 a racer as he nears the post under the crying whip; my 
 own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a lad from
 
 192 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 a blind ferryman; the boom! boom! of a mass of logs 
 as they struck a house on a flooding river and carried 
 it away. . . . 
 
 "One day we reached the end. It was near evening, 
 and we came to the top of a wooded knoll. My eyes 
 were dancing in my head with fatigue and weakness, 
 but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, 
 a large hut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near 
 it. It was the Fort, my cheerless prison-house." 
 
 He paused. The dog had been watching him with 
 its flaming eyes; now it gave a low growl, as though it 
 understood, and pitied. In the interval of silence the 
 storm without broke. The trees began to quake and 
 cry, the light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, 
 and the chimney to splutter and moan. Presently, out 
 on the bay they could hear the young ice break and 
 come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, 
 and then went on, waving his hand to the door as he 
 began: " Think! this, and like that always: the ungodly 
 strife of nature, and my sick, disconsolate life." 
 
 "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 at Lachine, 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 
 as he.'" 
 
 "Did you not hate?" 
 
 "At first, as only a banisned man can hate. I knew 
 that if all had gone well I should be a man high up in 
 the Company, and here I was, living like a dog in the
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 193 
 
 porch of the world, sometimes without other food for 
 months than frozen fish; and for two years I was in 
 a place where we had no fire, lived in a snow-house, 
 with only blubber to eat. And so year after year, 
 no word!" 
 
 "The mail came once every year from the world?" 
 
 "Yes, once a year the door of the outer life was 
 opened. A ship came into the bay, and by that ship 
 I sent out my reports. But no word came from the 
 governor, and no request went from me. Once the cap- 
 tain of that ship took me by the shoulders, and said, 
 'Fawdor, man, this will drive you mad. Come away 
 to England, leave your half-breed hi charge, and 
 ask the governor for a big 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 either make you madman or saint, Fawdor.' 
 He drew a Bible from his pocket and handed it to me. 
 'I've used it twenty years,' he said, 'in evil and out of 
 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 cape and vanish, all my pride and strength 
 were broken up, and I came in a heap to the ground, 
 weeping like a child. But the change did not come all 
 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-breed whose life I had saved. I was kind 
 to him always; gave him as good to eat and drink as I 
 had myself; divided my tobacco with him; loved him 
 as only an exile can love a comrade. He conspired with 
 the Indians to seize the Fort and stores, and kill me if 
 I resisted. I found it out."
 
 194 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket," 
 said Pierre. "What did you do with him?" 
 
 "The fault was not his so much as of his race and his 
 miserable past. I had loved him. I sent him away; 
 and he never came back." 
 
 "Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, 
 and the heart of one woman." 
 
 "For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my 
 heart. Never a message from her or her brother. Surely 
 they knew, and yet never, thought I, a good word for 
 me to the governor. They had forgotten the faith 
 of food and blanket. And she she must have seen 
 that I could have worshipped her, had we been in the 
 same way of life. Before the better days 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 tune went on?" 
 
 "As tune went on, and no word came, I ceased to 
 look for it. But I followed that chart spiked with the 
 captain's pencil, as he had done it in 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 of the world dropped from me, and I stood 
 above all alone hi 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 to understand the world, and I loved 
 the north, the beautiful hard north."
 
 THREE COMMANDMENTS 135 
 
 "But there is more?" 
 
 " Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I 
 got a packet of letters, not by the usual yearly mail. One 
 announced that the governor was dead. Another" 
 
 "Another?" urged Pierre. 
 
 "was from Her. She said that her brother, on the 
 day she wrote, had by chance come across my name 
 in the Company's records, and found that I had been 
 here a quarter of a century. It was the letter of a good 
 woman. She said she thought the governor had for- 
 gotten that he had sent me here as now I hope he 
 had, for that would be one thing less for him to think of, 
 when he set out on the journey where the only weight 
 man carries is the packload of his sins. She also said 
 that she had written to me twice after we parted at 
 Lachine, but had never heard a word, and three years 
 afterwards she had gone to India. The letters were lost, 
 I suppose, on the way to me, somehow who can tell? 
 Then came another thing, so strange, that it seemed 
 like the laughter of the angels at us. These were her 
 words: 'And, dear Mr. Fawdor, you were both wrong in 
 that quotation, as you no doubt discovered long ago.' 
 Then she gave me the sentence as it is in Cymbeline. 
 She was right, quite right. We were both 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 of books is foolery," he said slowly. 
 "Man is the only book of life. Go on." 
 
 "There was another letter, from the brother, who was 
 now high up in the Company, asking me to come to 
 England, and saying that they wished to promote me 
 far, and that he and his sister, with their families, would 
 be glad to see me."
 
 196 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "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," he said. "I wan- 
 dered like a child out into a mad storm. Illness came; 
 then you, who have nursed me back to life. . . . And 
 now I have told all." 
 
 "Not all, Hen 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 of women and children again. No 
 man can live without that sight, even as a saint." 
 
 Suddenly Fawdor's face was shot over with a storm 
 of feeling. He lay very still, his thoughts busy with a 
 new world which had been disclosed to him. "Youth 
 hungers for the vanities," he said, "and the middle- 
 aged for home." He took Pierre's hand. "I will go," 
 he added. "A door will open somewhere for me." 
 
 Then he turned his face to the wall. The storm had 
 ceased, the wild dog huddled quietly on the hearth, 
 and for hours the only sound was the crackling of the 
 logs as Pierre stirred the fire.
 
 LITTLE BABICHE 
 
 "No, no, m'sieu' the governor, they did not tell you 
 right. I was with him, and I have known Little Babiche 
 fifteen years as long as I've known you. ... It was 
 against the time when down in your world there they 
 have feastings, and in the churches the grand songs 
 and many candles on the altars. Yes, Noel, that is the 
 word the day of the Great Birth. You shall hear how 
 strange it all was the thing, the tune, the end of it." 
 
 The governor of the great Company settled back in 
 a chair, his powerful face seamed by years, his hair 
 grey and thick still, his keen, steady eyes burning under 
 shaggy brows. He had himself spent long solitary years 
 in the wild fastnesses of the north. He fastened his 
 dark eyes on Pierre, and said: "Monsieur Pierre, I 
 shall be glad to hear. It was at the time of Noel 
 yes?" 
 
 Pierre began: "You have seen it beautiful and cold 
 in the north, but never so cold and beautiful as it was 
 last year. The world was white with sun and ice, the 
 frost never melting, the sun never warming just a 
 glitter, so lovely, so deadly. If only you could keep the 
 heart warm, you were not afraid. But if once just for 
 a moment the blood ran out from the heart and did 
 not come in again, the frost clamped the doors shut, 
 and there was an end of all. Ah, m'sieu', when the 
 north clinches a man's heart in anger there is no pain 
 like it for a moment." 
 
 "Yes, yes; and Little Babiche?" 
 
 197
 
 198 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "For ten years he carried the mails along the route 
 of Fort St. Mary, Fort O' Glory, Fort St. Saviour, and 
 Fort Perseverance within the circle just one mail once 
 a year, but that was enough. There he was with his 
 Esquimaux dogs on the trail, going and coming, with 
 a laugh and a word for anyone that crossed his track. 
 'Good-day, Babiche.' ' Good-day, m'sieu'.' 'How do 
 you, Babiche?' 'Well, thank the Lord, m'sieu'.' 
 'Where to and where from, Babiche?' 'To the Great 
 Fort by the old trail, from the Far-off River, m'sieuV 
 'Come safe along, Babiche.* 'Merci, m'sieu'; the 
 good God travels north, m'sieu'.' 'Adieu, Babiche.' 
 'Adieu, m'sieu'.' That is about the way of the thing, 
 year after year. Somtimes a night at a hut or a post, 
 but mostly alone alone, except for the dogs. He slept 
 with them, and they slept on the mails to guard: as 
 though there should be highwaymen on the Prairie of 
 the Ten Stars! But no, it was his way, m'sieu'. Now 
 and again I crossed him on the trail, for have I not 
 travelled to every corner of the north? We were not 
 so great friends, for well, Babiche is a man who says 
 his aves, and never was a loafer, and there was no rea- 
 son why he should have love for me; but we were good 
 company when we met. I knew him when he was a 
 boy down on the Chaudiere, and he always had a heart 
 like a lion and a woman. I had seen him fight, I had 
 seen him suffer cold, and I had heard him sing. 
 
 "Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. Ho, 
 how dull was it! Macgregor, the trader there, has 
 brains like rubber. So I said, I will go down to Fort 
 O'Glory. I knew someone would be there it is nearer 
 the world. So I started away with four dogs and plenty 
 of jerked buffalo, and so much brown brandy as Mac- 
 gregor could squeeze out of his eye! Never, never were
 
 LITTLE BABICHE 199 
 
 there such days the frost shaking like steel and silver 
 as it powdered the sunlight, the white level of snow 
 lifting and falling, and falling and lifting, the sky so 
 great a travel away, the ah* which made you cry out 
 with pain one minute and gave you joy the next. And 
 all so wild, so lonely! Yet I have seen hanging in those 
 plains cities all blue and red with millions of lights 
 showing, and voices, voices everywhere, like the sing- 
 ing of soft masses. After a tune in that cold up there 
 you are no longer yourself no. You move in a dream. 
 "Eh bien, m'sieu', there came, I thought, a dream 
 to me one evening well, perhaps one afternoon, for 
 the days are short so short, the sun just coming over 
 a little bend of sky, and sinking down like a big orange 
 ball. I come out of a tumble of little hills, and there 
 over on the plains I saw a sight! Ragged hills of ice 
 were thrown up, as if they'd been heaved out by the 
 breaking earth, jutting here and there like wedges- 
 like the teeth of a world. Alors, on one crag, shaped 
 as an anvil, I saw what struck me like a blow, and I 
 felt the blood shoot out of my heart and leave it dry. 
 I was for a minute like a pump with no water in its 
 throat to work the piston and fetch the stream up. I 
 got sick and numb. There on that -anvil of snow and 
 ice I saw a big white bear, one such as you shall see 
 within the Arctic Circle, his long nose fetching out 
 towards that bleeding sun in the sky, his white coat 
 shining. But that was not the thing there was an- 
 other. At the feet of the bear was a body, and one 
 clawed foot was on that body of a man. So clear was 
 the ah*, the red sun shining on the face as it was turned 
 towards me, that I wonder I did not at once know 
 whose it was. You cannot think, m'sieu', what that 
 was like no. But all at once I remembered the Chant
 
 200 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 of the Scarlet Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the blood 
 came creeping back in here." He tapped his chest with 
 his slight forefinger. 
 
 "What was the chant?" asked the governor, who 
 had scarce stirred a muscle since the tale began. 
 
 Pierre made a little gesture of deprecation. "Ah, it 
 is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you may think 
 
 "No, no. I have heard and seen in my day," urged 
 the governor. 
 
 "So? Good. Yes, I remember, you told me years 
 ago, m'sieu'. . . . 
 
 "The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are man's: mine 
 is the trail that finds the Ancient Lodge. Morning and Night 
 they travel with me; my camp is set by the pines, its fires are 
 burning are burning. The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and 
 the fearful ones shall seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the 
 Hunter, the Son of the North; I am thy lover where no man may 
 love thee. With me thou shalt journey, and thine the Safe 
 Tent. 
 
 "As I said, the blood came back to my heart. I 
 turned to my dogs, and gave them a cut with the whip 
 to see if I dreamed. They sat back and snarled, and 
 their wild red eyes, the same as mine, kept looking at 
 the bear and the quiet man on the anvil of ice and 
 snow. Tell me, can you think of anything like it? 
 the strange light, the white bear of the Pole, that has 
 no friends at all except the shooting stars, the great ice 
 plains, the quick night hurrying on, the silence such 
 silence as no man can think! I have seen trouble flying 
 at me in a hundred ways, but this was different yes. 
 We come to the foot of the little hill. Still the bear not 
 stir. As I went up, feeling for my knives and my gun, 
 the dogs began to snarl with anger, and for one little 
 step I shivered, for the thing seem not natural. I was
 
 LITTLE BABICHE 201 
 
 about two hundred feet away from the bear when it 
 turned slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. 
 The dogs all at once come huddling about me, and I 
 dropped on my knee to take aim, but the bear stole away 
 from the man and come moving down past us at an 
 angle, making for the plain. I could see his deep shin- 
 ing eyes, and the steam roll from his nose in long puffs. 
 Very slow and heavy, like as if he see no one and care 
 for no one, he shambled down, and in a minute was gone 
 behind a boulder. I ran on to the man 
 
 The governor was leaning forward, looking intently, 
 and said now: "It's like a wild dream but the north 
 the north is near to the Strangest of All!" 
 
 "I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, all a 
 great bundle of furs and wool, and I got my hand at 
 last to his wrist. He was alive. It was Little Babiche! 
 Part of his face was frozen stiff. I rubbed out the frost 
 with snow, and then I forced some brandy into his 
 mouth, good old H.B.C. brandy, and began to call 
 to him: 'Babiche! Babiche! Come back, Babiche! 
 The wolf's at the pot, Babiche!' That's the way to call 
 a hunter to his share of meat. I was afraid, for the 
 sleep of cold is the sleep of death, and it is hard to call 
 the soul back to this world. But I called, and kept 
 calling, and got him on his feet, with my arm round 
 him. I gave him more brandy; and at last I almost 
 shrieked in his ear. Little by little I saw his face take 
 on the look of waking life. It was like the dawn creep- 
 ing over white hills and spreading into day. I said to 
 myself: What a thing it will be if I can fetch him back! 
 For I never knew one to come back after the sleep had 
 settled on them. It is too comfortable all pain gone, 
 all trouble, the world forgot, just a kind weight in all 
 the body, as you go sinking down, down to the valley,
 
 202 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 where the long hands of old comrades beckon to you, 
 and their soft, high voices cry, 'Hello! hello-o!" 
 
 Pierre nodded his head towards the distance, and a 
 musing smile divided his lips on his white teeth. Pres- 
 ently he folded a cigarette, and went on : 
 
 "I had saved something to the last, as the great test, 
 as the one thing to open his eyes wide, if they could be 
 opened at all. Alors, there was no time to lose, for the 
 wolf of Night was driving the red glow-worm down 
 behind the world, and I knew that when darkness came 
 altogether darkness and night there would be no 
 help for him. Mon Dieu! how one sleeps in the night 
 of the north, in the beautiful wide silence! ... So, 
 m'sieu', just when I thought it was the tune, I called, 
 'Corinne! Corinne!' Then once again I said, 'P'tite 
 Corinne! P'tite Corinne! Come home! come home! 
 P'tite Corinne!' I could see the fight in the jail of sleep. 
 But at last he killed his jailer; the doors in his brain 
 flew open, and his mind came out through his wide eyes. 
 But he was blind a little and dazed, though it was 
 getting dark quick. I struck his back hard, and spoke 
 loud from a song that we used to sing on the Chaudiere 
 Babiche and all of us, years ago. Mon Dieu ! how I 
 remember those days 
 
 "'Which is the way that the sun goes? 
 
 The way that my little one come. 
 Which is the good path over the hills? 
 
 The path that leads to my little one's home 
 To my little one's home, m'sieu', m'sieuT 
 
 "That did it. 'Corinne, ma p'tite Corinne!' he said; 
 but he did not look at me only stretch out his hands. 
 I caught them, and shook them, and shook him, and 
 made him take a step forward; then I slap him on the
 
 LITTLE BABICHE 203 
 
 back again, and said loud : ' Come, come, Babiche, don't 
 you know me? See Babiche, the snow's no sleeping- 
 bunk, and a polar bear's no good friend.' 'CorinneP 
 he went on, soft and slow. 'Ma p'tite Corinne!' He 
 smiled to himself; and I said, ' Where' ve you been, 
 Babiche? Lucky I found you, or you'd have been 
 sleeping till the Great Mass.' Then he looked at me 
 straight in the eyes, and something wild shot out of 
 his. His hand stretched over and caught me by the 
 shoulder, perhaps to steady himself, perhaps because 
 he wanted to feel something human. Then he looked 
 round slow all round the plain, as if to find something. 
 At that moment a little of the sun crept back, and looked 
 up over the wall of ice, making a glow of yellow and red 
 for a moment; and never, north or south, have I seen 
 such beauty so delicate, so awful. It was like a 
 world that its Maker had built hi a fit of joy, and then 
 got tired of, and broke in pieces, and blew out all its 
 fires, and left ah yes like that! And out in the dis- 
 tance I I only saw a bear travelling eastwards." 
 The governor said slowly: 
 
 And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, that I 
 might break My covenant which I had made with all the 
 people. 
 
 "Yes like that." Pierre continued: "Babiche 
 turned to me with a little laugh, which was a sob too. 
 'Where is it, Pierre?' said he. I knew he meant the 
 bear. 'Gone to look for another man,' I said, with a 
 gay look, for I saw that he was troubled. 'Come/ said 
 he at once. As we went, he saw my dogs. He stopped 
 short and shook a little, and tears came into his eyes. 
 'What is it, Babiche?' said I. He looked back towards 
 the south. ' My dogs Brandy-wine, Come-along, 'Po-
 
 204 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 leon, and the rest died one night all of an hour. 
 One by one they crawl over to where I lay in my fur 
 bag, and die there, huddling by me and such cries 
 such cries! There was poison or something in the frozen 
 fish I'd given them. I loved them every one; and then 
 there was the mails, the year's mails how should they 
 be brought on? That was a bad thought, for I had never 
 missed never in ten years. There was one bunch of 
 letters which the governor said to me was worth more 
 than all the rest of the mails put together, and I was 
 to bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face 
 to him again. I leave the dogs there in the snow, and 
 come on with the sled, carrying all the mails. Ah, the 
 blessed saints, how heavy the sled got, and how lonely 
 it was! Nothing to speak to no one, no thing, day 
 after day. At last I go to cry to the dogs, "Come-along! 
 Toleon! Brandy-wine!" like that! I think I see them 
 there, but they never bark and they never snarl, and 
 they never spring to the snap of the whip. ... I was 
 alone. Oh, my head! my head ! If there was only some- 
 thing alive to look at, besides the wide white plain, and 
 the bare hills of ice, and the sun-dogs in the sky! Now 
 I was wild, next hour I was like a child, then I gnash 
 my teeth like a wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my 
 knees. The tears froze my eyelids shut, but I kept say- 
 ing, "Ah, my great Friend, my Jesu, just something, 
 something with the breath of life! Leave me not all 
 alone!" and I got sleepier all the tune. 
 
 "'I was sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, when all 
 at once I felt something beside me; I could hear it 
 breathing, but I could not open my eyes at first, for, as 
 I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me, smell 
 me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out 
 my hand ver' soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was
 
 LITTLE BABICHE 205 
 
 so glad I could have hug it, but I did not I drew back 
 my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can see. 
 There stand the thing a polar bear not ten feet 
 away, its red eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, 
 talk to it, as I would to a man. It was like a great wild 
 dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with the fish which had 
 been for Brandy- wine and the rest but not to kill it! 
 and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag 
 no, I was not afraid! The bear lie beside me, between 
 me and the sled. Ah, it was warm! Day after day we 
 travel together, and camp together at night ah, sweet 
 Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast 
 such friends, alone in the north! But to-day a little 
 while ago something went wrong with me, and I got 
 sick in the head, a swimming like a tide wash in and 
 out. I fall down asleep. When I wake I find you here 
 beside me that is all. The bear must have drag me 
 here.'" 
 
 Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another 
 cigarette, and paused as if expecting the governor to 
 speak, but no word coming, he continued: "I had my 
 arm around him while we talked and come slowly down 
 the hill. Soon he stopped and said, 'This is the place/ 
 It was a cave of ice, and we went hi. Nothing was there 
 to see except the sled. Babiche stopped short. It come 
 to him now that his good comrade was gone. He 
 turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only 
 the empty night, the ice, and the stars. Then he come 
 back, sat down on the sled, and the tears fall. ... I lit 
 my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee, got pemmican from my 
 bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would only 
 drink the coffee. At last he said to me, 'What day is 
 this, Pierre? ' ' It is the day of the Great Birth, Babiche,' 
 I said. He made the sign of the cross, and was quiet,
 
 206 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 so quiet! but he smile to himself, and kept saying in a 
 whisper : ' Ma p'tite Corinne ! Ma p'tite Corinne ! ' The 
 next day we come on safe, and in a week I was back at 
 Fort St. Saviour with Babiche and all the mails, and 
 that most wonderful letter of the governor's." 
 
 "The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child 
 in the hospital at Quebec was well," the governor 
 responded quietly. "Who was 'Ma p'tite Corinne/ 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "His wife hi heaven; and his child on the Chau- 
 diere, m'sieu'. The child came and the mother went on 
 the same day of the Great Birth. He has a soft heart 
 that Babiche!" 
 
 "And the white bear so strange a thing!" 
 
 "M'sieu', who can tell? The world is young up here. 
 When it was all young, man and beast were good com- 
 rades, maybe." 
 
 "Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little Ba- 
 biche, Pierre?" 
 
 "He will never be the same again on the old trail, 
 m'sieu'!" 
 
 There was silence for a long tune, but at last the gov- 
 ernor said, musing, almost tenderly, for he never had a 
 child: "Ma p'tite Corinne! Little Babiche shall live 
 near his child, Pierre. I will see to that." 
 
 Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his hat to 
 the governor, and sat down again.
 
 AT POINT O' BUGLES 
 
 "John York, John York, where art thou gone, John 
 York?" 
 
 "What's that, Pierre?" said Sir Duke Lawless, start- 
 ing to his feet and peering round. 
 
 "Hush!" was Pierre's reply. "Wait for the rest. 
 . . . There!" 
 
 11 King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the 
 trail of thy bugles" 
 
 Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted a hand 
 in warning, and then through the still night there came 
 the long cry of a bugle, rising, falling, strangely clear, 
 echoing and echoing again, and dying away. A mo- 
 ment, and the call was repeated, with the same effect, 
 and again a third tune; then all was still, save for the 
 flight of birds roused from the desire of night, and the 
 long breath of some animal in the woods sinking back 
 to sleep. 
 
 Their camp was pitched on the south shore of Hud- 
 son's Bay, many leagues to the west of Rupert House, 
 not far from the Moose River. Looking north was the 
 wide expanse of the bay, dotted with sterile islands here 
 and there; to the east were the barren steppes of Lab- 
 rador, and all round them the calm, incisive air of a late 
 September, when winter begins to shake out his frosty 
 curtains and hang them on the cornice of the north, 
 despite the high protests of the sun. The two adven- 
 turers had come together after years of separation, and 
 Sir Duke had urged Pierre to fare away with him to 
 
 207
 
 208 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Hudson's Bay, which he had never seen, although he had 
 shares in the great Company, left him by his uncle the 
 admiral. 
 
 They were camped in a hollow, to the right a clump 
 of hardy trees, with no great deal of foliage, but some 
 stoutness; to the left a long finger of land running out 
 into the water like a wedge, the most eastern point 
 of the western shore of Hudson's Bay. It was high and 
 bold, and, somehow, had a fine dignity and beauty. 
 From it a path led away north to a great log-fort called 
 King's House. 
 
 Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, lis- 
 tening. Presently he, too, heard the sound the soft 
 crash of crisp grass under the feet. He raised himself to 
 a sitting posture and waited. 
 
 Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk into the 
 light of their fire, and a long arm waved a greeting at 
 them. Both Lawless and Pierre rose to their feet. The 
 stranger was dressed in buckskin, he carried a rifle, and 
 around his shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from 
 which hung a bugle. 
 
 "How /"he said, with a nod, and drew near the fire, 
 stretching out his hands to the blaze. 
 
 "How!" said Lawless and Pierre. 
 
 After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket a 
 flask of brandy, and without a word handed it over the 
 fire. The fingers of the two men met in the flicker of 
 flames, a sort of bond by fire, and the stranger raised 
 the flask. 
 
 "Chin-chin" he said, and drank, breathing a long 
 sigh of satisfaction afterwards as he handed it back; 
 but it was Pierre that took it, and again fingers touched 
 in the bond of fire. Pierre passed the flask to Lawless, 
 who lifted it.
 
 AT POINT 0' BUGLES 209 
 
 "Chin-chin," he said, drank, and gave the flask to 
 Pierre again, who did as did the others, and said "Chin- 
 chin" also. 
 
 By that salutation of the east, given in the far north, 
 Lawless knew that he had met one who had lighted 
 fires where men are many and close to the mile as holes 
 in a sieve. 
 
 They all sat down, and tobacco went round, the 
 stranger offering his, while the two others, with true 
 hospitality, accepted. 
 
 "We heard you over there it was you?" said Law- 
 less, nodding towards Point o' Bugles, and glancing at 
 the bugle the other carried. 
 
 "Yes, it was I," was the reply. "Someone always 
 does it twice a year: on the 25th September and the 
 25th March. I've done it now without a break for ten 
 years, until it has got to be a sort of religion with me, 
 and the whole thing's as real as if King George and John 
 York were talking. As I tramp to the point or swing 
 away back, in summer barefooted, in winter on my snow- 
 shoes, to myself I seem to be John York on the trail of 
 the king's bugles. I've thought so much about the 
 w r hole thing, I've read so many of John York's letters 
 and how many tunes one of the King's! that now I 
 scarcely know which is the bare story, and which the 
 bit's I've dreamed as I've tramped over the plains or 
 sat in the quiet at King's House, spelling out little by 
 little the man's life, from the cues I found in his journal, 
 in the Company's papers, and in that one letter of the 
 King's." 
 
 Pierre's eyes were now more keen than those of Law- 
 less : for years he had known vaguely of this legend of 
 Point o' Bugles. 
 
 "You know it all," he said "begin at the beginning:
 
 210 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 how and when you first heard, how you got the real 
 story, and never mind which is taken from the papers 
 and which from your own mind if it all fits in it is all 
 true, for the lie never fits in right with the square truth. 
 If you have the footprints and the handprints you can 
 tell the whole man; if you have the horns of a deer 
 you know it as if you had killed it, skinned it, and 
 potted it." 
 
 The stranger stretched himself before the fire, nod- 
 ding at his hosts as he did so, and then began: 
 
 "Well, a word about myself first," he said, "so you'll 
 know just where you are. I was full up of life in Lon- 
 don town and India, and that's a fact. I'd plenty of 
 friends and little money, and my will wasn't equal to 
 the task of keeping out of the hands of the Jews. I 
 didn't know what to do, but I had to go somewhere, 
 that was clear. Where? An accident decided it. I 
 came across an old journal of my great-grandfather, 
 John York, my name's Dick Adderley, and just as 
 if a chain had been put round my leg and I'd been jerked 
 over by the tipping of the world, I had to come to Hud- 
 son's Bay. John York's journal was a thing to sit up 
 nights to read. It came back to England after he'd had 
 his fill of Hudson's Bay and the earth beneath, and had 
 gone, as he himself said on the last page of the journal, 
 to follow the king's buglers in 'the land that is far off.' 
 God and the devil were strong in old John York. I 
 didn't lose much tune after I'd read the journal. I went 
 to Hudson's Bay house in London, got a place in the 
 Company, by the help of the governor himself , and came 
 out. I've learned the rest of the history of old John 
 York the part that never got to England; for here at 
 King's House there's a holy tradition that the real John 
 York belongs to it and to it alone."
 
 AT POINT 0' BUGLES 211 
 
 Adderley laughed a little. " King's House guards 
 John York's memory, and it's as fresh and real here now 
 as though he'd died yesterday; though it's forgotten 
 in England, and by most who bear his name, and the 
 present Prince of Wales maybe never heard of the man 
 who was a close friend of the Prince Regent, the First 
 Gentleman of Europe." 
 
 "That sounds sweet gossip," said Lawless, with a 
 smile; "we're waiting." 
 
 Adderley continued : "John York was an honest man, 
 of wholesome sport, jovial, and never shirking with the 
 wine, commendable in his appetite, of rollicking soul 
 and proud temper, and a gay dog altogether gay, but 
 to be trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the colt- 
 ish days of the Prince Regent he was a boon comrade, 
 but never did he stoop to flattery, nor would he hedge 
 when truth should be spoken, as ofttimes it was needed 
 with the royal blade, for at times he would forget that a 
 prince was yet a man, topped with the accident of a 
 crown. Never prince had truer friend, and so in his best 
 hours he thought, himself, and if he ever was just and 
 showed his better part, it was to the bold country gen- 
 tleman who never minced praise or blame, but said his 
 say and devil take the end of it. In truth, the Prince 
 was wilful, and once he did a thing which might have 
 given a twist to the fate of England. Hot for the love 
 of women, and with some dash of real romance in him 
 too, else even as a prince he might have had shallower 
 love and service, he called John York one day and said : 
 
 "'To-night at seven, Squire John, you'll stand with 
 me while I put the seal on the Gates of Eden;' and, 
 when the other did not guess his import, added: 'Sir 
 Mark Selby is your neighbour his daughter's for my 
 arms to-night. You know her, handsome Sally Selby 
 she's for your prince, for good or ill.'
 
 212 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "John York did not understand at first, for he could 
 not think the Prince had anything in mind but some hot 
 escapade of love. When Mistress Selby's name was 
 mentioned his heart stood still, for she had been his 
 choice, the dear apple of his eye, since she had bloomed 
 towards womanhood. He had set all his hopes upon her, 
 tarrying till she should have seen some little life before 
 he asked her for his wife. He had her father's God- 
 speed to his wooing, for he was a man whom all men 
 knew honest and generous as the sun, and only choleric 
 with the mean thing. She, also, had given him good 
 cause to think that he should one day take her to his 
 home, a loved and honoured wife. His impulse, when 
 her name passed the Prince's lips, was to draw his sword, 
 for he would have called an emperor to account; but 
 presently he saw the real meaning of the speech: that 
 the Prince would marry her that night." 
 
 Here the story-teller paused again, and Pierre said 
 softly, inquiringly: 
 
 "You began to speak in your own way, and you've 
 come to another way like going from an almanac to 
 the Mass." 
 
 The other smiled. "That's so. I've heard it told 
 by old Shearton at King's House, who speaks as if he'd 
 stepped out of Shakespeare, and somehow I seem to 
 hear him talking, and I tell it as he told it last year to 
 the governor of the Company. Besides, I've listened 
 these seven years to his style." 
 
 "It's a strange beginning unwritten history of Eng- 
 land," said Sir Duke musingly. 
 
 "You shall hear stranger things yet," answered Ad- 
 derley. "John York could hardly believe it at first, for 
 the thought of such a thing never had place in his mind. 
 Besides, the Prince knew how he had looked upon the 
 lady, and he could not have thought his comrade would
 
 AT POINT 0' BUGLES 213 
 
 come in between him and his happiness. Perhaps it was 
 the difficulty, adding spice to the affair, that sent the 
 Prince to the appeal of private marriage to win the lady, 
 and John York always held that he loved her truly then, 
 the first and only real affection of his life. The lady 
 who can tell what won her over from the honest gentle- 
 man to the faithless prince? That soul of vanity which 
 wraps about the real soul of every woman fell down at 
 last before the highest office in the land, and the gifted 
 bearer of the office. But the noble spirit in her brought 
 him to offer marriage, when he might otherwise have 
 offered, say, a barony. There is a record of that and 
 more in John York's Memoirs which I will tell you, for 
 they have settled hi my mind like an old song, and I 
 learned them long ago. I give you John York's words 
 written by his own hands: 
 
 "'I did not think when I beheld thee last, dearest 
 flower of the world's garden, that I should see thee 
 bloom in that wide field, rank with the sorrows of royal 
 favour. How did my foolish eyes fill with tears when I 
 watched thee, all rose and gold in thy cheeks and hair, 
 the light falling on thee through the chapel window, put- 
 ting thy pure palm into my prince's, swearing thy life 
 away, selling the very blossoms of earth's orchards for 
 the brier beauty of a hidden vineyard! I saw the fly- 
 ing glories of thy cheeks, the halcyon weather of thy 
 smile, the delicate lifting of thy bosom, the dear gaiety 
 of thy step, and, at that moment, I mourned for thy 
 sake that thou wert not the dullest wench in the land, 
 for then thou hadst been spared thy miseries, thou 
 hadst been saved the torture-boot of a lost love and a 
 disacknowledged wifedom. Yet I could not hide from 
 me that thou wert happy at that great moment, when 
 he swore to love and cherish thee, till death you parted.
 
 214 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Ah, George, my prince, my king, how wickedly thou 
 didst break thy vows with both of us who loved thee 
 well, through good and ill report for they spake evil 
 of thee, George; ay, the meanest of thy subjects spake 
 lightly of their king when with that sweet soul secretly 
 hid away in the farthest corner of thy kingdom, thou 
 soughtst divorce from thy later Caroline, whom thou, 
 unfaithful, didst charge with infidelity. When, at last, 
 thou didst turn again to the partner of thy youth, thy 
 true wife in the eyes of God, it was too late. Thou didst 
 promise me that thou wouldst never take another wife, 
 never put our dear heart away, though she could not- 
 after our miserable laws bear thee princes. Thou 
 didst break thy promise, yet she forgave thee, and I 
 forgave thee, for well we knew that thou wouldst pay 
 a heavy reckoning, and that in the hour when thou 
 shouldst cry to us we might not come to thee; that in 
 the days when age and sorrow and vast troubles should 
 oppress thee, thou wouldst long for the true hearts who 
 loved thee for thyself and not for aught thou couldst 
 give, or aught that thou wert, save as a man. 
 
 "'When thou didst proclaim thy purpose to take 
 Caroline to wife, I pleaded with thee, I was wroth with 
 thee. Thy one plea was succession. Succession! Suc- 
 cession! What were a hundred dynasties beside that 
 precious life, eaten by shame and sorrow? It were easy 
 for others, not thy children, to come after thee, to rule 
 as well as thee, as must even now be the case, for thou 
 hast no lawful child save that one in the loneliest corner 
 of thy English vineyard alack! alack! I warned thee 
 George, I pleaded, and thou didst drive me out with 
 words ill-suited to thy friend who loved thee. 
 
 ' ' I did not fear thee, I would have forced thee to thy 
 knees or made thee fight me, had not some good spirit
 
 AT POINT 0' BUGLES 215 
 
 cried to my heart that thou wert her husband, and that 
 we both had loved thee. I dared not listen to the brutal 
 thing thou hintedst at that now I might fatten where 
 I had hungered. Thou hadst to answer for the baseness 
 of that thought to the King of kings, when thou wentest 
 forth alone, no subject, courtier, friend, wife, or child to 
 do thee service, journeying not en prince, George; no, 
 not en prince ! but as a naked soul to God. 
 
 "'Thou saidst to me: "Get thee gone, John York, 
 where I shall no more see thee." And when I returned, 
 "Wouldst thou have me leave thy country, sir?" 
 thou answeredst: "Blow thy quarrelsome soul to the 
 stars where my farthest bugle cries." Then I said: "I 
 go, sir, till thou callest me again and after; but not 
 till thou hast honoured the child of thy honest wedlock; 
 till thou hast secured thy wife to the end of her life 
 against all manner of trouble save the shame of thy dis- 
 loyalty." There was no more for me to do, for my deep 
 love itself forbade my staying longer within reach of the 
 noble deserted soul. And so I saw the chastened glory 
 of her face no more, nor evermore beheld her perfect- 
 
 ness." 
 
 Adderley paused once more, and, after refilling his 
 pipe in silence, continued: 
 
 "That was the heart of the thing. His soul sickened 
 of the rank world, as he called it, and he came out to the 
 Hudson's Bay country, leaving his estates in care of his 
 nephew, but taking many stores and great chests of 
 clothes and a shipload of furniture, instruments of 
 music, more than a thousand books, some good pic- 
 tures, and great stores of wine. Here he came and 
 stayed, an officer of the Company, building King's 
 House, and filling it with all the fine things he had 
 brought with him, making hi this far north a little palace
 
 216 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 in the wilderness. Here he lived, his great heart grow- 
 ing greater in this wide sinewy world, King's House a 
 place of pilgrimage for all the Company's men in the 
 north; a noble gentleman in a sweet exile, loving what 
 he could no more, what he did no more, see. 
 
 "Twice a year he went to that point yonder and 
 blew this bugle, no man knew why or wherefore, year 
 in, year out, till 1817. Then there came a letter to him 
 with great seals, which began: 'John York, John York, 
 where art thou gone, John York?' There followed a 
 score of sorrowful sentences, full of petulance, too, for 
 it was as John York foretold, his prince longed for the 
 true souls whom he had cast off. But he called too late, 
 for the neglected wife died from the shock of her prince's 
 longing message to her, and when, by the same mail, 
 John York knew that, he would not go back to England 
 to the King. But twice every year he went to yonder 
 point and spoke out the King's words to him: 'John 
 York, John York, where art thou gone, John York? ' and 
 gave the words of his own letter in reply: 'King of my 
 heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy 
 bugles.' To this he added three calls of the bugle, as 
 you have heard." 
 
 Adderley handed the bugle to Lawless, who looked 
 at it with deep interest and passed it on to Pierre. 
 
 "When he died," Adderley continued, "he left the 
 house, the fittings, and the stores to the officers of the 
 Company who should be stationed there, with a sum 
 of money yearly, provided that twice in twelve months 
 the bugle should be blown as you have heard it, and 
 those words called out." 
 
 "Why did he do that?" asked Lawless, nodding 
 towards the point. 
 
 "Why do they swing the censers at the Mass?" inter-
 
 AT POINT O' BUGLES 217 
 
 jected Pierre. "Man has signs for memories, and one 
 man seeing another's sign will remember his own." 
 
 "You stay because you like it at King's House?" 
 asked Lawless of Adderley. 
 
 The other stretched himself lazily to the fire and, "I 
 am at home," he said. "I have no cares. I had all 
 there was of that other world; I've not had enough of 
 this. You'll come with me to King's House to-mor- 
 row?" he added. 
 
 To their quick assent he rejoined: "You'll never 
 want to leave. You'll stay on." 
 
 To this Lawless replied, shaking his head: "I have a 
 wife and child in England." 
 
 But Pierre did not reply. He lifted the bugle, mutely 
 asking a question of Adderley, who as mutely replied, 
 and then, with it in his hand, left the other two beside 
 the fire. 
 
 A few minutes later they heard, with three calls of 
 the bugle from the point afterwards, Pierre's voice: 
 
 "John York, John York, where art thou gone, John 
 York?" 
 
 Then came the reply: 
 
 "King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the 
 trail of thy bugles."
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 
 
 JUST at the point where the Peace River first hugs the 
 vast outpost hills of the Rockies, before it hurries tim- 
 orously on, through an unexplored region, to Fort St. 
 John, there stood a hut. It faced the west, and was 
 built half-way up Clear Mountain. In winter it had 
 snows above it and below it; hi summer it had snow 
 above it and a very fair stretch of trees and grass, while 
 the river flowed on the same, winter and summer. It 
 was a lonely country. Travelling north, you would have 
 come to the Turnagain River; west, to the Frying Pan 
 Mountains; south, to a goodly land. But from the hut 
 you had no outlook towards the south; your eye came 
 plump against a hard lofty hill, like a wall between 
 heaven and earth. It is strange, too, that, when you 
 are in the far north, you do not look towards the south 
 until the north turns an iron hand upon you and refuses 
 the hospitality of food and fire; your eyes are drawn 
 towards the Pole by that charm deadly and beautiful 
 for which men have given up three points of the com- 
 pass, with their pleasures and ease, to seek a grave soli- 
 tude, broken only by the beat of a musk-ox's hoofs, the 
 long breath of the caribou, or the wild cry of the puma. 
 Sir Duke Lawless had felt this charm, and had sworn 
 that one day he would again leave his home in Devon 
 and his house in Pont Street, and, finding Pierre, Shon 
 M'Gann, and others of his old comrades, together they 
 would travel into those austere yet pleasant wilds. He 
 kept his word, found Shon M'Gann, and on an autumn 
 day of a year not so long ago lounged in this hut on 
 
 218
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 219 
 
 Clear Mountain. They had had three months of travel 
 and sport, and were filled, but not sated, with the joy 
 of the hunter. They were very comfortable, for their 
 host, Pourcette, the French Canadian, had fire and meat 
 in plenty, and, if silent, was attentive to their comfort 
 a little, black-bearded, grey-headed man, with heavy 
 brows over small vigilant eyes, deft with his fingers, and 
 an excellent sportsman, as could be told from the skins 
 heaped in all the corners of the large hut. 
 
 The skins were not those of mere foxes or martens 
 or deer, but of mountain lions and grizzlies. There were 
 besides many soft, tiger-like skins, which Sir Duke did 
 not recognise. He kept looking at them, and at last 
 went over and examined one. 
 
 "What's this, Monsieur Pourcette?" he said, feeling 
 it as it lay on the top of the pile. 
 
 The little man pushed the log on the fireplace with 
 his moccasined foot before he replied: "Of a puma, 
 m'sieu'." 
 
 Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. "I didn't know 
 there were pumas here." 
 
 "Faith, Sir Duke" 
 
 Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. "You're 
 forgetting again, Shon. There's no ' Sir Dukes ' between 
 us. What you were to me years ago on the wallyby- 
 track and the buffalo-trail, you are now,, and I'm the 
 same also: M'Gann and Lawless, and no other." 
 
 "Well, then, Lawless, it's true enough as he says it, 
 for I've seen more than wan skin brought in, though I 
 niver clapped eye on the beast alive. There's few men 
 go huntin' them av their own free will, not more than 
 they do grizzlies; but, bedad, this Frinch gintleman has 
 either the luck o' the world, or the gift o' that man ye 
 tould me of, that slew the wild boars in anciency. Look
 
 220 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 at that, now: there's thirty or forty puma-skins, and 
 I'd take my oath there isn't another man in the country 
 that's shot half that in his lifetime." 
 
 Pourcette's eyes were on the skins, not on the men, 
 and he did not appear to listen. He sat leaning for- 
 ward, with a strange look on his face. Presently he got 
 up, came over, and stroked the skins softly. A queer 
 chuckling noise came from his throat. 
 
 "It was good sport?" asked Lawless, feeling a new 
 interest in him. 
 
 "The grandest sport but it is not so easy," answered 
 the old man. "The grizzly comes on you bold and 
 strong; you know your danger right away, and have it 
 out. So. But the puma comes God, how the puma 
 comes ! " He broke off, his eyes burning bright under his 
 bushy brows and his body arranging itself into an atti- 
 tude of expectation and alertness. 
 
 "You have travelled far. The sun goes down. You 
 build a fire and cook your meat, and then good tea and 
 the tabac. It is ver' fine. You hear the loon crying on 
 the water, or the last whistle of the heron up the pass. 
 The lights in the sky come out and shine through a thin 
 mist there is nothing like that mist, it is so fine and 
 soft. Allans. You are sleepy. You bless the good God. 
 You stretch pine branches, wrap in your blanket, and 
 lie down to sleep. If it is winter and you have a friend, 
 you lie close. It is all quiet. As you sleep, something 
 comes. It slides along the ground on its belly, like a 
 snake. It is a pity if you have not ears that feel the 
 whole body as ears. For there is a swift lunge, a snarl 
 ah, you should hear it! the thing has you by the throat, 
 and there is an end!" 
 
 The old man had acted all the scenes: a sidelong 
 glance, a little gesture, a movement of the body, a
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 221 
 
 quick, harsh breath without emphatic excitement, yet 
 with a reality and force that fascinated his two listeners. 
 When he paused, Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless 
 looked with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This 
 almost unnatural, yet quiet, intensity had behind it 
 something besides the mere spirit of the sportsman. 
 Such exhibitions of feeling generally have an unusual 
 personal interest to give them point and meaning. 
 
 "Yes, that's wonderful, Pourcette," he said; "but 
 that's when the puma has things its own way. How is 
 it when these come off? " He stroked the soft furs under 
 his hand. 
 
 The man laughed, yet without a sound the inward, 
 stealthy laugh, as from a knowledge wicked in its very 
 suggestiveness. His eyes ran from Lawless to Shon, and 
 back again. He put his hand on his mouth, as though 
 for silence, stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down 
 his gun quietly, and turned round. Then he spoke 
 softly : 
 
 "To kill the puma, you must watch always watch. 
 You will see his yellow eyes sometimes in a tree: you 
 must be ready before he springs. You will hear his 
 breath at night as you pretend to sleep, and you wait 
 till you see his foot steal out of the shadow then you 
 have him. From a mountain wall you watch in the 
 morning, and, when you see him, you follow, and follow, 
 and do not rest till you have found him. You must 
 never miss fire, for he has great strength and a mad 
 tooth. But when you have got him, he is worth all. 
 You cannot eat the grizzly he is too thick and coarse; 
 but the puma well, you had him from the pot to-night. 
 Was he not good?" 
 
 Lawless's brows ran up in surprise. Shon spoke 
 quickly:
 
 222 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Heaven above!" he burst out. "Was it puma we 
 had betune the teeth? And what's puma but an al- 
 mighty cat? Sure, though, it wint as tinder as pullets, 
 for all that but I wish you hadn't tould us." 
 
 The old man stood leaning on his gun, his chin on his 
 hands, as they covered the muzzle, his eyes fixed on 
 something in his memory, the vision of incidents he 
 had lived or seen. 
 
 Lawless went over to the fire and relit his pipe. Shon 
 followed him. They both watched Pourcette. 
 
 "D'ye think he's mad?" asked Shon in a whisper. 
 
 Lawless shook his head: "Mad? No. But there's 
 more in this puma-hunting than appears. How long 
 has he lived here, did he say?" 
 
 "Four years; and, durin' that tune, yours and mine 
 are the only white faces he has seen, except one." 
 
 "Except one. Well, whose was the one? That might 
 be interesting. Maybe there's a story in that." 
 
 "Faith, Lawless, there's a story worth the hearin', 
 I'm thinkin', to every white man in this country. For 
 the three years I was in the mounted police, I could 
 count a story for all the days o' the calendar and not 
 all o' them would make you happy to hear." 
 
 Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed to be 
 listening to Shon's words. Going to the wall, he hung 
 up the rifle; then he came to the fire and stood holding 
 out his hands to the blaze. He did not look in the least 
 mad, but like a man who was dominated by some one 
 thought, more or less weird. Short and slight, and a 
 little bent, but more from habit the habit of listening 
 and watching than from age, his face had a stern kind 
 of earnestness and loneliness, and nothing at all of in- 
 sanity. 
 
 Presently Lawless went to a corner, and from his
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 223 
 
 kit drew forth a flask. The old man saw, and imme- 
 diately brought out a wooden cup. There were two on 
 the shelf, and Shon pointed to the other. Pourcette 
 took no notice. Shon went over to get it, but Pour- 
 cette laid a hand on his arm: "Not that." 
 
 "For ornamint!" said Shon, laughing, and then his 
 eyes were arrested by a suit of buckskin and a cap of 
 beaver, hanging on the wall. He turned them over, and 
 then suddenly drew back his hand, for he saw in the 
 back of the jacket a knife-slit. There was blood also on 
 the buckskin. 
 
 "Holy Mary!" he said, and retreated. Lawless had 
 not noticed; he was pouring out the liquor. He had 
 handed the cup first to Pourcette, who raised it towards 
 a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something 
 under his breath. 
 
 "A dramatic little fellow," thought Lawless; "the 
 spirit of his forefathers a good deal of heart, a little 
 of the poseur." 
 
 Then hearing Shon's exclamation, he turned. 
 
 "It's an ugly sight," said Shon, pointing to the jacket. 
 They both looked at Pourcette, expecting him to speak. 
 The old man reached to the coat, and, turning it so that 
 the cut and the blood were hid, ran his hand down it 
 caressingly. "Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer!" he 
 said ; then he came over once more to the fire, sat down, 
 and held out his hands to the fire, shaking his head. 
 
 "For God's sake, Lawless, give me a drink!" said 
 Shon. Their eyes met, and there was the same look in 
 the faces of both. When Shon had drunk, he said: 
 "So, that's what's come to our old friend, Jo: dead 
 killed or murdered 
 
 "Don't speak so loud," said Lawless. "Let us get 
 the story from him first."
 
 224 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Years before, when Shon M'Gann and Pierre and 
 Lawless had sojourned in the Pipi Valley, Jo Gordi- 
 neer had been with them, as stupid and true a man as 
 ever drew in his buckle in a hungry land, or let it out to 
 munch corn and oil. When Lawless returned to find 
 Shon and others of his companions, he had asked for 
 Gordineer. But not Shon nor anyone else could tell 
 aught of him; he had wandered north to outlying gold- 
 fields, and then had disappeared completely. But 
 there, as it would seem, his coat and cap hung, and 
 his rifle, dust-covered, kept guard over the fire. 
 
 Shon went over to the coat, did as Pourcette had done, 
 and said: "Is it gone y'are, Jo, wid your slow tongue 
 and your big heart? Wan by wan the lads are off." 
 
 Pourcette, without any warning, began speaking, but 
 in a very quiet tone at first, as if unconscious of the 
 others: 
 
 "Poor Jo Gordineer! Yes, he is gone. He was my 
 friend so tall, and such a hunter! We were at the Ding- 
 Dong goldfields together. When luck went bad, I said 
 to him: 'Come, we will go where there is plenty of wild 
 meat, and a summer more beautiful than in the south.' 
 I did not want to part from him, for once, when some 
 miner stole my claim, and I fought, he stood by me. 
 But in some things he was a little child. That was from 
 his big heart. Well, he would go, he said; and we came 
 away." 
 
 He suddenly became silent; and shook his head, and 
 spoke under his breath. 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' said Lawless quietly, ' ' you went away. What 
 then?" 
 
 He looked up quickly, as though just aware of their 
 presence, and continued: 
 
 "Well, the other followed, as I said, and "
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 225 
 
 "No, Pourcette," interposed Lawless, "you didn't 
 say. Who was the other that followed?" 
 
 The old man looked at him gravely, and a little 
 severely, and continued: 
 
 "As I said, Gawdor followed he and an Indian. 
 Gawdor thought we were going for gold, because I had 
 said I knew a place in the north where there was gold 
 in a river I know the place, but that is no matter. We 
 did not go for gold just then. Gawdor hated Jo Gordi- 
 neer. There was a half-breed girl. She was fine to look 
 at. She would have gone to Gordineer if he had beck- 
 oned, any time; but he waited he was very slow, 
 except with his finger on a gun; he waited too long. 
 Gawdor was mad for the girl. He knew why her feet 
 came slow to the door when he knocked. He would 
 have quarrelled with Jo, if he had dared; Gordineer 
 was too quick a shot. He would have killed him from 
 behind; but it was known in the camp that he was no 
 friend of Gordineer, and it was not safe." 
 
 Again Pourcette was silent. Lawless put on his knee 
 a new pipe, filled with tobacco. The little man took it, 
 lighted it, and smoked on in silence for a tune undis- 
 turbed. Shon broke the silence, by a whisper to Lawless : 
 
 "Jo was a quiet man, as patient as a priest; but when 
 his blood came up, there was trouble in the land. Do 
 you remimber whin 
 
 Lawless interrupted him and motioned towards Pour- 
 cette. The old man, after a few puffs, held the pipe on 
 his knee, disregarding it. Lawless silently offered him 
 some more whisky, but he shook his head. Presently, 
 he again took up the thread: 
 
 "Bien, we travelled slow up through the smoky river 
 country, and beyond into a wild land. We had bully 
 sport as we went. Sometimes I heard shots far away
 
 226 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 behind us; but Gordineer said it was my guess, for we 
 saw nobody. But I had a feeling. Never mind. At 
 last we come to the Peace River. It was in the early 
 autumn like this, when the land is full of comfort. What 
 is there like it? Nothing. The mountains have colours 
 like a girl's eyes; the smell of the trees is sweet like a 
 child's breath, and the grass feels for the foot and lifts 
 it with a little soft spring. We said we could live here 
 for ever. We built this house high up, as you see, first, 
 because it is good to live high it puts life in the blood; 
 and, as Gordineer said, it is noble to look far over the 
 world, every time your house-door is open, or the parch- 
 ment is down from the window. We killed wapiti and 
 caribou without number, and cached them for our food. 
 We caught fish in the river, and made tea out of the 
 brown berry it is very good. We had flour, a little, 
 which we had brought with us, and I went to Fort St. 
 John and got more. Since then, down in the valley, I 
 have wheat every summer; for the Chinook winds blow 
 across the mountains and soften the bitter cold. 
 
 "Well, for that journey to Fort St. John. When I 
 got back I found Gawdor with Gordineer. He said he 
 had come north to hunt. His Indian had left, and he 
 had lost his way. Gordineer believed him. He never 
 lied himself. I said nothing, but watched. After a 
 time he asked where the gold-field was. I told him, and 
 he started away it was about fifty miles to the north. 
 He went, and on his way back he come here. He say 
 he could not find the place, and was going south. I 
 know he lied. At this time I saw that Gordineer was 
 changed. He was slow in the head, and so, when he 
 began thinking up here, it made him lonely. It is 
 always in a fine land like this, where game is plenty, 
 and the heart dances for joy in your throat, and you sit
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 227 
 
 by the fire that you think of some woman who would 
 be glad to draw in and tie the strings of the tent-curtain, 
 or fasten the latch of the door upon you two alone." 
 
 Perhaps some memory stirred within the old man, 
 other than that of his dead comrade, for he sighed, 
 muffled his mouth in his beard, and then smiled in a 
 distant way at the fire. The pure truth of what he said 
 came home to Shon M'Gann and Sir Duke Lawless; 
 for both, in days gone by, had sat at camp-fires in silent 
 plains, and thought upon women from whom they be- 
 lieved they were parted for ever, yet who were only kept 
 from them for a time, to give them happier days. They 
 were thinking of these two women now. They scarcely 
 knew how long they sat there thinking. Time passes 
 swiftly when thoughts are cheerful, or are only tinged 
 with the soft melancholy of a brief separation. Mem- 
 ory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy. 
 
 At last the old man continued: "I saw the thing grew 
 on him. He was not sulky, but he stare much in the 
 fire at night. In the day tune he was differen'. A 
 hunter thinks only of his sport. Gawdor watched him. 
 Gordineer's hand was steady; his nerve was all right. 
 I have seen him stand still till a grizzly come within 
 twice the length of his gun. Then he would twist his 
 mouth, and fire into the mortal spot. Once we were out 
 in the Wide Wing pass. We had never had such a day. 
 Gordineer make grand shots, better than my own; and 
 men have said I can shoot like the devil ha! ha!" 
 He chuckled to himself noiselessly, and said in a whisper : 
 "Twenty grizzlies, and fifty pumas!" 
 
 Then he rubbed his hands softly on his knees, and 
 spoke aloud again: "Id, I was proud of him. We were 
 standing together on a ledge of rock. Gawdor was not 
 far away. Gawdor was a poor hunter, and I knew he
 
 228 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 was wild at Gordineer's great luck. ... A splendid 
 bull-wapiti come out on a rock across the gully. It was 
 a long shot. I did not think Gordineer could make it; 
 I was not sure that I could the wind was blowing and 
 the range was long. But he draw up his gun like light- 
 ning, and fire all at once. The bull dropped clean over 
 the cliff, and tumbled dead upon the rocks below. It 
 was fine. But, then, Gordineer slung his gun under his 
 arm, and say: 'That is enough. I am going to the hut.' 
 
 "He went away. That night he did not talk. The 
 next morning, when I say, 'We will be off again to the 
 pass,' he shake his head. He would not go. He would 
 shoot no more, he said. I understood: it was the girl. 
 He was wide awake at last. Gawdor understanded also. 
 He know that Gordineer would go to the south to her. 
 I was sorry; but it was no use. Gawdor went with me 
 to the pass. When we come back, Jo was gone. On a 
 bit of birch-bark he had put where he was going, and the 
 way he would take. He said he would come back to 
 me ah, the brave comrade! Gawdor say nothing, but 
 his looks were black. I had a feeling. I sat up all night, 
 smoking. I was not afraid, but I know Gawdor had 
 found the valley of gold, and he might put a knife in me, 
 because to know of such a thing alone is fine. Just at 
 dawn, he got up and go out. He did not come back. 
 I waited, and at last went to the pass. In the afternoon, 
 just as I was rounding the corner of a cliff, there was a 
 shot then another. The first went by my head; the 
 second caught me along the ribs, but not to great hurt. 
 Still, I fell from the shock, and lost some blood. It was 
 Gawdor; he thought he had killed me. 
 
 "When I come to myself I bound up the little furrow 
 in the flesh, and start away. I know that Gawdor 
 would follow Gordineer. I follow him, knowing the
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 229 
 
 way he must take. I have never forget the next night. 
 I had to travel hard, and I track him by his fires and 
 other things. When sunset come, I do not stop. I was 
 in a valley, and I push on. There was a little moon. At 
 last I saw a light ahead a camp-fire, I know. I was 
 weak, and could have dropped; but a dread was on me. 
 I come to the fire. I saw a man lying near it. Just as 
 I saw him, he was trying to rise. But, as he did so, some- 
 thing sprang out of the shadow upon him, at his throat. 
 I saw huxi raise his hand, and strike it with a knife. 
 The thing let go, and then I fire but only scratched, 
 I think. It was a puma: It sprang away again, into 
 the darkness. I ran to the man, and raised him. It 
 was my friend. He looked up at me and shake his head. 
 He was torn at the throat. But there was something 
 else a wound in the back. He was stooping over the 
 fire when he was stabbed, and he fell. He saw that it 
 was Gawdor. He had been left for dead, as I was. Nom 
 de Dieu! just when I come and could have save him, 
 the puma come also. It is the best men who have such 
 luck. I have seen it often. I used to wonder they did 
 not curse God." 
 
 He crossed himself and mumbled something. Law- 
 less rose, and walked up and down the room once or 
 twice, pulling at his beard and frowning. His eyes were 
 wet. Shon kept blowing into his closed hand and blink- 
 ing at the fire. Pourcette got up and took down the gun 
 from the chimney. He brushed off the dust with his 
 coat-sleeve, and fondled it, shaking his head at it a 
 little. As he began to speak again, Lawless sat down. 
 
 "Now I know why they do not curse. Something 
 curses for them. Jo give me a word for her, and say 
 'Well, it is all right; but I wish I had killed the puma.' 
 There was nothing more. ... I followed Gawdor for
 
 230 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 days. I know that he would go and get someone, and 
 go back to the gold. I thought at last I had missed him ; 
 but no. I had made up my mind what to do when I 
 found him. One night, just as the moon was showing 
 over the hills, I come upon him. I was quiet as a puma. 
 I have a stout cord hi my pocket, and another about my 
 body. Just as he was stooping over the fire, as Gordi- 
 neer did, I sprang upon him, clasping him about the 
 neck, and bringing him to the ground. He could not get 
 me off. I am small, but I have a grip. Then, too, I had 
 one hand at his throat. It was no use to struggle. The 
 cord and a knife were in my teeth. It was a great trick, 
 but his breath was well gone, and I fastened his hands. 
 It was no use to struggle. I tied his feet and legs. Then 
 I carried him to a tree and bound him tight. I unfas- 
 tened his hands again and tied them round the tree. 
 Then I built a great fire not far away. He begged at 
 first and cried. But I was hard. He got wild, and at 
 last when I leave him he cursed! It was like nothing I 
 ever heard. He was a devil. ... I come back after I 
 have carry the message to the poor girl it is a sad 
 thing to see the first great grief of the young! Gawdor 
 was not there. The pumas and others had been with 
 him. 
 
 "There was more to do. I wanted to kill that puma 
 which set its teeth in the throat of my friend. I hunted 
 the woods where it had happened, beating everywhere, 
 thinking that, perhaps, it was dead. There was not 
 much blood on the leaves, so I guessed that it had not 
 died. I hunted from that spot, and killed many many. 
 I saw that they began to move north. At last I got 
 back here. From here I have hunted and killed them 
 slow; but never that one with a wound in the shoulder 
 from Jo's knife. Still, I can wait. There is nothing like
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 231 
 
 patience for the hunter and for the man who would have 
 blood for blood." 
 
 He paused, and Lawless spoke. "And when you have 
 killed that puma, Pourcette if you ever do what 
 then?" 
 
 Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and hung it up 
 again before he replied. 
 
 "Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl she is 
 there with her father and sell all the skins to the 
 factor, and give her the money." He waved his hand 
 round the room. "There are many skins here, but I 
 have more cached not far away. Once a year I go to the 
 Fort for flour and bullets. A dog-team and a bois-bruU 
 bring them, and then I am alone as before. When all 
 that is done I will come back." 
 
 "And then, Pourcette?" said Shon. 
 
 "Then I will hang that one skin over the chimney 
 where his gun is and go out and kill more pumas. 
 What else can one do? When I stop killing I shall be 
 killed. A million pumas and their skins are not worth 
 the life of my friend." 
 
 Lawless looked round the room, at the wooden cup, 
 the gun, the bloodstained clothes on the wall, and the 
 skins. He got up, came over, and touched Pourcette 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 "Little man," he said, "give it up, and come with me. 
 Come to Fort St. John, sell the skins, give the money 
 to the girl, and then let us travel to the Barren Grounds 
 together, and from there to the south country again. 
 You will go mad up here. You have killed enough 
 Gawdor and many pumas. If Jo could speak, he would 
 say, Give it up. I knew Jo. He was my good friend 
 before he was yours mine and M'Gann's here and 
 we searched for him to travel with us. He would have
 
 232 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 done so, I think, for we had sport and trouble of one 
 kind and another together. And he would have asked 
 you to come also. Well, do so, little man. We haven't 
 told you our names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this 
 is Shon M'Gann." 
 
 Pourcette nodded: "I do not know how it come to 
 me, but I was sure from the first you are his friends. He 
 speak often of you and of two others where are they?" 
 
 Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty Pierre, 
 Shon hid his forehead hi his hand, in a troubled way. 
 
 "And you will come with us," said Lawless, "away 
 from this loneliness?" 
 
 " It is not lonely," was the reply. "To hear the thrum 
 of the pigeon, the whistle of the hawk, the chatter of 
 the black squirrel, and the long cry of the eagle, is not 
 lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines all 
 music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; 
 and to kill pumas is my joy. . . . So, I cannot go. 
 These hills are mine. Few strangers come, and none 
 stop but me. Still, to-morrow or any day, I will show 
 you the way to the valley where the gold is. Perhaps 
 riches is there, perhaps not, you shall find." 
 
 Lawless saw that it was no use to press the matter. 
 The old man had but one idea, and nothing could ever 
 change it. Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on 
 things call it madness, what you will. In busy life 
 we have no real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have 
 to go to the primeval hills and the wild plains for them. 
 When we leave the hills and the plains, we lose them 
 again. Shon was, however, for the valley of gold. He 
 was a poor man, and it would be a joyful thing for him 
 if one day he could empty ample gold into his wife's 
 lap. Lawless was not greedy, but he and good gold were 
 not at variance.
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 233 
 
 "See," said Shon, "the valley's the thing. We can 
 hunt as we go, and if there's gold for the scrapin', why, 
 there y'are fill up and come again. If not, divil the 
 harm done. So here's thumbs up to go, say I. But I 
 wish, Lawless, I wish that I'd niver known how Jo wint 
 off, an' I wish we were all t'gither agin, as down in the 
 Pipi Valley." 
 
 " There's nothing stands in this world, Shon, but the 
 faith of comrades and the truth of good women. The 
 rest hangs by a hair. I'll go to the valley with you. It's 
 many a day since I washed my luck in a gold-pan." 
 
 "I will take you there," said Pourcette, suddenly ris- 
 ing, and, with shy abrupt motions grasping their hands 
 and immediately letting them go again. "I will take 
 you to-morrow." Then he spread skins upon the floor, 
 put wood upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep. 
 
 The next morning, just as the sun came laboriously 
 over the white peak of a mountain, and looked down 
 into the great gulch beneath the hut, the three started. 
 For many hours they crept along the side of the moun- 
 tain, then came slowly down upon pine-crested hills, 
 and over to where a small plain stretched out. It was 
 Pourcette's little farm. Its position was such that it 
 caught the sun always, and was protected from the 
 north and east winds. Tall shafts of Indian corn with 
 their yellow tassels were still standing, and the stubble 
 of the field where the sickle had been showed in the dis- 
 tance like a carpet of gold. It seemed strange to Law- 
 less that this old man beside him should be thus peace- 
 ful in his habits, the most primitive and arcadian of 
 farmers, and yet one whose trade was blood whose 
 one purpose in life was destruction and vengeance. 
 
 They pushed on. Towards the end of the day they 
 came upon a little herd of caribou, and had excellent
 
 234 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette seemed scarcely 
 to take any aim at all, so swift and decisive was his 
 handling of the gun. They skinned the deer and cached 
 them, and took up the journey again. For four days 
 they travelled and hunted alternately. Pourcette had 
 shot two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas. 
 
 On the morning of the fifth day they came upon the 
 valley where the gold was. There was no doubt about 
 it. A beautiful little stream ran through it, and its bed 
 was sprinkled with gold a goodly sight to a poor man 
 like Shon, interesting enough to Lawless. For days, 
 while Lawless and Pourcette hunted, Shon laboured 
 like a galley-slave, making the little specks into piles, 
 and now and again crowning a pile with a nugget. The 
 fever of the hunter had passed from him, and another 
 fever was on him. The others urged him to come away. 
 The whiter would soon be hard on them; he must go, 
 and he and Lawless would return in the spring. 
 
 Prevailing en him at last, they started back to Clear 
 Mountain. The first day Shon was abstracted. He 
 carried the gold he had gathered in a bag wound about 
 his body. It was heavy, and he could not travel fast. 
 One morning, Pourcette, who had been off in the hills, 
 came to say that he had sighted a little herd of wapiti. 
 Shon had fallen and sprained his arm the evening before 
 (gold is heavy to carry), and he did not go with the 
 others. He stayed and dreamed of his good fortune, and 
 of his home. In the late afternoon he lay down in the 
 sun beside the camp-fire and fell asleep from much 
 thinking. Lawless and Pourcette had little success. 
 The herd had gone before they arrived. They beat the 
 hills, and turned back to camp at last, without fret, like 
 good sportsmen. At a point they separated, to come 
 down upon the camp at different angles, in the hope of
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 235 
 
 still getting a shot. The camp lay exposed upon a 
 platform of the mountain. 
 
 Lawless came out upon a ledge of rock opposite the 
 camp, a gulch lying between. He looked across. He 
 was in the shadow, the other wall of the gulch was in 
 the sun. The air was incomparably clear and fresh, 
 with an autumnal freshness. Everything stood out dis- 
 tinct and sharply outlined, nothing flat or blurred. He 
 saw the camp, and the fire, with the smoke quivering 
 up in a diffusing blue column, Shon lying beside it. He 
 leaned upon his rifle musingly. The shadows of the 
 pines were blue and cold, but the tops of them were 
 burnished with the cordial sun, and a glacier-field, 
 somehow, took on a rose and violet light, reflected, 
 maybe, from the soft-complexioned sky. He drew in a 
 long breath of delight, and widened his line of vision. 
 
 Suddenly, something he saw made him lurch back- 
 ward. At an angle in almost equal distance from him 
 and Shon, upon a small peninsula of rock, a strange 
 thing was happening. Old Pourcette was kneeling, en- 
 gaged with his moccasin. Behind him was the sun, 
 against which he was abruptly defined, looking larger 
 than usual. Clear space and air soft with colour were 
 about him. Across this space, on a little sloping plateau 
 near him, there crept an animal. It seemed to Lawless 
 that he could see the lithe stealthiness of its muscles 
 and the ripple of its skin. But that was imagination, 
 because he was too far away. He cried out, and swung 
 his gun shoulderwards in desperation. But, at the mo- 
 ment, Pourcette turned sharply round, saw his danger, 
 caught his gun, and fired as the puma sprang. There 
 had been no chance for aim, and the beast was only 
 wounded. It dropped upon the man. He let the gun 
 fall; it rolled and fell over the cliff. Then came a
 
 236 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 scene, wicked in its peril to Pourcette, for whom no aid 
 could come, though two men stood watching the great 
 fight Shon M'Gann, awake now, and Lawless with 
 their guns silent in their hands. They dare not fire, 
 for fear of injuring the man, and they could not reach 
 him in tune to be of help. 
 
 There against the weird solitary sky the man and the 
 puma fought. When the animal dropped on him, Pour- 
 cette caught it by the throat with both hands, and held 
 back its fangs; but its claws were furrowing the flesh 
 of his breast and legs. His long arms were of immense 
 strength, and though the pain of his torn flesh was great 
 he struggled grandly with the beast, and bore it away, 
 from his body. As he did so he slightly changed the 
 position of one hand. It came upon a welt a scar. 
 When he felt that, new courage and strength seemed 
 given him. He gave a low growl like an animal, and 
 then, letting go one hand, caught at the knife in his 
 belt. As he did so the puma sprang away from him, and 
 crouched upon the rock, making ready for another leap. 
 Lawless and Shon could see its tail curving and beating. 
 But now, to their astonishment, the man was the ag- 
 gressor. He was filled with a fury which knows nothing 
 of fear. The welt his fingers had felt burned them. 
 
 He came slowly upon the puma. Lawless could see 
 the hard glitter of his knife. The puma's teeth sawed 
 together, its claws picked at the rocks, its body curved 
 for a spring. The man sprang first, and ran the knife 
 in; but not into a mortal corner. Once more they 
 locked. The man's fingers were again at the puma's 
 throat, and they swayed together, the claws of the beast 
 making surface havoc. But now as they stood up, to 
 the eyes of the fearful watchers inextricably mixed, the 
 man lunged again with his knife, and this time straight
 
 THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA 237 
 
 into the heart of the murderer. The puma loosened, 
 quivered, fell back dead. The man rose to his feet with 
 a cry, and his hands stretched above his head, as it 
 were in a kind of ecstasy. Shon forgot his gold and ran; 
 Lawless hurried also. 
 
 When the two men got to the spot they found Pour- 
 cette binding up his wounds. He came to his feet, 
 heedless of his hurts, and grasped their hands. "Come, 
 come, my friends, and see," he cried. 
 
 He pulled forward the loose skin on the puma's breast 
 and showed them the scar of a knife-wound above the 
 one his own knife had made. 
 
 "I've got the other murderer," he said; " Gordineer's 
 knife went in here. Sacre, but it is good!" 
 
 Pourcette's flesh needed little medicine; he did not 
 feel his pain and stiffness. When they reached Clear 
 Mountain, bringing with them the skin which was to 
 hang above the fireplace, Pourcette prepared to go to 
 Fort St. John, as he had said he would, to sell all the 
 skins and give the proceeds to the girl. 
 
 "When that's done," said Lawless, "you will have 
 no reason for staying here. If you will come with us 
 after, we will go to the Fort with you. We three will 
 then come back in the spring to the valley of gold for 
 sport and riches." 
 
 He spoke lightly, yet seriously too. The old man 
 shook his head. "I have thought," he said. "I cannot 
 go to the south. I am a hunter now, nothing more. I 
 have been long alone; I do not wish for change. I shall 
 remain at Clear Mountain when these skins have gone 
 to Fort St. John, and if you come to me in the spring or 
 at any time, my door will open to you, and I will share 
 all with you. Gordineer was a good man. You are good 
 men. I'll remember you, but I can't go with you no.
 
 238 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Some day you would leave me to go to the women who 
 wait for you, and then I should be alone again. I will 
 not change vraiment ! ' ' 
 
 On the morning they left, he took Jo Gordineer's cup 
 from the shelf, and from a hidden place brought out a 
 flask half filled with liquor. He poured out a little in 
 the cup gravely, and handed it to Lawless, but Lawless 
 gave it back to him. 
 
 "You must drink from it," he said, "not me." 
 
 He held out the cup of his own flask. When each of 
 the three had a share, the old man raised his long 
 arm solemnly, and said in a tone so gentle that the oth- 
 ers hardly recognised his voice: "To a lost comrade!" 
 They drank in silence. 
 
 "A little gentleman!" said Lawless, under his breath. 
 
 When they were ready to start, Lawless said to him 
 at the last: "What will you do here, comrade, as the 
 days go on?" 
 
 "There are pumas in the mountains," he replied. 
 
 They parted from him upon the ledge where the great 
 fight had occurred, and travelled into the east. Turn- 
 ing many times, they saw him still standing there. At 
 a point where they must lose sight of him, they looked 
 for the last time. He was alone with his solitary hills, 
 leaning on his rifle. They fired two shots into the air. 
 They saw him raise his rifle, and two faint reports came 
 in reply. He became again immovable : as much a part 
 of those hills as the shining glacier; never to leave them. 
 
 In silence the two rounded the cliff, and saw him no 
 more.
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 
 
 "WELL, you see," said Jacques Parfaite, as he gave 
 Whiskey Wine, the leading dog, a cut with the whip 
 and twisted his patois to the uses of narrative, "he has 
 been alone there at the old Fort for a long tune. I 
 remember when I first see him. It was in the summer. 
 The world smell sweet if you looked this way or that. 
 If you drew in your breath quick from the top of a hill 
 you felt a great man. Ridley, the chief trader, and my- 
 self have come to the Fort on our way to the Mackenzie 
 River. In the yard of the Fort the grass have grown 
 tall, and sprung in the cracks under the doors and win- 
 dows; the Fort have not been use for a long time. 
 Once there was plenty of buffalo near, and the caribou 
 sometimes; but they were all gone only a few. The 
 Indians never went that way, only when the seasons 
 were the best. The Company have close the Post; it 
 did not pay. Still, it was pleasant after a long tramp to 
 come to even an empty fort. We know dam' well there 
 is food buried hi the yard or under the floor, and it 
 would be droll to open the place for a day Lost Man's 
 Tavern, we called it. Well " 
 
 "Well, what?" said Sir Duke Lawless, who had 
 travelled up to the Barren Grounds for the sake of ad- 
 venture and game; and, with his old friend, Shon 
 M'Gann, had trusted himself to the excellent care of 
 Jacques Parfaite, the half-breed. 
 
 Jacques cocked his head on one side and shook it 
 wisely and mysteriously. " Trts bien, we trailed through 
 
 233
 
 240 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 the long grass, pried open the shutters and door, and 
 went in. It is cool in the north of an evening, as you 
 know. We build a fire, and soon there is very fine 
 tunes. Ridley pried up the floor, and we found good 
 things. Holy! but it was a feast. We had a little rum 
 also. As we talk and a great laugh swim round, there 
 come a noise behind us like shuffling feet. We got to our 
 legs quick. Mon Dieu, a strange sight! A man stand 
 looking at us with something in his face that make my 
 fingers cold all at once a look well you would think 
 it was carved hi stone it never change. Once I was 
 at Fort Garry; the Church of St. Mary is there. They 
 have a picture in it of the great scoundrel Judas as he 
 went to hang himself. Judas was a fool what was 
 thirty dollars! you give me hunder' to take you to the 
 Barren Grounds. Pah!" 
 
 The half-breed chuckled, shook his head sagely, swore 
 half-way through his vocabulary at Whiskey Wine, 
 gratefully received a pipe of tobacco from Shon M'Gann, 
 and continued: "He come in on us slow and still, and 
 push out long thin hands, the fingers bent like claws, 
 towards the pot. He was starving. Yes, it was so; 
 but I tfearly laugh. It was spring a man is a fool to 
 starve in the spring. But he was differen'. There was 
 a cause. The factor give him soup from the pot and a 
 little rum. He was mad for meat, but that would have 
 kill him yes. He did not look at you like a man. 
 When you are starving, you are an animal. But there 
 was something more with this. He made the flesh creep, 
 he was so thin, and strange, and sulky eh, is that a 
 word when the face looks dark and never smiles? So. 
 He would not talk. When we ask him where he come 
 from, he points to the north; when we ask him where he 
 is going, he shake his head as he not know. A man is
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 241 
 
 mad not to know where he travel to up here; something 
 comes quick to him unless, and it is not good to die too 
 soon. The trader said, 'Come with us.' He shake his 
 head, No. 'PYaps you want to stay here/ said Ridley 
 loud, showing his teeth all in a minute. He nod. Then 
 the trader laugh thick in his throat and give him more 
 soup. After, he try to make the man talk; but he was 
 stubborn like that dirty Whiskey Wine ah, sacre 
 lieu!" 
 
 Whiskey Wine had his usual portion of whip and 
 anathema before Jacques again took up the thread. 
 "It was no use. He would not talk. When the trader 
 get angry once more, he turned to me, and the look in 
 his face make me sorry. I swore Ridley did not mind 
 that, I was thick friends with him. I say, 'Keep still. 
 It is no good. He has had bad tunes. He has been lost, 
 and seen mad things. He will never be again like when 
 God make him.' Very well, I spoke true. He was like 
 a sun dog." 
 
 "What's that ye say, Parfaite?" said Shon "a sun 
 dog?" 
 
 Sir Duke Lawless, puzzled, listened eagerly for the 
 reply. 
 
 The half-breed in delight ran before them, cracking 
 his whip and jingling the bells at his knees. "Ah, that's 
 it ! It is a name we have for some. You do not know? 
 It is easy. In the high-up country" pointing north 
 "you see sometimes many suns. But it is not many 
 after all; it is only one; and the rest are the same as 
 your face in looking-glasses one, two, three, plenty. 
 You see?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sir Duke, "reflections of the real sun." 
 
 Parfaite tapped him on the arm. "So: you have 
 the thing. Well, this man is not himself he have
 
 242 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 left himself where he seen his bad times. It makes your 
 flesh creep sometimes when you see the sun dogs in 
 the sky this man did the same. You shall see him to- 
 night." 
 
 Sir Duke looked at the little half-breed, and won- 
 dered that the product of so crude a civilisation should 
 be so little crude in his imagination. "What happened? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "Nothing happened. But the man could not sleep. 
 He sit before the fire, his eyes moving here and there, 
 and sometimes he shiver. Well, I watch him. In the 
 morning we leave him there, and he has been there ever 
 since the only man at the Fort. The Indians do not 
 go; they fear him; but there is no harm in him. He 
 is old now. In an hour we'll be there." 
 
 The sun was hanging, with one shoulder up like a great 
 red peering dwarf, on the far side of a long hillock of 
 stunted pines, when the three arrived at the Fort. The 
 yard was still as Parfaite had described it full of rank 
 grass, through which one path trailed to the open door. 
 On the stockade walls grass grew, as though where men 
 will not live like men Nature labours to smother. The 
 shutters of the window were not open; light only entered 
 through narrow openings in them, made for the needs 
 of possible attacks by Indians in the far past. One 
 would have sworn that anyone dwelling there was more 
 like the dead than the living. Yet it had, too, something 
 of the peace of the lonely graveyard. There was no 
 one hi the Fort; but there were signs of life skins 
 piled here and there, a few utensils, a bench, a hammock 
 for food swung from the rafters, a low fire burning in the 
 chimney, and a rude spear stretched on the wall. 
 
 "Sure, the place gives you shivers!" said Shon. 
 "Open go these windows. Put wood on the fire, Par-
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 243 
 
 faite; cook the meat that we've brought, and no other, 
 me boy; and whin we're filled wid a meal and the love 
 o' God, bring in your Lost Man, or Sun Dog, or what- 
 iver's he by name or nature." 
 
 While Parfaite and Shon busied themselves, Lawless 
 wandered out with his gun, and, drawn on by the clear 
 joyous air of the evening, walked along a path made by 
 the same feet that had travelled the yard of the Fort. 
 He followed it almost unconsciously at first, thinking of 
 the strange histories that the far north hoards hi its 
 fastnesses, wondering what singular fate had driven the 
 host of this secluded tavern farthest from the pleasant 
 south country, nearest to the Pole to stand, as it were, 
 a sentinel at the raw outposts of the world. He looked 
 down at the trail where he was walking with a kind of 
 awe, which even his cheerful common sense could not 
 dismiss. 
 
 He came to the top of a ridge on which were a hand- 
 ful of meagre trees. Leaning on his gun, he looked 
 straight away into the farthest distance. On the left 
 was a blurred edge of pines, with tops like ungainly ten- 
 drils feeling for the sky. On the right was a long bare 
 stretch of hills veiled in the thin smoke of the evening, 
 and between, straight before him, was a wide lane of 
 unknown country, billowing away to where it froze into 
 the vast archipelago that closes with the summit of the 
 world. He experienced now that weird charm which has 
 drawn so many into Arctic wilds and gathered the eyes 
 of millions longingly. Wife, child, London, civilisation, 
 were forgotten for the moment. He was under a spell 
 which, once felt, lingers hi your veins always. 
 
 At length his look drew away from the glimmering 
 distance, and he suddenly became conscious of human 
 presence. Here, almost at his feet, was a man, also
 
 244 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 looking out along that slumbering waste. He was 
 dressed in skins, his arms were folded across his breast, 
 his chin bent low, and he gazed up and out from deep 
 eyes shadowed by strong brows. Lawless saw the 
 shoulders of the watcher heave and shake once or twice, 
 and then a voice with a deep aching trouble in it spoke; 
 but at first he could catch no words. Presently, how- 
 ever, he heard distinctly, for the man raised his hands 
 high above his head, and the words fell painfully: "Am 
 I my brother's keeper? " 
 
 Then a low harsh laugh came from him, and he was 
 silent again. Lawless did not move. At last the man 
 turned round, and, seeing him standing motionless, his 
 gun in his hands, he gave a hoarse cry. Then he stood 
 still. "If you have come to kill, do not wait," he said; 
 "I am ready." 
 
 At the sound of Lawless's reassuring voice he re- 
 covered, and began, in stumbling words, to excuse him- 
 self. His face was as Jacques Parfaite had described 
 it : trouble of some terrible kind was furrowed in it, and, 
 though his body was stalwart, he looked as if he had 
 lived a century. His eyes dwelt on Sir Duke Lawless 
 for a moment, and then, coming nearer, he said, "You 
 are an Englishman?" 
 
 Lawless held out his hand in greeting, yet he was not 
 sorry when the other replied: "The hand of no man in 
 greeting. Are you alone? " 
 
 When he had been told, he turned towards the Fort, 
 and silently they made their way to it. At the door 
 he turned and said to Lawless, "My name to you 
 is Detmold." 
 
 The greeting between Jacques and his sombre host 
 was notable for its extreme brevity; with Shon M'Gann 
 for its hesitation Shon's impressionable Irish nature
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 245 
 
 was awed by the look of the man, though he had seen 
 some strange things in the north. Darkness was on 
 them by this time, and the host lighted bowls of fat 
 with wicks of deer's tendons, and by the light of these 
 and the fire they ate their supper. Parfaite beguiled 
 the evening with tales of the north, always interesting 
 to Lawless; to which Shon added many a shrewd word 
 of humour for he had recovered quickly from his first 
 timidity in the presence of the stranger. 
 
 As tune went on Jacques saw that then* host's eyes 
 were frequently fixed on Sir Duke hi a half-eager, mu- 
 sing way, and he got Shon away to bed and left the two 
 together. 
 
 "You are a singular man. Why do you live here?" 
 said Lawless. Then he went straight to the heart of 
 the thing. "What trouble have you had, of what crime 
 are you guilty?" 
 
 The man rose to his feet, shaking, and walked to and 
 fro in the room for a tune, more than once trying to 
 speak, but f ailing. He beckoned to Lawless, and opened 
 the door. Lawless took his hat and followed him along 
 the trail they had travelled before supper until they 
 came to the ridge where they had met. The man faced 
 the north, the moon glistening coldly on his grey hah*. 
 He spoke with incredible weight and slowness: 
 
 "I tell you for you are one who understands men, 
 and you come from a life that I once knew well. I know 
 of your people. I was of good family " 
 
 "I know the name," said Sir Duke quietly, at the 
 same time fumbling in his memory for flying bits of 
 gossip and history which he could not instantly find. 
 
 "There were two brothers of us. I was the younger. 
 A ship was going to the Arctic Sea." He pointed into 
 the north. "We were both young and ambitious. He
 
 246 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 was in the army, I the navy. We went with the expe- 
 dition. At first it was all beautiful and grand, and it 
 seemed noble to search for those others who had gone 
 into that land and never come back. But our ship got 
 locked in the ice, and then came great trouble. A year 
 went by and we did not get free; then another year 
 began. . . . Four of us set out for the south. Two died. 
 My brother and I were left " 
 
 Lawless exclaimed. He now remembered how gen- 
 eral sympathy went out to a well-known county family 
 when it was announced that two of its members were 
 lost in the Arctic regions. 
 
 Detmold continued: " I was the stronger. He grew 
 weaker and weaker. It was awful to live those days: 
 the endless snow and cold, the long nights when you 
 could only hear the whirring of meteors, the bright sun 
 which did not warm you, nor even when many suns, 
 the reflections of itself, followed it the mocking sun 
 dogs, no more the sun than I am what my mother 
 brought into the world. . . . We walked like dumb 
 men, for the dreadful cold fills the heart with bitterness. 
 I think I grew to hate him because he could not travel 
 faster, that days were lost, and death crept on so piti- 
 lessly. Sometimes I had a mad wish to kill him. May 
 you never know suffering that begets such things! I 
 laughed as I sat beside him, and saw him sink to sleep 
 and die. ... I think I could have saved him. When 
 he was gone I what do men do sometimes when star- 
 vation is on them, and they have a hunger of hell to 
 live? I did that shameless thing and he was my 
 brother! ... I lived, and was saved." 
 
 Lawless shrank away from the man, but words of 
 horror got no farther than his throat. And he was glad 
 afterwards that it was so; for when he looked again at
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS 247 
 
 this woful relic of humanity before him he felt a strange 
 pity. 
 
 " God's hand is on me to punish," said the man. "It 
 will never be lifted. Death were easy: I bear the in- 
 famy of living." 
 
 Lawless reached out and caught him gently by the 
 shoulders. "Poor fellow! poor Detmold!" he said. 
 
 For an instant the sorrowful face lighted, the square 
 chin trembled, and the hands thrust out towards Law- 
 less, but suddenly dropped. 
 
 "Go," he said humbly, "and leave me here. We 
 must not meet again. ... I have had one moment of 
 respite. . . . Go." 
 
 Without a word, Lawless turned and made his way 
 to the Fort. In the morning the three comrades started 
 on their journey again; but no one sped them on their 
 way or watched them as they went.
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 
 
 HE lived in a hut on a jutting crag of the Cliff of the 
 King. You could get to it by a hard climb up a precip- 
 itous pathway, or by a ladder of ropes which swung 
 from his cottage door down the cliff-side to the sands. 
 The bay that washed the sands was called Belle Amour. 
 The cliff was huge, sombre; it had a terrible granite 
 moroseness. If you travelled back from its edge until 
 you stood within the very heart of Labrador, you would 
 add step upon step of barrenness and austerity. 
 
 Only at seasons did the bay share the gloom of the 
 cliff. When out of its shadow it was, in summer, very 
 bright and playful, sometimes boisterous, often idle, 
 coquetting with the sands. There was a great differ- 
 ence between the cliff and the bay: the cliff was only 
 as it appeared, but the bay was a shameless hypocrite. 
 For under one shoulder it hid a range of reefs, and, at 
 a spot where the shadows of the cliff never reached it, 
 and the sun played with a grim kind of joy, a long 
 needle of rock ran up at an angle under the water, 
 waiting to pierce irresistibly the adventurous ship that, 
 in some mad moment, should creep to its shores. 
 
 The man was more like the cliff than the bay: stern, 
 powerful, brooding. His only companions were the 
 Indians, who in summer-time came and went, getting 
 stores of him, which he in turn got from a post of the 
 Hudson's Bay Company, seventy miles up the coast. 
 At one time the Company, impressed by the number 
 of skins brought to them by the pilot, and the stores 
 
 248
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 249 
 
 he bought of them, had thought of establishing a post 
 at Belle Amour; but they saw that his dealings with 
 them were fair and that he had small gain, and they"de- 
 cided to use him as an unofficial agent, and reap what 
 profit was to be had as things stood. Kenyon, the Com- 
 pany's agent, who had the Post, was keen to know why 
 Gaspard the pilot lived at Belle Amour. No white 
 man sojourned near him, and he saw no one save now 
 and then a priest who travelled silently among the 
 Indians, or some fisherman, hunter, or woodsman, who, 
 for pleasure or from pure adventure, ran into the bay 
 and tasted the hospitality tucked away on a ledge of 
 the Cliff of the King. 
 
 To Kenyon, Gaspard was unresponsive, however 
 adroit the catechism. Father Corraine also, who some- 
 times stepped across the dark threshold of Gaspard's 
 hut, would have, for the man's soul's sake, dug out the 
 heart of his secret; but Gaspard, open with food, fire, 
 blanket, and tireless attendance, closed like the doors of 
 a dungeon when the priest would have read him. At 
 the name of good Ste. Anne he would make the sacred 
 gesture, and would take a blessing when the priest 
 passed from his hut to go again into the wilds; but when 
 pressed to disclose his mind and history, he would al- 
 ways say: "M'sieu', I have nothing to confess." After 
 a number of years the priest ceased to ask him, and he 
 remained with the secret of his life, inscrutable and 
 silent. 
 
 Being vigilant, one would have seen, however, that 
 he lived in some land of memory or anticipation, be- 
 yond his life of daily toil and usual dealing. The hut 
 seemed to have been built at a point where east and 
 west and south the great gulf could be seen and watched. 
 It seemed almost ludicrous that a man should call him-
 
 250 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 self a pilot on a coast and at a bay where a pilot was 
 scarce needed once a year. But he was known as Gas- 
 pard the pilot, and on those rare occasions when a ves- 
 sel did anchor in the bay, he performed his duties with 
 such a certainty as to leave unguessed how many death- 
 traps crouched near that shore. At such times, however, 
 Gaspard seemed to look twenty years younger. A light 
 would come into his face, a stalwart kind of pride sit 
 on him, though beneath there lurked a strange, sardonic 
 look in his deep eyes such a grim furtiveness as though 
 he should say : " If I but twist my ringer we are all for the 
 fishes." But he kept his secret and waited. He never 
 seemed to tire of looking down the gulf, as though ex- 
 pecting some ship. If one appeared and passed on, he 
 merely nodded his head, hung up his glass, returned to 
 his work, or, sitting by the door, talked to himself in 
 low, strange tones. If one came near, making as if it 
 would enter the bay, a hungry joy possessed him. If 
 a storm was on, the joy was the greater. No pilot ever 
 ventured to a ship on such rough seas as Gaspard 
 ventured for small profit or glory. 
 
 Behind it all lay his secret. There came one day a 
 man who discovered it. 
 
 It was Pierre, the half-breed adventurer. There was 
 no point in all the wild northland which Pierre had not 
 touched. He loved it as he loved the game of life. He 
 never said so of it, but he never said so of the game of 
 life, and he played it with a deep subterranean joy. He 
 had had his way with the musk-ox in the Arctic Circle; 
 with the white bear at the foot of Alaskan Hills; with 
 the seal in Baffin's Bay; with the puma on the slope of 
 the Pacific; and now at last he had come upon the trail 
 of Labrador. Its sternness, its moodiness pleased him. 
 He smiled at it the comprehending smile of the man who
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 251 
 
 has fingered the nerves and the heart of men and things. 
 As a traveller, wandering through a prison, looks upon 
 its grim cells and dungeons with the eye of unembar- 
 rassed freedom, finding no direful significance in the 
 clank of its iron, so Pierre travelled down with a hand- 
 ful of Indians through the hard fastnesses of that 
 country, and, at last, alone, came upon the bay of Belle 
 Amour. 
 
 There was in him some antique touch of refinement 
 and temperament which, in all his evil days and deeds 
 and moments of shy nobility, could find its way into 
 the souls of men with whom the world had had an awk- 
 ward hour. He was a man of little speech, but he had 
 that rare persuasive penetration which unlocked the 
 doors of trouble, despair, and tragedy. Men who would 
 never have confessed to a priest confessed to him. In 
 his every fibre was the granite of the Indian nature, 
 w r hich looked upon punishment with stoic satisfaction. 
 
 In the heart of Labrador he had heard of Gaspard, 
 and had travelled to that point in the compass where 
 he could find him. One day when the sun was fighting 
 hard to make a pathway of light in front of Gaspard 's 
 hut, Pierre rounded a corner of the cliff and fronted 
 Gaspard as he sat there, his eyes idling gloomily with 
 the sea. They said little to each other in new lands 
 hospitality has not need of speech. When Gaspard 
 and Pierre looked each other in the eyes they knew that 
 one word between them was as a hundred with other 
 men. The heart knows its confessor, and the confessor 
 knows the shadowed eye that broods upon some ghostly 
 secret; and when these are face to face there comes a 
 merciless concision of understanding. 
 
 "From where away?" said Gaspard, as he handed 
 some tobacco to Pierre.
 
 252 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "From Hudson's Bay, down the Red Wolf Plains, 
 along the hills, across the coast country, here." 
 
 "Why?" Gaspard eyed Pierre's small kit with curi- 
 osity; then flung up a piercing, furtive look. Pierre 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' ' Adventure, adventure, ' ' he answered. ' ' The land ' ' 
 he pointed north, west, and east "is all mine. I 
 am the citizen of every village and every camp of the 
 great north." 
 
 The old man turned his head towards a spot up the 
 shore of Belle Amour, before he turned to Pierre again, 
 with a strange look, and said: "Where do you go?" 
 
 Pierre followed his gaze to that point in the shore, felt 
 the undercurrent of vague meaning in his voice, guessed 
 what was his cue, and said: "Somewhere, sometime; 
 but now only Belle Amour. I have had a long travel. 
 I have found an open door. I will stay if you please 
 hein? If you please?" 
 
 Gaspard brooded. "It is lonely," he replied. "This 
 day it is all bright; the sun shines and the little gay 
 waves crinkle to the shore. But, mon Dieu! sometimes 
 it is all black and ugly with storm. The waves come 
 grinding, booming in along the gridiron rocks" he 
 smiled a grim smile "break through the teeth of the 
 reefs, and split with a roar of hell upon the cliff. And 
 all the time, and all the time," his voice got low with 
 a kind of devilish joy, "there is a finger Jesu! you 
 should see that finger of the devil stretch up from the 
 bowels of the earth, waiting, waiting for something to 
 come out of the storm. And then and then you can 
 hear a wild laugh come out of the land, come up from 
 the sea, come down from the sky all waiting, waiting 
 for something! No, no, you would not stay here." 
 
 Pierre looked again to that point in the shore towards
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 253 
 
 which Gaspard's eyes had been cast. The sun was shin- 
 ing hard just then, and the stern, sharp rocks, tumbling 
 awkwardly back into the waste behind, had an insolent 
 harshness. Day perched garishly there. Yet now and 
 then the staring light was broken by sudden and deep 
 shadows great fissures in the rocks and lanes between. 
 These gave Pierre a suggestion, though why, he could 
 not say. He knew that when men live lives of patient, 
 gloomy vigilance, they generally have something to 
 watch and guard. Why should Gaspard remain here 
 year after year? His occupation was nominally a pilot 
 in a bay rarely touched by vessels, and then only for 
 shelter. A pilot need not take his daily life with such 
 brooding seriousness. In body he was like flexible 
 metal, all cord and muscle. He gave the impression of 
 bigness, though he was small hi stature. Yet, as Pierre 
 studied him, he saw something that made him guess 
 the man had had about him one day a woman, perhaps 
 a child; no man could carry that look unless. If a 
 woman has looked at you from day to day, something 
 of her, some reflection of her face, passes to yours and 
 stays there; and if a child has held your hand long, or 
 hung about your knees, it gives you a kind of gentle 
 wariness as you step about your home. 
 
 Pierre knew that a man will cherish with a deep, 
 eternal purpose a memory of a woman or a child, when, 
 no matter how compelling his cue to remember where 
 a man is concerned, he will yield it up in the end to time. 
 Certain speculations arranged themselves definitely in 
 Pierre's mind: there was a woman, maybe a child once; 
 there was some sorrowful mystery about them; there 
 was a point in the shore that had held the old man's 
 eyes strangely; there was the bay with that fantastic 
 "finger of the devil" stretching up from the bowels of
 
 254 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 the world. Behind the symbol lay the Thing what 
 was it? 
 
 Long tune he looked out upon the gulf, then his eyes 
 drew into the bay and stayed there, seeing mechanically, 
 as a hundred fancies went through his mind. There 
 were reefs of which the old man had spoken. He could 
 guess from the colour and movement of the water where 
 they were. The finger of the devil was it not real? 
 A finger of rock, waiting as the old man said for 
 what? 
 
 Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and went 
 with him into the gloomy cabin. They ate and drank 
 in silence. When the meal was finished they sat smoking 
 till night fell. Then the pilot lit a fire, and drew his 
 rough chair to the door. Though it was only late sum- 
 mer, it was cold hi the shade of the cliff. Long tune 
 they sat. Now and again Pierre intercepted the quick, 
 elusive glance of his silent host. Once the pilot took 
 the pipe from his mouth, and leaned his hands on his 
 knees as if about to speak. But he did not. 
 
 Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. So he 
 said, as though he knew something: "It is a long time 
 since it happened?" 
 
 Gaspard, brooding, answered: "Yes, a long time too 
 long." Then, as if suddenly awakened to the strange- 
 ness of the question, he added, in a startled way : "What 
 do you know? Tell me quick what you know." 
 
 "I know nothing except what comes to me here, 
 pilot," Pierre touched his forehead, "but there is a 
 thing I am not sure what. There was a woman 
 perhaps a child; there is something on the shore; there 
 is a hidden point of rock in the bay; and you are wait- 
 ing for a ship for the ship, and it does not come isn't 
 that so?"
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 255 
 
 Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into Pierre's 
 immobile face. Their eyes met. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" said the pilot, his hand catching the 
 smoke away from between them, "you are a droll man; 
 you have a wonderful mind. You are cold like ice, and 
 still there is in you a look of fire." 
 
 "Sit down," answered Pierre quietly, "and tell me 
 all. Perhaps I could think it out little by little; but 
 it might take too long and what is the good?" 
 
 Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested on his 
 knees, and he stared abstractedly into the fire. Pierre 
 thrust forward the tobacco-bag. His hand lifted, took 
 the tobacco, and then his eyes came keenly to Pierre's. 
 He was about to speak. 
 
 "Fill your pipe first," said the half-breed coolly. 
 
 The old man did so abstractedly. When the pipe 
 was lighted, Pierre said: "Now!" 
 
 "I have never told the story, never not even to 
 Pere Corraine. But I know, I have it here " he put his 
 hand to his forehead, as did Pierre "that you will be 
 silent." Pierre nodded. 
 
 "She was fine to see. Her eyes were black as beads; 
 and when she laugh it was all music. I was so happy! 
 We lived on the island of the Aux Coudres, far up there 
 at Quebec. It was a wild place. There were smugglers 
 and others there maybe pirates. But she was like a 
 saint of God among all. I was lucky man. I was pilot, 
 and took ships out to sea, and brought them in safe up 
 the gulf. It is not all easy, for there are mad places. 
 Once or twice when a wild storm was on I could not 
 land at Cap Martin, and was carried out to sea and over 
 to France. . . . Well, that was not so bad; there was 
 plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do. But when I 
 marry it was differen'. I was afraid of being carried
 
 256 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 away and leave my wife the belle Mamette alone 
 long time. You see, I was young, and she was ver' 
 beautiful." 
 
 He paused and caught his hand over his mouth as 
 though to stop a sound : the lines of his face deepened. 
 Presently he puffed his pipe so hard that the smoke and 
 the sparks hid him in a cloud through which he spoke. 
 "When the child was born Holy Mother! have you 
 ever felt the hand of your own child in yours, and looked 
 at the mother, as she lies there all pale and shining be- 
 tween the quilts?" 
 
 He paused. Pierre's eyes dropped to the floor. 
 
 Gaspard continued: "Well, it is a great thing, and 
 the babe was born quick one day when we were all alone. 
 A thing like that gives you wonder. Then I could not 
 bear to go away with the ships, and at last I said: 
 'One month, and then the ice fills the gulf, and there 
 will be no more ships for the winter. That will be the 
 last for me. I will be pilot no more no.' She was ver' 
 happy, and a laugh ran over her little white teeth. M on 
 Dieu, I stop that laugh pretty quick in fine way!" 
 
 He seemed for an instant to forget his great trouble, 
 and his face went to warm sunshine like a boy's; but 
 it was as sun playing on a scarred fortress. Presently 
 the light faded out of his face and left it like iron 
 smouldering from the bellows. 
 
 "Well," he said, "you see there was a ship to go 
 almost the last of the season, and I said to my wife, 
 'Mamette, it is the last time I shall be pilot. You must 
 come with me and bring the child, and they will put us 
 off at Father Point, and then we will come back slow 
 to the village on the good Ste. Anne and live there ver' 
 quiet.' When I say that to her she laugh back at me 
 and say, 'Beau! beau!' and she laugh hi the child's
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 257 
 
 eyes, and speak nom de Dieu! she speak so gentle and 
 light and say to the child: 'Would you like go with 
 your father a pretty journey down the gulf?' And the 
 little child laugh back at her, and shake its soft brown 
 hair over its head. They were both so glad to go. I 
 went to the captain of the ship. I say to him, 'I will 
 take my wife and my little child, and when we come 
 to Father Point we will go ashore.' Bien, the captain 
 laugh big, and it was all right. That was long tune 
 ago long time." 
 
 He paused again, threw his head back with a de- 
 spairing toss, his chin dropped on his breast, his hands 
 clasped between his knees, and his pipe, laid beside him 
 on the bench, was forgotten. 
 
 Pierre quietly put some wood upon the fire, opened 
 his kit, drew out from it a little flask of rum and laid it 
 upon the bench beside the pipe. A long time passed. 
 At last Gaspard roused himself with a long sigh, turned 
 and picked up the pipe, but, seeing the flask of rum, 
 lifted it, and took one long swallow before he began to 
 fill and light his pipe. There came into his voice some- 
 thing of iron hardness as he continued his story. 
 
 " Alors, we went into the boat. As we travelled down 
 the gulf a great storm came out of the north. We 
 thought it would pass, but it stayed on. When we got 
 to the last place where the pilot could land, the waves 
 were running like hills to the shore, and no boat could 
 live between the ship and the point. For myself, it was 
 nothing I am a strong man and a great swimmer. 
 But when a man has a wife and a child, it is differen'. 
 So the ship went on out into the ocean with us. Well, 
 we laugh a little, and think what a great brain I had 
 when I say to my wife : ' Come and bring the child for 
 the last voyage of Gaspard the pilot.' You see, there
 
 258 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 we were on board the ship, everything ver' good, plenty 
 to eat, much to drink, to smoke, all the time. The 
 sailors, they were ver' funny, and to see them take my 
 child, my little Babette, and play with her as she roll 
 on the deck merci, it was gran' ! So I say to my wife : 
 ' This will be bon voyage for all.' But a woman, she has 
 not the mind like a man. When a man laugh in the sun 
 and think nothing of evil, a woman laugh too, but there 
 come a little quick sob to her lips. You ask her why, 
 and she cannot tell. She know that something will 
 happen. A man has great idee, a woman great sight. 
 So my wife, she turn her face away all sad from me then, 
 and she was right she was right! 
 
 "One day in the ocean we pass a ship only two days 
 out. The ship signal us. I say to my wife: 'Ha, ha! 
 now we can go back, maybe, to the good Ste. Anne.' 
 Well, the ships come close together, and the captain of 
 the other ship he have something importan' with ours. 
 He ask if there will be chance of pilot into the gulf, 
 because it is the first time that he visit Quebec. The 
 captain swing round and call to me. I go up. I bring 
 my wife and my little Babette; and that was how we 
 sail back to the great gulf. 
 
 "When my wife step on board that ship I see her face 
 get pale, and something strange in her eyes. I ask her 
 why; she do not know, but she hug Babette close to 
 her breast with a kind of fear. A long, low, black ship, 
 it could run through every sea. Soon the captain come 
 to me and say: 'You know the coast, the north coast of 
 the gulf, from Labrador to Quebec?' I tell him yes. 
 'Well,' he say, 'do you know of a bay where few ships 
 enter safe?' I think a moment and I tell him of Belle 
 Amour. Then he say, ver' quick: 'That is the place; 
 we will go to the bay of Belle Amour.' He was ver' kind
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 259 
 
 to my face; he give my wife and child good berth, 
 plenty to eat and drink, and once more I laugh; but 
 my wife there was in her face something I not under- 
 stan'. It is not easy to understan' a woman. We got 
 to the bay. I had pride : I was young. I was the best 
 pilot in the St. Lawrence, and I took in the ship between 
 the reefs of the bay, where they run like a gridiron, and 
 I laugh when I swing the ship all ver' quick to the right, 
 after we pass the reefs, and make a curve round some- 
 thing. The captain pull me up and ask why. But I 
 never tell him that. I not know why I never tell him. 
 But the good God put the thought into my head, and 
 I keep it to this hour, and it never leave me, never 
 never!" 
 
 He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his knees, 
 took another sip of rum, and went on: 
 
 "I brought the ship close up to the shore, and we go 
 to anchor. All that night I see the light of a fire on 
 the shore. So I slide down and swim to the shore. 
 Under a little arch of rocks something was going on. 
 I could not tell, but I know from the sound that they 
 are to bury something. Then, all at once, it come to 
 me this is a pirate ship! I come closer and closer to 
 the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. There was the 
 captain and the mate, and another. They turn quick 
 upon two other men two sailors and kill them. Then 
 they take the bodies and wound them round some casks 
 in a great hole, and cover it all up. I understan'. It is 
 the old legend that a dead body will keep gold all to 
 itself, so that no one shall find it. Mon Dieu!" his 
 voice dropped low and shook in his throat "I give 
 one little cry at the sight, and then they see me. There 
 were three. They were armed; they sprang upon me 
 and tied me. Then they fling me beside the fire,
 
 260 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 and they cover up the hole with the gold and the 
 bodies. 
 
 "When that was done they take me back to the ship, 
 then with pistols at my head they make me pilot the 
 ship out into the bay again. As we went they make a 
 chart of the place. We travel along the coast for one 
 day; and then a great storm of snow come, and the cap- 
 tain say to me: 'Steer us into harbour.' When we are 
 at anchor, they take me and my wife, and little child 
 and put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare 
 rocks and the dreadful night, and leave us there, that 
 we shall never tell the secret of the gold. That night 
 my wife and my child die in the snow." 
 
 Here his voice became strained and slow. " After a 
 long time I work my way to an Injin camp. For months 
 I was a child in strength, all my flesh gone. When the 
 spring come I went and dug a deeper grave for my wife, 
 and p'tite Babette, and leave them there, where they 
 had died. But I come to the bay of Belle Amour, be- 
 cause I knew some day the man with the devil's heart 
 would come back for his gold, and then would arrive 
 my time the hour of God!" 
 
 He paused. "The hour of God," he repeated slowly. 
 "I have waited twenty years, but he has not come; yet 
 I know that he will come. I feel it here" he touched 
 his forehead; "I know it here" he tapped his heart. 
 "Once where my heart was, there is only one thing, and 
 it is hate, and I know I know that he will come. And 
 when he comes " He raised his arm high above his 
 head, laughed wildly, paused, let the hand drop, and 
 then fell to staring into the fire. 
 
 Pierre again placed the flask of rum between his 
 fingers. But Gaspard put it down, caught his arms 
 together across his breast, and never turned his face
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 261 
 
 from the fire. Midnight came, and still they sat there 
 silent. No man had a greater gift in waiting than Pierre. 
 Many a time his life had been a swivel, upon which the 
 comedies and tragedies of others had turned. He neither 
 loved nor feared men: sometimes he pitied them. He 
 pitied Gaspard. He knew what it is to have the heart- 
 strings stretched out, one by one, by the hand of a 
 Gorgon, while the feet are chained to the rocking 
 world. 
 
 Not till the darkest hour of the morning did the two 
 leave their silent watch and go to bed. The sun had 
 crept stealthily to the door of the hut before they rose 
 again. Pierre laid his hand upon Gaspard's shoulder 
 as they travelled out into the morning, and said: "My 
 friend, I understand. Your secret is safe with me; you 
 shall take me to the place where the gold is buried, but 
 it shall wait there until the tune is ripe. What is gold 
 to me? Nothing. To find gold that is the trick of any 
 fool. To win it or to earn it is the only game. Let the 
 bodies rot about the gold. You and I will wait. I have 
 many friends in the northland, but there is no face in 
 any tent door looking for me. You are alone: well, I 
 will stay with you. Who can tell perhaps it is near 
 at hand the hour of God!" 
 
 The huge hard hand of Gaspard swallowed the small 
 hand of Pierre, and, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, 
 he answered: "You shall be my comrade. I have told 
 you all, as I have never told it to my God. I do not 
 fear you about the gold it is all cursed. You are not 
 like other men; I will trust you. Some time you also 
 have had the throat of a man hi your fingers, and 
 watched the life spring out of his eyes, and leave them 
 all empty. When men feel like that, what is gold what 
 is anything! There is food in the bay and on the hills.
 
 262 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 We will live together, you and I. Come and I will show 
 you the place of hell." 
 
 Together they journeyed down the crag and along 
 the beach to the place where the gold, the grim god of 
 this world, was fortressed and bastioned by its victims. 
 
 The days went on; the weeks and months ambled 
 by. Still the two lived together. Little speech passed 
 between them, save that speech of comrades, who use 
 more the sign than the tongue. It seemed to Pierre 
 after a tune that Gaspard's wrongs were almost his own. 
 Yet with this difference : he must stand by and let the 
 avenger be the executioner; he must be the spectator 
 merely. 
 
 Sometimes he went inland and brought back moose, 
 caribou, and the skins of other animals, thus assisting 
 Gaspard in his dealings with the great Company. But 
 again there were days when he did nothing but lie on 
 the skins at the hut's door, or saunter in the shadows 
 and the suinjght. Not since he had come to Gaspard 
 had a ship passed the bay or sought to anchor in it. 
 
 But there came a day. It was the early summer. 
 The snow had shrunk from the ardent sun, and had 
 swilled away to the gulf, leaving the tender grass show- 
 ing. The moss on the rocks had changed from brown to 
 green, and the vagrant birds had fluttered back from 
 the south. The winter's furs had been carried away in 
 the early spring to the Company's post, by a detach- 
 ment of coureurs de bois. There was little left to do. 
 This morning they sat in the sun looking out upon the 
 gulf. Presently Gaspard rose and went into the hut. 
 Pierre's eyes still lazily scanned the water. As he looked 
 he saw a vessel rounding a point in the distance. Sup- 
 pose this was the ship of the pirate and murderer? The 
 fancy diverted him. His eyes drew away from the in-
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 263 
 
 distinct craft first to the reefs, and then to that spot 
 where the colossal needle stretched up under the water. 
 
 It was as Pierre speculated. Brigond, the French 
 pirate, who had hidden his gold at such shameless cost, 
 was, after twenty years in the galleys at Toulon, come 
 back to find his treasure. He had doubted little that he 
 would find it. The lonely spot, the superstition con- 
 cerning dead bodies, the supposed doom of Gaspard, all 
 ran in his favour. His little craft came on, manned by 
 as vile a mob as ever mutinied or built a wrecker's fire. 
 
 When the ship got within a short distance of the bay, 
 Pierre rose and called. GaSpard came to the door. 
 
 " There's work to do, pilot," he said. Gaspard felt 
 the thrill of his voice, and flashed a look out to the gulf. 
 He raised his hands with a gasp. "I feel it," he said: 
 "it is the hour of God!" 
 
 He started to the rope ladder of the cliff, then wheeled 
 suddenly and came back to Pierre. "You must not 
 come," he said. "Stay here and watch; you shall see 
 great things." His voice had a round, deep tone. He 
 caught both Pierre's hands in his and added: "It is 
 for my wife and child; I have no fear. Adieu, my 
 friend! When you see the good Pre Corraine say to 
 him but no, it is no matter there is One greater!" 
 
 Once again he caught Pierre hard by the shoulder, 
 then ran to the cliff and swung down the ladder. All 
 at once there shot through Pierre's body an impulse, 
 and his eyes lighted with excitement. He sprang tow- 
 ards the cliff. "Gaspard, come back!" he called; then 
 paused, and, with an enigmatical smile, shrugged his 
 shoulders, drew back, and waited. 
 
 The vessel was hove to outside the bay, as if hesitat- 
 ing. Brigond was considering whether it were better, 
 with his scant chart, to attempt the bay, or to take small
 
 264 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 boats and make for the shore. He remembered the 
 reefs, but he did not know of the needle of rock. 
 
 Presently he saw Gaspard's boat coming. "Someone 
 who knows the bay," he said; "I see a hut on the cliff." 
 
 "Hello, who are you?" Brigond called down as 
 Gaspard drew alongside. 
 
 "A Hudson's Bay Company's man," answered Gas- 
 pard. 
 
 "How many are there of you?" 
 
 "Myself alone." 
 
 "Can you pilot us in?" 
 
 "I know the way." 
 
 "Come up." 
 
 Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled his eyes 
 lest the hate he felt should reveal him. No one could 
 have recognised him as the young pilot of twenty years 
 before. Then his face was cheerful and bright, and in 
 his eye was the fire of youth. Now a thick beard and 
 furrowing lines hid all the look of the past. His voice, 
 too, was desolate and distant. 
 
 Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. "How long 
 have you lived off there?" he asked, as he jerked his 
 finger towards the shore. 
 
 "A good many years." 
 
 "Did anything strange ever happen there?" 
 
 Gaspard felt his heart contract again, as it did when 
 Brigond's hand touched his shoulder. 
 
 "Nothing strange is known." 
 
 A vicious joy came into Brigond's face. His fingers 
 opened and shut. "Safe, by the holy heaven!" he 
 grunted. 
 
 "'By the holy heaven!'" repeated Gaspard, under 
 his breath. 
 
 They walked forward. Almost as they did so there
 
 THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR 265 
 
 came a big puff of wind across the bay: one of those 
 sudden currents that run in from the ocean and the gulf 
 stream. Gaspard saw, and smiled. In a moment the 
 vessel's nose was towards the bay, and she sailed in, 
 dipping a shoulder to the sudden foam. On she came 
 past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the slaughter. 
 The spray feathered up to her sails, the sun caught her 
 on deck and beam; she was running dead for the needle 
 of rock. 
 
 Brigond stood at Gaspard's side. All at once Gas- 
 pard made the sacred gesture and said, in a low tone, as 
 if only to himself: "Pardon, mon capitaine, mon Jesu!" 
 Then he turned triumphantly, fiercely, upon Brigond. 
 The pirate was startled. " What's the matter?" he 
 said. 
 
 Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. There was 
 a sudden shock; the vessel stood still and shivered; 
 lurched, swung shoulder downwards, reeled and strug- 
 gled. Instantly she began to sink. 
 
 ' ' The boats ! lower the boats ! " cried Brigond. ' ' This 
 cursed fool has run us on a rock!" 
 
 The waves, running high, now swept over the deck. 
 Brigond started aft, but Gaspard sprang before him. 
 "Stand back!" he called. "Where you are you die!" 
 
 Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at him. Gas- 
 pard caught him as he came. With vast strength he 
 lifted him and dashed him to the deck. "Die there, 
 murderer!" he cried. 
 
 Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at him with 
 fearful eyes. "Who are you?" he asked. 
 
 "I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for you 
 twenty years. Up there, in the snow, my wife and child 
 died. Here, in this bay, you die. " 
 
 There was noise and racketing behind them, but they
 
 266 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 two heard nothing. The one was alone with his terror, 
 the other with his soul. Once, twice, thrice, the vessel 
 heaved, then went suddenly still. 
 
 Gaspard understood. One look at his victim, then 
 he made the sacred gesture again, and folded his arms. 
 
 Pierre, from the height of the cliff, looking down, saw 
 the vessel dip at the bow, and then the waters divided 
 and swallowed it up. 
 
 " Gaspard should have lived," he said. "But who 
 can tell! Perhaps Mamette was waiting for him."
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" 
 
 I. THE SEARCH 
 
 SHE was only a big gulf yawl, which a man and a boy 
 could manage at a pinch, with old-fashioned high bul- 
 warks, but lying clean in the water. She had a tolerable 
 record for speed, and for other things so important that 
 they were now and again considered by the Govern- 
 ment at Quebec. She was called the Ninety-Nine. 
 With a sense of humour the cure had called her so, after 
 an interview with her owner and captain, Tarboe the 
 smuggler. When he said to Tarboe at Angel Point that 
 he had come to seek the one sheep that was lost, leaving 
 behind him the other ninety-and-nine within the fold 
 at Isle of Days, Tarboe had replied that it was a mis- 
 take he was the ninety-nine, for he needed no repent- 
 ance, and immediately offered the cure" some old brown 
 brandy of fine flavour. They both had a whimsical 
 turn, and the cure" did not ask Tarboe how he came by 
 such perfect liquor. Many high in authority, it was 
 said, had been soothed even to the winking of an eye 
 when they ought to have sent a Nordenfeldt against the 
 Ninety-Nine. 
 
 The day after the cure" left Angel Point he spoke of 
 Tarboe and his craft as the Ninety-and-Nine; and 
 Tarboe hearing of this for somehow he heard every- 
 thing immediately painted out the old name, and 
 called her the Ninety-Nine, saying that she had been so 
 blessed by the cure". Afterwards the Ninety-Nine had 
 an increasing reputation for exploit and daring. In 
 
 267
 
 268 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 brief, Tarboe and his craft were smugglers, and to have 
 trusted gossip would have been to say that the boat was 
 as guilty as the man. 
 
 Their names were much more notorious than sweet; 
 and yet in Quebec men laughed as they shrugged their 
 shoulders at them; for as many jovial things as evil 
 were told of Tarboe. When it became known that a 
 dignitary of the Church had been given a case of splen- 
 did wine, which had come in a roundabout way to him, 
 men waked in the night and laughed, to the annoyance 
 of their wives; for the same dignitary had preached a 
 powerful sermon against smugglers and the receivers 
 of stolen goods. It was a sad thing for monsignor to 
 be called a Ninety-Niner, as were all good friends of 
 Tarboe, high and low. But when he came to know, af- 
 ter the wine had been leisurely drunk and becomingly 
 praised, he brought his influence to bear in civic places, 
 so that there was nothing left to do but to corner Tar- 
 boe at last. 
 
 It was in the height of summer, when there was little 
 to think of in the old fortressed city, and a dart after 
 a brigand appealed to the romantic natures of the idle 
 French folk, common and gentle. 
 
 Through clouds of rank tobacco smoke, and in the 
 wash of their bean soup, the habitants discussed the 
 fate of " Black Tarboe," and officers of the garrison and 
 idle ladies gossiped at the Citadel and at Murray Bay 
 of the freebooting gentlemen, whose Ninety-Nine had 
 furnished forth many a table in the great walled city. 
 But Black Tarboe himself was down at Anticosti, wait- 
 ing for a certain merchantman. Passing vessels saw 
 the Ninety-Nine anchored in an open bay, flying its 
 flag flippantly before the world a rag of black sheep- 
 skin, with the wool on, in profane keeping with its name.
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 269 
 
 There was no attempt at hiding, no skulking behind 
 a point, or scurrying from observation, but an indolent 
 and insolent waiting for something. " Black Tarboe's 
 getting reckless," said one captain coming in, and 
 another, going out, grinned as he remembered the talk 
 at Quebec, and thought of the sport provided for the 
 Ninety-Nine when she should come up stream; as she 
 must in due time, for Tarboe's home was on the Isle of 
 Days, and was he not fond and proud of his daughter 
 Joan to a point of folly? He was not alone in his admira- 
 tion of Joan, for the cure" at Isle of Days said high things 
 of her. 
 
 Perhaps this was because she was unlike most other 
 girls, and women too, in that she had a sense of humour, 
 got from having mixed with choice spirits who visited 
 her father and carried out at Angel Point a kind of 
 freemasonry, which had few rites and many charges 
 and countercharges. She had that almost impossible 
 gift in a woman the power of telling a tale whimsically. 
 It was said that once, when Orvay Lafarge, a new In- 
 spector of Customs, came to spy out the land, she kept 
 him so amused by her quaint wit, that he sat in the door- 
 way gossiping with her, while Tarboe and two others 
 unloaded and safely hid away a cargo of liquors from 
 the Ninety-Nine. And one of the men, as cheerful as 
 Joan herself, undertook to carry a little keg of brandy 
 into the house, under the very nose of the young in- 
 spector, who had sought to mark his appointment by 
 the detection and arrest of Tarboe single-handed. He 
 had never met Tarboe or Tarboe's daughter when he 
 made his boast. If his superiors had known that Loce 
 Bissonnette, Tarboe's jovial lieutenant, had carried the 
 keg of brandy into the house in a water-pail, not fifteen 
 feet from where Lafarge sat with Joan, they might have
 
 270 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 asked for his resignation. True, the thing was cleverly 
 done, for Bissonnette made the water spill quite 
 naturally against his leg, and when he turned to Joan 
 and said in a crusty way that he didn't care if he spilled 
 all the water in the pail, he looked so like an unwilling 
 water-carrier that Joan for one little moment did not 
 guess. When she understood, she laughed till the tears 
 came to her eyes, and presently, because Lafarge seemed 
 hurt, gave him to understand that he was upon his 
 honour if she told him what it was. He consenting, she, 
 still laughing, asked him into the house, and then drew 
 the keg from the pail, before his eyes, and, tapping it, 
 gave him some liquor, which he accepted without churl- 
 ishness. He found nothing in this to lessen her in his 
 eyes, for he knew that women have no civic virtues. 
 
 He drank to their better acquaintance with few com- 
 punctions; a matter not scandalous, for there is nothing 
 like a witty woman to turn a man's head, and there 
 was not so much at stake after all. Tarboe had gone 
 on for many a year till his trade seemed like the ro- 
 mance of law rather than its breach. It is safe to say 
 that Lafarge was a less sincere if not a less blameless 
 customs officer from this tune forth. For humour on 
 a woman's lips is a potent thing, as any man knows 
 that has kissed it off in laughter. 
 
 As we said, Tarboe lay rocking in a bight at Anti- 
 costi, with an empty hold and a scanty larder. Still, he 
 was in no ill-humour, for he smoked much and talked 
 more than common. Perhaps that was because Joan 
 was with him an unusual thing. She was as good a 
 sailor as her father, but she did not care, nor did he, to 
 have her mixed up with him in his smuggling. So far 
 as she knew, she had never been on board the Ninety- 
 Nine when it carried a smuggled cargo. She had not
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 271 
 
 broken the letter of the law. Her father, on asking her 
 to come on this cruise, had said that it was a pleasure 
 trip to meet a vessel in the gulf. 
 
 The pleasure had not been remarkable, though there 
 had been no bad weather. The coast of Anticosti is 
 cheerless, and it is possible even to tire of sun and water. 
 True, Bissonnette played the concertina with passing 
 sweetness, and sang as little like a wicked smuggler as 
 one might think. But there were boundaries even to 
 that, as there were to his love-making, which was, how- 
 ever, so interwoven with laughter that it was impossible 
 to think the matter serious. Sometimes of an evening 
 Joan danced on deck to the music of the concertina 
 dances which had their origin largely with herself: 
 fantastic, touched off with some unexpected sleight of 
 foot almost uncanny at times to Bissonnette, whose 
 temperament could hardly go her distance when her 
 mood was as this. 
 
 Tarboe looked on with a keener eye and under- 
 standing, for was she not bone of his bone and flesh of 
 his flesh? Who was he that he should fail to know her? 
 He saw the moonlight play on her face and hair, and he 
 waved his head with the swaying of her body, and 
 smacked his lips in thought of the fortune which, 
 smuggling days over, would carry them up to St. Louis 
 Street, Quebec, there to dwell as hi a garden of good 
 things. 
 
 After many days had passed, Joan tired of the con- 
 certina, of her own dancing, of her father's tales, and 
 became inquisitive. So at last she said: 
 
 "Father, what's all this for?" 
 
 Tarboe did not answer her at once, but, turning to 
 Bissonnette, asked him to play "The Demoiselle with 
 the Scarlet Hose." It was a gay little demoiselle ac-
 
 272 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 cording to Bissonnette, and through the creaking, windy 
 gaiety Tarboe and his daughter could talk without being 
 heard by the musician. Tarboe lit another cigar that 
 badge of greatness hi the eyes of his fellow-habitants, 
 and said: 
 
 " What's all this for, Joan? Why, we're here for our 
 health." His teeth bit on the cigar with enjoyable 
 emphasis. 
 
 "If you don't tell me what's in the wind, you'll be 
 sorry. Come, where's the good? I've got as much head 
 as you have, father, and " 
 
 "MonDieu! Much more. That's not the question. 
 It was to be a surprise to you." 
 
 "Pshaw! You can only have one minute of surprise, 
 and you can have months of fun looking out for a thing. 
 I don't want surprises; I want what you've got the 
 thing that's kept you good-tempered while we he here 
 like snails on the rocks." 
 
 "Well, my cricket, if that's the way you feel, here 
 you are. It is a long story, but I will make it short. 
 Once there was a pirate called Brigond, and he brought 
 into a bay on the coast of Labrador a fortune in some 
 kegs gold, gold! He hid it in a cave, wrapping around 
 it the dead bodies of two men. It is thought that one 
 can never find it so. He hid it, and sailed away. He 
 was captured, and sent to prison in France for twenty 
 years. Then he come back with a crew and another 
 ship, and sailed into the bay, but his ship went down 
 within sight of the place. And so the end of him and 
 all. But wait. There was one man, the mate on the 
 first voyage. He had been put in prison also. He did 
 not get away as soon as Brigond. When he was free, 
 he come to the captain of a ship that I know, the Free- 
 and-Easy, that sails to Havre, and told him the story,
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 273 
 
 asking for passage to Quebec. The captain Gobal 
 did not believe it, but said he would bring him over on 
 the next voyage. Gobal come to me and told me all 
 there was to tell. I said that it was a true story, for 
 Pretty Pierre told me once he saw Brigond's ship go 
 down in the bay; but he would not say how, or why, or 
 where. Pierre would not lie in a thing like that, and 
 
 "Why didn't he get the gold himself?" 
 
 "What is money to him? He is as a gipsy. To him 
 the money is cursed. He said so. Eh bien! some wise 
 men are fools, one way or another. Well, I told Gobal 
 I would give the man the Ninety-Nine for the cruise 
 and search, and that we should divide the gold between 
 us, if it was found, taking out first enough to make a 
 dot for you and a fine handful for Bissonnette. But no, 
 shake not your head like that. It shall be so. Away 
 went Gobal four months ago, and I get a letter from 
 him weeks past, just after Pentecost, to say he would 
 be here some time in the first of July, with the man. 
 Well, it is a great game. The man is a pirate, but it 
 does not matter he has paid for that. I thought you 
 would be glad of a fine adventure like that, so I said 
 to you, Come." 
 
 "But, father" 
 
 "If you do not like you can go on with Gobal in the 
 Free-and-Easy, and you shall be landed at the Isle of 
 Days. That's all. We're waiting here for Gobal. He 
 promised to stop just outside this bay and land our 
 man on us. Then, blood of my heart, away we go after 
 the treasure!" 
 
 Joan's eyes flashed. Adventure was in her as deep 
 as life itself. She had been cradled in it, reared in it, 
 lived with it, and here was no law-breaking. Whose 
 money was it? No one's: for who should say what
 
 274 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 ship it was, or what people were robbed by Brigond and 
 those others? Gold that was a better game than wine 
 and brandy, and for once her father would be on a cruise 
 which would not be, as it were, sailing in forbidden 
 waters. 
 
 "When do you expect Gobal?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "He ought to have been here a week ago. Maybe 
 he has had a bad voyage, or something." 
 
 "He's sure to come?" 
 
 "Of course. I found out about that. She's got a big 
 consignment to people in Quebec. Something has gone 
 wrong, but she'll be here yes." 
 
 "What will you do if you get the money?" she asked. 
 
 Tarboe laughed heartily. "My faith! Come play 
 up those scarlet hose, Bissonnette! My faith, I'll go 
 into Parliament at Quebec. Thunder! I will have 
 sport with them. I'll reform the customs. There 
 shan't be any more smuggling. The people of Quebec 
 shall drink no more good wine no one except Black" 
 Tarboe, the member for Isle of Days." 
 
 Again he laughed, and his eyes spilt fire like revolv- 
 ing wheels. For a moment Joan was quiet; her face 
 was shining like the sun on a river. She saw more than 
 her father, for she saw release. A woman may stand 
 by a man who breaks the law, but in her heart she al- 
 ways has bitterness, for that the world shall speak well 
 of herself and what she loves is the secret desire of 
 every woman. In her heart she never can defy the 
 world as does a man. 
 
 She had carried off the situation as became the 
 daughter of a daring adventurer, who in more stirring 
 times might have been a Du Lhut or a Rob Roy, but 
 she was sometimes tired of the fighting, sometimes wish- 
 ful that she could hold her position easier. Suppose
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 275 
 
 the present good cure" should die and another less con- 
 siderate arrive, how hard might her position become! 
 Then, she had a spirit above her station, as have most 
 people who know the world and have seen something 
 of its forbidden side; for it is notable that wisdom comes 
 not alone from loving good things, but from having 
 seen evil as well as good. Besides Joan was not a woman 
 to go singly to her life's end. 
 
 There was scarcely a man on Isle of Days and in the 
 parish of Ste. Eunice, on the mainland, but would gladly 
 have taken to wife the daughter of Tarboe the smuggler, 
 and it is likely that the cure" of either parish would not 
 have advised against it. 
 
 Joan had had the taste of the lawless, and now she 
 knew, as she sat and listened to Bissonnette's music, 
 that she also could dance for joy, in the hope of a taste 
 of the lawful. With this money, if it were got, there 
 could be another life in Quebec. She could not for- 
 bear laughing now as she remembered that first day 
 she had seen Orvay Lafarge, and she said to Bisson- 
 nette: "Loce, do you mind the keg in the water-pail?" 
 Bissonnette paused on an out-pull, and threw back his 
 head with a soundless laugh, then played the concer- 
 tina into contortions. 
 
 "That Lafarge! H'm! He is very polite; but 
 pshaw, it is no use that, in whisky-running! To beat 
 a great man, a man must be great. Tarboe Nob- can 
 lead M'sieu' Lafarge all like that!" 
 
 It seemed as if he were pulling the nose of the con- 
 certina. Tarboe began tracing a kind of maze with his 
 fingers on the deck, his eyes rolling outward like an end- 
 less puzzle. But presently he turned sharp on Joan. 
 
 "How many tunes have you met him?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, six or seven eight or nine, perhaps."
 
 276 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Her father stared. "Eight or nine? By the holy! 
 Is it like that? Where have you seen him? " 
 
 " Twice at our home, as you know; two or three 
 times at dances at the Belle Chatelaine, and the rest 
 when we were at Quebec in May. He is amusing, 
 M'sieu' Lafarge." 
 
 "Yes, two of a kind," remarked Tarboe drily; and 
 then he told his schemes to Joan, letting Bissonnette 
 hang up the "The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose," 
 and begin "The Coming of the Gay Cavalier." She 
 entered into his plans with spirit, and together they 
 speculated what bay it might be, of the many on the 
 coast of Labrador. 
 
 They spent two days longer waiting, and then at 
 dawn a merchantman came sauntering up to anchor. 
 She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. In five minutes Tar- 
 boe was climbing up the side of the Free-and-Easy, and 
 presently was in Gobal's cabin, with a glass of wine in 
 his hand. 
 
 "What kept you, Gobal?" he asked. "You're ten 
 days late, at least." 
 
 "Storm and sickness broken mainmast and small- 
 pox." Gobal was not cheerful. 
 
 Tarboe caught at something. "You've got our man? " 
 
 Gobal drank off his wine slowly. "Yes," he said. 
 
 "Well? Why don't you fetch him?" 
 
 "You can see him below." 
 
 "The man has legs, let him walk here. Hello, my 
 Gobal, what's the matter? If he's here bring him up. 
 We've no tune to lose." 
 
 "Tarboe, the fool got smallpox, and died three hours 
 ago the tenth man since we started. We're going to 
 give him to the fishes. They're putting him in his linen 
 now."
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE" 277 
 
 Tarboe's face hardened. Disaster did not dismay 
 him, it either made him ugly or humourous, and one 
 phase was as dangerous as the other. 
 
 "D'ye mean to say," he groaned, "that the game is 
 up? Is it all finished? Sweat o' my soul, my skin crawls 
 like hot glass! Is it the end, eh? The beast, to die!" 
 
 GobaFs eyes glistened. He had sent up the mercury, 
 he would now bring it down. 
 
 "Not such a beast as you think. A live pirate, a con- 
 vict, as comrade in adventure, is not sugar in the teeth. 
 This one was no better than the worst. Well, he died. 
 That was awkward. But he gave me the chart of the 
 bay before he died and that was damn square." 
 
 Tarboe held out his hand eagerly, the big fingers 
 bending claw-like. 
 
 "Give it me, Gobal," he said. 
 
 "Wait. There's no hurry. Come along, there's the 
 bell: they're going to drop him." 
 
 He coolly motioned, and passed out from the cabin 
 to the ship's side. Tarboe kept his tongue from blas- 
 phemy, and his hand from the captain's shoulder, for 
 he knew only too well that Gobal held the game in his 
 hands. They leaned over and saw two sailors with 
 something on a plank. 
 
 "We therefore commit his body to the deep, in the 
 knowledge of the Judgment Day let her go!" grunted 
 Gobal; and a long straight canvas bundle shot with a 
 swishing sound beneath the water. "It was rough on 
 him too," he continued. "He waited twenty years to 
 have his chance again. Damn me, if I didn't feel as if 
 I'd hit him in the eye, somehow, when he begged me to 
 keep him alive long enough to have a look at the rhino. 
 But it wasn't no use. He had to go, and I told him so. 
 Then he did the fine thing : he give me the chart. But
 
 278 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 he made me swear on a book of the Mass that if we got 
 the gold we'd send one-half his share to a woman in 
 Paris, and the rest to his brother, a priest at Nancy. I'll 
 keep my word but yes! Eh, Tarboe?" 
 
 "You can keep your word for me! What, you think, 
 Gobal, there is no honour in Black Tarboe, and you've 
 known me ten years! Haven't I always kept my word 
 like a clock?" 
 
 Gobal stretched out his hand. "Like the sun sure. 
 That's enough. We'll stand by my oath. You shall 
 see the chart." 
 
 Going again inside the cabin, Gobal took out a map 
 grimed with ceaseless fingering, and showed it to Tar- 
 boe, putting his finger on the spot where the treasure 
 lay. 
 
 "The Bay of Belle Amour!" cried Tarboe, his eyes 
 flashing. "Ah, I know it! That's where Gaspard the 
 pilot lived. It's only forty leagues or so from here." 
 His fingers ran here and there on the map. "Yes, yes," 
 he continued, "it's so, but he hasn't placed the reef 
 right. Ah, here is how Brigond's ship went down! 
 There's a needle of rock in the bay. It isn't here." 
 
 Gobal handed the chart over. "I can't go with you, 
 but I take your word; I can say no more. If you cheat 
 me I'll kill you; that's all." 
 
 "Let me give a bond," said Tarboe quickly. "If I 
 saw much gold perhaps I couldn't trust myself, but 
 there's someone to be trusted, who'll swear for me. If 
 my daughter Joan give her word " 
 
 "Is she with you?" 
 
 "Yes, in the Ninety-Nine, now. I'll send Bissonnette 
 for her. Yes, yes, I'll send, for gold is worse than bad 
 whisky when it gets into a man's head. Joan will speak 
 for me."
 
 CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" 279 
 
 Ten minutes later Joan was in Gobal's cabin, 
 guaranteeing for her father the fulfilment of his bond. 
 An hour afterwards the Free-and-Easy was moving up 
 stream with her splintered mast and ragged sails, and 
 the Ninety-Nine was looking up and over towards the 
 Bay of Belle Amour. She reached it in the late after- 
 noon of the next day. Bissonnette did not know the 
 object of the expedition, but he had caught the spirit of 
 the affair, and his eyes were like spots of steel as he 
 held the sheet or took his turn at the tiller. Joan's 
 eyes were now on the sky, now on the sail, and now on 
 the land, weighing as wisely as her father the advantage 
 of the wind, yet dwelling on that cave where skeletons 
 kept ward over the spoils of a pirate ship. 
 
 They arrived, and Tarboe took the Ninety-Nine 
 warily in on a little wind off the land. He came near 
 sharing the fate of Brigond, for the yawl grazed the 
 needle of the rock that, hiding away in the water, with 
 a nose out for destruction, awaits its victims. They 
 reached safe anchorage, but by the tune they landed 
 it was night, with, however, a good moon showing. 
 
 All night they searched, three silent, eager figures, 
 drawing step by step nearer the place where the ancient 
 enemy of man was barracked about by men's bodies. 
 It was Joan who, at last, as dawn drew up, discovered 
 the hollow between two great rocks where the treasure 
 lay. A few minutes' fierce digging, and the kegs of gold 
 were disclosed, showing through the ribs of two skele- 
 tons. Joan shrank back, but the two men tossed aside 
 the rattling bones, and presently the kegs were standing 
 between them on the open shore. Bissonnette's eyes 
 were hungry he knew now the wherefore of the quest. 
 He laughed outright, a silly, loud, hysterical laugh. Tar- 
 boe's eyes shifted from the sky to the river, from the
 
 280 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 river to the kegs, from the kegs to Bissonnette. On him 
 they stayed a moment. Bissonnette shrank back. Tar- 
 boe.was feeling for the first tune in his life the deadly 
 suspicion which comes with ill-gotten wealth. This 
 passed as his eyes and Joan's met, for she had caught 
 the melodrama, the overstrain; Bissonnette's laugh had 
 pointed the situation; and her sense of humour had 
 prevailed. "La, la," she said, with a whimsical quirk 
 of the head, and no apparent relevancy: 
 
 " Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, 
 Your house is on fire, and your children all gone." 
 
 The remedy was good. Tarboe's eyes came again to 
 their natural liveliness, and Bissonnette said: 
 
 "My throat's like a piece of sand-paper." 
 
 Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after taking a 
 pull himself, and then sitting down on one of the kegs, 
 he said: "It is as you see, and now Angel Point very 
 quick. To get it there safe, that's the thing!" Then, 
 scanning the sky closely: "It's for a handsome day, and 
 the wind goes to bear us up fine. Good ! Well, for you, 
 Bissonnette, there shall be a thousand dollars, you shall 
 have the Belle Chatelaine Inn and the little lady at 
 Point Pierrot. For the rest, you shall keep a quiet 
 tongue, eh? If not, my Bissonnette, we shall be the 
 best of strangers, and you shall not be happy. Hein?" 
 
 Bissonnette's eyes flashed. "The Belle Chatelaine? 
 Good! That is enough. My tongue is tied; I cannot 
 speak; it is fastened with a thousand pegs." 
 
 "Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you shall 
 never pull them. The little lady will have you with 
 them, not without; and unless you stand by me, no 
 one shall have you at any price by God!" 
 
 He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. "You have
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE" 281 
 
 been speaking, now it is my turn. Don't cry cook till 
 you have the venison home. What is more, I gave my 
 word to Gobal, and I will keep it. I will be captain. No 
 talking! When you've got the kegs in the cellar at 
 Angel Point, good! But now come, my comrades, I 
 am your captain!" 
 
 She was making the thing a cheerful adventure, and 
 the men now swung the kegs on their shoulders and 
 carried them to the boat. In another half-hour they 
 were under way in the gaudy light of an orange sunrise, 
 a simmering wind from the sea lifting them up the river, 
 and the grey-red coast of Labrador shrinking sullenly 
 back. 
 
 About this tune, also, a Government cutter was put- 
 ting out from under the mountain-wall at Quebec, its 
 officer in command having got renewed orders from the 
 Minister to bring in Tarboe the smuggler. And when 
 Mr. Martin, the inspector in command of the expedition, 
 was ordered to take with him Mr. Orvay Lafarge and 
 five men, "effectively armed," it was supposed by the 
 romantic Minister that the matter was as good as 
 done. 
 
 What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the word, 
 was to go straight to his hat-peg, then leave the office, 
 walk to the little club where he spent leisure hours, 
 called office hours by people who wished to be precise 
 as well as suggestive, sit down, and raise a glass to his 
 lips. After which he threw himself back in his chair and 
 said: "Well, I'm particularly damned!" A few hours 
 later they were away on their doubtful exploit.
 
 282 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 II. THE DEFENCE 
 
 ON the afternoon of the second day after she left Lab- 
 rador, the Ninety-Nine came rippling near Isle of Fires, 
 not sixty miles from her destination, catching a fair 
 wind on her quarter off the land. Tarboe was in fine 
 spirits, Joan was as full of songs as a canary, and Bis- 
 sonnette was as busy watching her as in keeping the 
 nose of the Ninety-Nine pointing for Cap de Gloire. 
 Tarboe was giving the sail full to the wind, and 
 thinking how he would just be able to reach Angel 
 Point and get his treasure housed before mass in the 
 morning. 
 
 Mass! How many times had he laughed as he sat 
 in church and heard the cure" have his gentle fling at 
 smuggling ! To think that the hiding-place for his liquor 
 was the unused, almost unknown, cellar of that very 
 church, built a hundred years before as a refuge from 
 the Indians, which he had reached by digging a tunnel 
 from the shore to its secret passage! That was why the 
 customs officers never found anything at Angel Point, 
 and that was why Tarboe much loved going to mass. 
 He sometimes thought he could catch the flavour of the 
 brands as he leaned his forehead on the seat before him. 
 But this tune he would go to mass with a fine handful 
 of those gold pieces in his pocket, just to keep him in 
 a commendable mood. He laughed out loud at the 
 thought of doing so within a stone's throw of a fortune 
 and nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy. 
 
 As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. They 
 were coming on to Cap de Gloire at the moment, and 
 Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a boat standing off 
 towards the mainland, as <if waiting for them. Tarboe
 
 CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" 283 
 
 gave a roar, and called to Joan to take the tiller. He 
 snatched a glass and levelled it. 
 
 "A Government tug!" he said, "and tete de Didble! 
 there's your tall Lafarge among 'em, Joan! I'd know 
 him by his height miles off." 
 
 Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. 
 "Pshaw," she said, "what does he want?" 
 
 "Want? Want? He wants the Ninety-Nine and 
 her cargo ; but by the sun of my soul, he'll get her across 
 the devil's gridiron! See here, my girl, this ain't any 
 sport with you aboard. Bissonnette and I could make a 
 stand for it alone, but what's to become of you? I 
 don't want you mixed up in the mess." 
 
 The girl was eyeing the Government boat. "But 
 I'm in it, and I can't be out of it, and I don't want to be 
 out now that I am in. Let me see the glass." She took 
 it in one hand. "Yes, it must be M'sieu' Lafarge," she 
 said, frowning. "He might have stayed out of this." 
 
 "When he's got orders, he has to go," answered her 
 father; "but he must look out, for a gun is a gun, and 
 I don't pick and choose. Besides, I've no contraband 
 this cruise, and I'll let no one stick me up." 
 
 "There are six or seven of them," said Joan debat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Bring her up to the wind," shouted Tarboe to Bis- 
 sonnette. The mainsail closed up several points, the 
 Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and edged in closer to 
 the land. "Now, my girl," said Tarboe, "this is how it 
 stands. If we fight, there's someone sure to be hurt, and 
 if I'm hurt, where'll you be?" 
 
 Bissonnette interposed. "We've got nothing con- 
 traband. The gold is ours." 
 
 "Trust that crew but no!" cried Tarboe, with an 
 oath. "The Government would hold the rhino for
 
 284 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 possible owners, and then give it to a convent or 
 something. They shan't put foot here. They've said 
 war, and they'll get it. They're signalling us to stop, 
 and they're bearing down. There goes a shot!" 
 
 The girl had been watching the Government boat 
 coolly. Now that it began to bear on, she answered her 
 father's question. 
 
 "Captain," she said, like a trusted mate, "we'll bluff 
 them." Her eyes flashed with the intelligence of war. 
 "Here, quick, I'll take the tiller. They haven't seen 
 Bissonnette yet; he sits low. Call all hands on deck- 
 shout! Then, see: Loce will go down the middle hatch, 
 get a gun, come up with it on his shoulder, and move on 
 to the fo'castle. Then he'll drop down the fo'castle 
 hatch, get along to the middle hatch, and come up again 
 with the gun, now with his cap, now without it, now 
 with his coat, now without it. He'll do that till we've 
 got twenty or thirty men on deck! They'll think we've 
 been laying for them, and they'll not come on you 
 see!" 
 
 Tarboe ripped out an oath. "It's a great game," he 
 said, and a moment afterwards, in response to his roars, 
 Bissonnette came up the hatch with his gun showing 
 bravely; then again and again, now with his cap, now 
 without, now with his coat, now with none, anon with 
 a tarpaulin over his shoulders grotesquely. Mean- 
 while Tarboe trained his one solitary little cannon on 
 the enemy, roaring his men into place. 
 
 From the tug it seemed that a large and well-armed 
 crew were ranging behind the bulwarks of the Ninety- 
 Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector, saw with alarm Bis- 
 sonnette's constantly appearing rifle. 
 
 "They've arranged a plant for us, Mr. Lafarge. 
 What do you think we'd better do?" he asked.
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 285 
 
 " Fight!" answered Lafarge laconically. He wished 
 to put himself on record, for he was the only one on 
 board who saw through the ruse. 
 
 "But I've counted at least twenty men, all armed, and 
 we've only five." 
 
 "As you please, sir," said Lafarge bluntly, angry at 
 being tricked, but inwardly glad to be free of the busi- 
 ness, for he pictured to himself that girl at the tiller- 
 he had seen her as she went aft in a police court at 
 Quebec. Yet his instinct for war and his sense of duty 
 impelled him to say: "Still, sir, fight!" 
 
 "No, no, Mr. Lafarge," excitedly rejoined his chief. 
 "I cannot risk it. We must go back for more men 
 and bring along a Catling. Slow down!" he called. 
 
 Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and stood 
 watching the Ninety-Nine. 
 
 "She'll laugh at me till I die!" he said to himself pres- 
 ently, as the tug turned up stream and pointed for 
 Quebec. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he added, as a cannon 
 shot came ringing over the water after them. He was 
 certain also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt 
 he was right; for as the tug hurried on, Tarboe ran to 
 Joan, hugged her like a bear, and roared till he ached. 
 Then she paid out the sheet, they clapped on all sail, 
 and travelled in the track of the enemy. 
 
 Tarboe's spirit was roused. He was not disposed to 
 let his enemy off on even such terms, so he now turned 
 to Joan and said: "What say you to a chase of the 
 gentleman?" 
 
 Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil adventure. 
 For three people, one of whom was a girl, to give chase 
 to a well-manned, well-armed Government boat was 
 too good a relish to be missed. Then, too, it had just 
 occurred to her that a parley would be amusing, par-
 
 286 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 ticularly if she and Lafarge were the truce-bearers. So 
 she said: "That is very good." 
 
 "Suppose they should turn and fight?" suggested 
 Bissonnette. 
 
 "That's true here's m'am'selle," agreed Tarboe. 
 
 "But, see," said Joan. "If we chase them and call 
 upon them to surrender and after all, we can prove 
 that we had nothing contraband what a splendid 
 game it'll be!" Mischief flicked in her eyes. 
 
 "Good!" said Tarboe. "To-morrow I shall be a rich 
 man, and then they'll not dare to come again." 
 
 So saying, he gave the sail to the wind, and away the 
 Ninety-Nine went after the one ewe lamb of the Gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word for all 
 steam. It would be a pretty game, for the wind was in 
 Tarboe's favour, and the general advantage was not 
 greatly with the tug. Mr. Martin was now anxious 
 indeed to get out of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge 
 made one restraining effort, then settled into an ironical 
 mood. Yet a half-dozen times he was inclined to blurt 
 out to Martin what he believed was the truth. A man, 
 a boy, and a girl to bluff them that way! In his bones 
 he felt that it was the girl who was behind this thing. 
 Of one matter he was sure they had no contraband 
 stuff on board, or Tarboe would not have brought his 
 daughter along. He could not understand the attitude, 
 for Tarboe would scarcely have risked the thing out of 
 mere bravado. Why not call a truce? Perhaps he 
 could solve the problem. They were keeping a tolera- 
 bly safe distance apart, and there was no great danger 
 of the Ninety-Nine overhauling them even if it so willed; 
 but Mr. Martin did not know that. 
 
 What he said to his chief had its effect, and soon
 
 CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" 287 
 
 there was a white flag flying on the tug. It was at once 
 answered with a white handkerchief of Joan's. Then 
 the tug slowed up, the Ninety-Nine came on gaily, and 
 at a good distance came up to the wind, and stood off. 
 
 "What do you want?" asked Tarboe through his 
 speaking-tube. 
 
 "A parley," called Mr. Martin. 
 
 "Good; send an officer," answered Tarboe. 
 
 A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat rowing over 
 to meet another boat rowed by Joan alone, who, 
 dressed in a suit of Bissonnette's, had prevailed on her 
 father to let her go. 
 
 The two boats nearing each other, Joan stood up, 
 saluting, and Lafarge did the same. 
 
 "Good-day, m'sieu'," said Joan, with assumed 
 brusqueness, mischief lurking about her mouth. ' ' What 
 do you want?" 
 
 "Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to confer 
 with you." 
 
 "M'sieu'," said Joan, with well-acted dignity, "if 
 you prefer to confer with the captain or Mr. Bisson- 
 nette, whom I believe you know in the matter of a pail, 
 and" 
 
 "No, no; pardon me, monsieur," said Lafarge more 
 eagerly than was good for the play, "I am glad to 
 confer with you, you will understand you will under- 
 stand He paused. 
 
 "What will I understand?" 
 
 "You will understand that I understand!" Lafarge 
 waved meaningly towards the Ninety-Nine, but it had 
 no effect at all. Joan would not give the game over into 
 his hands. 
 
 "That sounds like a charade or a puzzle game. We 
 are gentlemen on a serious errand, aren't we?"
 
 288 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Yes," answered Lafarge, "perfect gentlemen on a 
 perfectly serious errand!" 
 
 "Very well, m'sieu'. Have you come to surrender?" 
 
 The splendid impudence of the thing stunned La- 
 farge, but he said: "I suppose one or the other ought to 
 surrender; and naturally," he added with slow point, 
 "it should be the weaker." 
 
 "Very well. Our captain is willing to consider condi- 
 tions. You came down on us to take us a quiet craft 
 sailing in free waters. You attack us without cause. 
 We summon all hands, and you run. We follow, you 
 ask for truce. It is granted. We are not hard no. 
 We only want our rights. Admit them; we'll make 
 surrender easy, and the matter is over." 
 
 Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. She would 
 not understand his oblique suggestions. He saw only 
 one way now, and that was to meet her, boast for boast. 
 
 "I haven't come to surrender," he said, "but to de- 
 mand." 
 
 "M'sieu'," Joan said grandly, "there's nothing more 
 to say. Carry word to your captain that we'll overhaul 
 hun by sundown, and sink him before supper." 
 
 Lafarge burst out laughing. 
 
 "Well, by the Lord, but you're a swashbuckler, 
 Joan " 
 
 "M'sieu' " 
 
 "Oh, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let's have 
 over with this, my girl. You're the cleverest woman on 
 the continent, but there's a limit to everything. Here, 
 tell me now, and if you answer me straight I'll say no 
 
 more." 
 
 "M'sieu', I am here to consider conditions, not to " 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake, Joan! Tell me now, have you 
 
 got anything contraband on board? There'll be a nasty
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 289 
 
 mess about the thing, for me and all of us, and why 
 can't we compromise? I tell you honestly we'd have 
 come on, if I hadn't seen you aboard." 
 
 Joan turned her head back with a laugh. "My poor 
 m'sieu'! You have such bad luck. Contraband? Let 
 me see? Liquors and wines and tobacco are contra- 
 band. Is it not so?" Lafarge nodded. 
 
 "Is money gold contraband?" 
 
 "Money? No; of course not, and you know it. 
 Why won't you be sensible? You're getting me into 
 a bad hole, and 
 
 "I want to see how you'll come out. If you come 
 out well She paused quaintly. 
 
 "Yes, if I come out well " 
 
 "If you come out very well, and we do not sink you 
 before supper, I may ask you to come and see me." 
 
 "H'm! Is that all? After spoiling my reputation, 
 I'm to be let come and see you." 
 
 "Isn't that enough to start with? What has spoiled 
 your reputation?" 
 
 "A man, a boy, and a slip of a girl." He looked 
 meaningly enough at her now. She laughed. "See," 
 he added; "give me a chance. Let me search the 
 Ninety-Nine for contraband, that's all I've got to do 
 with, and then I can keep quiet about the rest. If 
 there's no contraband, whatever else there is, I'll hold 
 my tongue." 
 
 "I've told you what there is." 
 
 He did not understand. "Will you let me search?" 
 
 Joan's eyes flashed. "Once and for all, no, Orvay 
 Lafarge. I am the daughter of a man whom you and 
 your men would have killed or put in the dock. He's 
 been a smuggler, and I know it. Who has he robbed? 
 Not the poor, not the needy; but a rich Government
 
 290 
 
 that robs also. Well, in the hour when he ceases to be 
 a smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. Why 
 didn't they do so before? Why so pious all at once? 
 No; I am first the daughter of my father, and after- 
 wards 
 
 " And afterwards?" 
 
 "What to-morrow may bring forth." 
 
 Lafarge became very serious. " I must go back. Mr. 
 Martin is signalling, and your father is calling. I do 
 not understand, but you're the one woman in the world 
 for my money, and I'm ready to stand by that and leave 
 the customs to-morrow if need be." 
 
 Joan's eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. " Leave it 
 to-day. Leave it now. Yes; that's my one condition. 
 If you want me, and you say you do, come aboard the 
 Ninety-Nine, and for to-day be one of us to-morrow 
 what you will." 
 
 "What I will? What I will, Joan? Do you mean it? " 
 
 "Yes. Pshaw! Your duty? Don't I know how the 
 Ministers and the officers have done then 1 duty at Que- 
 bec? It's all nonsense. You must make your choice 
 once for all now." 
 
 Lafarge stood a moment thinking. "Joan, I'll do it. 
 I'd go hunting in hell at your bidding. But see. Every- 
 thing's changed. I couldn't fight against you, but I 
 can fight for you. All must be open now. You've said 
 there's no contraband. Well, I'll tell Mr. Martin so, 
 but I'll tell him also that you've only a crew of two " 
 
 "Of three, now!" 
 
 "Of three! I will do my duty in that, then resign 
 and come over to you, if I can." 
 
 "If you can? You mean that they may fire on you? " 
 
 "I can't tell what they may do. But I must deal 
 fair."
 
 CRUISE OF THE " NINETY-NINE " 291 
 
 Joan's face was grave. "Very well, I will wait for 
 you here." 
 
 "They might hit you." 
 
 "But no. They can't hit a wall. Go on, my dear." 
 
 They saluted, and, as Lafarge turned away, Joan 
 said, with a little mocking laugh, "Tell him that he 
 must surrender, or we'll sink him before supper." 
 
 Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly towards the 
 tug. His interview with Mr. Martin was brief, and he 
 had tendered his resignation, though it was disgrace- 
 fully informal, and was over the side of the boat again 
 and rowing quickly away before his chief recovered his 
 breath. Then Mr. Martin got a large courage. He 
 called on his men to fire when Lafarge was about two 
 hundred and fifty feet from the tug. The shots rattled 
 about him. He turned round coolly and called out, 
 "Coward we'll sink you before supper!" 
 
 A minute afterwards there came another shot, and 
 an oar dropped from his hand. But now Joan was row- 
 ing rapidly towards him, and presently was alongside. 
 
 "Quick, jump in here," she said. He did so, and she 
 rowed on quickly. Tarboe did not understand, but now 
 his blood was up, and as another volley sent bullets 
 dropping around the two he gave the Ninety-Nine to 
 the wind, and she came bearing down smartly to them. 
 In a few moments they were safely on board, and Joan 
 explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge's unmaimed hand, 
 the other Joan was caring for, and swore that fight- 
 ing was the only thing left now. 
 
 Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he saw the 
 Ninety-Nine determined, menacing, and coming on, he 
 became again uncertain, and presently gave orders to 
 make for the lighthouse on the opposite side of the 
 river. He could get over first, for the Ninety-Nine
 
 292 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 would not have the wind so much in her favour, and 
 there entrench himself; for even yet Bissonnette amply 
 multiplied was in his mind Lafarge had not explained 
 that away. He was in the neighbourhood of some 
 sunken rocks of which he and his man at the wheel 
 did not know accurately, and in making what he thought 
 was a clear channel he took a rock with great force, for 
 they were going full steam ahead. Then came confu- 
 sion, and in getting out the one boat it was swamped 
 and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the *tug was 
 fast sinking. 
 
 While they were throwing off their clothes, the 
 Ninety-Nine came down, and stood off. On one hand 
 was the enemy, on the other the water, with the shore 
 half a mile distant. 
 
 "Do you surrender?" called out Tarboe. 
 
 "Can't we come aboard without that?" feebly urged 
 Mr. Martin. 
 
 "I'll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. Come quick, 
 or I'll give you what for." 
 
 "We surrender," answered the officer gently. 
 
 A few minutes later he and his men were on board, 
 with their rifles stacked in a corner at Bissonnette's 
 hand. 
 
 Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close to the 
 wreck, and with his little cannon put a ball into her. 
 This was the finish. She shook her nose, shivered, shot 
 down like a duck, and was gone. 
 
 Mr. Martin was sad even to tears. 
 
 "Now, my beauties," said Tarboe, "now that I've 
 got you safe, I'll show you the kind of cargo I've got." 
 
 A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on deck. 
 "Think that's whisky?" he asked. "Lift it, Mr. 
 Martin." Mr. Martin obeyed. "Shake it," he added.
 
 CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" 293 
 
 Mr. Martin did so. "Open it, Mr. Martin." He held 
 out a hatchet-hammer. The next moment a mass of 
 gold pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin fell 
 back, breathing hard. 
 
 "Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?" 
 
 "Treasure-trove," humbly answered the stricken 
 officer. 
 
 "That's it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I'll be asking 
 the chief of your department to dinner." 
 
 Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been to 
 losing a wife and a fortune. Arrived off Isle of Days, 
 Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men that if they said 
 "treasure- trove" till they left the island their lives 
 would not be worth "a tinker's damn." When they 
 had sworn, he took them to Angel Point, fed them 
 royally, gave them excellent liquor to drink, and sent 
 them hi a fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec, 
 where, arriving, they told strange tales. 
 
 Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker in Que- 
 bec, who already had done business with Tarboe, and 
 next midnight Tarboe himself, with Gobal, Lafarge, 
 Bissonnette, and another, came knocking at the 
 banker's door, each carrying a keg on his shoulder, 
 and armed to the teeth. And, what was singular, 
 two stalwart police-officers walked behind with com- 
 fortable and approving looks. 
 
 A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were married 
 in the parish church at Isle of Days, and it was said 
 that Mr. Martin, who, for some strange reason, was 
 allowed to retain his position in the customs, sent a pres- 
 ent. The wedding ended with a sensation, for just as 
 the benediction was pronounced a loud report was heard 
 beneath the floor of the church. There was great com- 
 motion, but Tarboe whispered in the curb's ear, and he,
 
 294 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 blushing, announced that it was the bursting of a 
 barrel. A few minutes afterwards the people of the 
 parish knew the old hiding-place of Tarboe's contra- 
 band, and, though the cure* rebuked them, they roared 
 with laughter at the knowledge. 
 
 "So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there!" they shouted, 
 for already they began to look upon him as their 
 Seigneur. 
 
 In time the cure forgave him also. 
 
 Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when he went to 
 visit his daughter, in St. Louis Street, Quebec, not far 
 from the Parliament House, where Orvay Lafarge is a 
 member of the Ministry. The ex-smuggler was a mem- 
 ber of the Assembly for three months, but after defeat- 
 ing his own party on a question of tariff, he gave a por- 
 trait of himself to the Chamber, and threw his seat 
 into the hands of his son-in-law. At the Belle Chate- 
 laine, where he often goes, he sometimes asks Bisson- 
 nette to play "The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose."
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 WHEN old Throng the trader, trembling with sickness 
 and misery, got on his knees to Captain Halby and 
 groaned, "She didn't want to go; they dragged her 
 off; you'll fetch her back, won't ye? she always had 
 a fancy for you, cap'n," Pierre shrugged a shoulder and 
 said: 
 
 "But you stole her when she was in her rock-a-by, 
 my Throng you and your Manette." 
 
 "Like a match she was no bigger," continued the 
 old man. "Lord, how that stepmother bully-ragged her, 
 and her father didn't care a darn. He'd half a dozen 
 others Manette and me hadn't none. We took her 
 and used her like as if she was an angel, and we brought 
 her off up here. Haven't we set store by her? Wasn't 
 it 'cause we was lonely an' loved her we took her? 
 Hasn't everybody stood up and said there wasn't any- 
 one like her in the North? Ain't I done fair by her 
 always ain't I? An' now, when this cough 's eatin' 
 my life out, and Manette 's gone, and there ain't a soul 
 but Due the trapper to put a blister on to me, them 
 brutes ride up from over the border, call theirselves 
 her brothers, an' drag her off!" 
 
 He was still on his knees. Pierre reached over and 
 lightly kicked a moccasined foot. 
 
 "Get up, Jim Throng," he said. "Holy! do you 
 think the law moves because an old man cries? Is it 
 
 295
 
 296 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 in the statutes? that's what the law says. Does it 
 come within the act? Is it a trespass an assault and 
 battery? a breach of the peace? a misdemeanour? 
 Victoria So and So: that's how the law talks. Get 
 on your knees to Father Corraine, not to Captain Halby, 
 Jimmy Throng." 
 
 Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, for be- 
 tween him and Captain Halby 's Riders of the Plains 
 there was no good feeling. More than once he had come 
 into conflict with them, more than once had they laid 
 their hands on him and taken them off again in due 
 time. He had foiled them as to men they wanted; he 
 had defied them but he had helped them too, when it 
 seemed right to him; he had sided with them once or 
 twice when to do so was perilous to himself. He had 
 sneered at them, he did not like them, nor they him. 
 The sum of it was, he thought them brave and stupid; 
 and he knew that the law erred as often as it set things 
 right. 
 
 The Trader got up and stood between the two men, 
 coughing much, his face straining, his eyes bloodshot, 
 as he looked anxiously from Pierre to Halby. He was 
 the sad wreck of a strong man. Nothing looked strong 
 about him now save his head, which, with its long grey 
 hair, seemed badly balanced by the thin neck, through 
 which the terrible cough was hacking. 
 
 "Only half a lung left," he stammered, as soon as he 
 could speak, "an' Due can't fix the boneset, camomile, 
 and whisky, as she could. An' he waters the whisky- 
 curse his soul!" The last three words were spoken 
 through another spasm of coughing. "An' the blister- 
 how he mucks the blister!" 
 
 Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noiselessly, his 
 white teeth shining. Halby, with one foot on a bench,
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 297 
 
 was picking at the fur on his sleeve thoughtfully. 
 His face was a little drawn, his lips were tight-pressed, 
 and his eyes had a light of excitement. Presently he 
 straightened himself, and, after a half-malicious look at 
 Pierre, he said to Throng: 
 
 "Where are they, do you say?" 
 
 " They 're at" the old man coughed hard "at Fort 
 O'Battle." 
 
 "What are they doing there?" 
 
 "Waitin' till spring, when they'll fetch their cattle 
 up an' settle there." 
 
 "They want Lydia to keep house for them?" 
 
 The old man writhed. 
 
 "Yes, God's sake, that's it! An' they want Liddy 
 to marry a devil called Borotte, with a thousand cattle 
 or so Pito the courier told me yesterday. Pito saw 
 her, an' he said she was white like a sheet, an' called 
 out to him as he went by. Only half a lung I got, an' 
 her boneset and camomile 'd save it for a bit, mebbe 
 mebbe!" 
 
 "It's clear," said Halby, "that they trespassed, and 
 they haven't proved then 1 right to her." 
 
 "Tonnerre, what a thinker!" said Pierre, mocking. 
 
 Halby did not notice. His was a solid sense of re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 "She is of age? " he half asked, half mused. 
 
 "She's twenty-one," answered the old man, with 
 difficulty. 
 
 "Old enough to set the world right," suggested Pierre, 
 still mocking. 
 
 "She was forced away, she regarded you as her nat- 
 ural protector, she believed you her father: they broke 
 the law," said the soldier. 
 
 "There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, and
 
 298 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Socrates, and now . . . I" murmured Pierre in assumed 
 abstraction. 
 
 A red spot burned on Halby's high cheekbone for a 
 minute, but he persistently kept his temper. 
 
 "I'm expected elsewhere," he said at last. "I'm 
 only one man, yet I wish I could go to-day even alone. 
 But" 
 
 "But you have a heart," said Pierre. " How wonder- 
 ful a heart! And there's the half a lung, and the 
 boneset and camomile tea, and the blister, and the girl 
 with an eye like a spot of rainbow, and the sacred law 
 in a Remington rifle! Well, well! And to do it in the 
 early morning to wait in the shelter of the trees till 
 some go to look after the horses, then enter the house, 
 arrest those inside, and lay low for the rest." 
 
 Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. Here was 
 raillery and good advice all in a piece. 
 
 "It isn't wise to go alone, for if there's trouble and 
 I should go down, who's to tell the truth? Two could 
 do it; but one no, it isn't wise, though it would look 
 smart enough." 
 
 "Who said to go alone?" asked Pierre, scrawling on 
 the table with a burnt match. 
 
 "I have no men." 
 
 Pierre looked up at the wall. 
 
 "Throng has a good Snider there," he said. 
 
 "Bosh! Throng can't go." 
 
 The old man coughed and strained. 
 
 "If it wasn't only half a lung, and I could carry 
 the boneset 'long with us." 
 
 Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, 
 taking him by the arms, pushed him gently into a chair. 
 
 "Sit down; don't be a fool, Throng," he said. Then 
 he turned to Halby: "You're a magistrate make me a
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 299 
 
 special constable; I'll go, monsieur le capitaine of no 
 company." 
 
 Halby stared. He knew Pierre's bravery, his in- 
 genuity and daring. But this was the last thing he 
 expected: that the malicious, railing little half-breed 
 would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to 
 understand his thoughts, for he said: "It is not for 
 you. I am sick for adventure, and then there is made- 
 moiselle such a finger she has for a ven'son pudding." 
 
 Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his note- 
 book, and presently handed the slip to Pierre. " That's 
 your commission as a special constable," he said, "and 
 here's the seal on it." He handed over a pistol. 
 
 Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued : 
 "It has the Government mark. But you'd better bring 
 Throng's rifle too." 
 
 Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nerv- 
 ously shifting on his knees. "Tell Liddy," he said, 
 "that the last batch of bread was sour Due ain't no 
 good an' that I ain't had no relish sence she left. Tell 
 her the cough gits lower down all the time. 'Member 
 when she tended that felon o' yourn, Pierre?" 
 
 Pierre looked at a scar on his finger and nodded. 
 "She cut it too young; but she had the nerve! When 
 do you start, captain? It's an eighty-mile ride." 
 
 "At once," was the reply. "We can sleep to-night 
 in the Jim-a-long-Jo " (a hut which the Company had 
 built between two distant posts), "and get there at 
 dawn day after to-morrow. The snow is light and we 
 can travel quick. I have a good horse, and you 
 
 "I have my black Tophet. He'll travel with your 
 roan as on one snaffle-bar. That roan you know where 
 he come from?" 
 
 "From the Dolright stud, over the Border."
 
 300 
 
 "That's wrong. He come from Greystop's paddock, 
 where my Tophet was foaled; they are brothers. Yours 
 was stole and sold to the Gover'ment; mine was bought 
 by good hard money. The law the keeper of stolen 
 goods, eh? But these two will go cinch to cinch all 
 the way, like two brothers like you and me." 
 
 He could not help the touch of irony in his last words : 
 he saw the amusing side of things, and all humour in 
 him had a strain of the sardonic. 
 
 "Brothers-in-law for a day or two," answered Halby 
 drily. 
 
 Within two hours they were ready to start. Pierre 
 had charged Due the incompetent upon matters for 
 the old man's comfort, and had himself, with a curious 
 sort of kindness, steeped the boneset and camomile in 
 whisky, and set a cup of it near his chair. Then he 
 had gone up to Throng's bedroom and straightened out 
 and shook and "made" the corn-husk bed, which had 
 gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down 
 he opened a door near by and entered another room, 
 shutting the door, and sitting down on a chair. A stove- 
 pipe ran through the room, and it was warm, though 
 the window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. 
 He looked round slowly, keenly interested. There was 
 a dressing-table made of an old box; it was covered 
 with pink calico, with muslin over this. A cheap look- 
 ing-glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at the 
 top with a bit of pink ribbon. A common bone comb 
 lay near the glass, and beside it a beautiful brush with 
 an ivory back and handle. This was the only expensive 
 thing in the room. He wondered, but did not go near it 
 yet. There was a little eight-day clock on a bracket 
 which had been made by hand pasteboard darkened 
 with umber and varnished; a tiny little set of shelves
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 301 
 
 made of the wood of cigar-boxes; and alas, the shifts 
 of poverty to be gay! an easy-chair made of the staves 
 of a barrel and covered with poor chintz. Then there 
 was a photograph or two, in little frames made from 
 the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of putty, 
 varnished, and a long panel screen of birch-bark of 
 Indian workmanship. Some dresses hung behind the 
 door. The bedstead was small, the frame was of hick- 
 ory, with no footboard, ropes making the support for 
 the husk tick. Across the foot lay a bedgown and a pair 
 of stockings. 
 
 Pierre looked long, at first curiously; but after a 
 little his forehead gathered and his lips drew in a little, 
 as if he had a twinge of pain. He got up, went over 
 near the bed, and picked up a hairpin. Then he came 
 back to the chair and sat down, turning it about in his 
 fingers, still looking abstractedly at the floor. 
 
 "Poor Lucy!" he said presently; "the poor child! 
 Ah, what a devil I was then so long ago!" 
 
 This solitary room Lydia's had brought back the 
 tune he went to the room of his own wife, dead by her 
 own hand after an attempt to readjust the broken 
 pieces of life, and sat and looked at the place which had 
 been hers, remembering how he had left her with her 
 wet face turned to the wall, and never saw her again 
 till she was set free for ever. Since that tune he had 
 never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone. 
 
 "What a fool, what a fool, to think!" he said at last, 
 standing up; "but this girl must be saved. She must 
 have her home here again." 
 
 Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his pocket, 
 walked over to the dressing-table and picked up the 
 hair-brush. On its back was the legend, "L. T. from 
 C. H." He gave a whistle.
 
 302 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "So so?" he said, '"C. H.' M'sieu' le capitaine, is 
 it like that?" 
 
 A year before, Lydia had given Captain Halby a 
 dollar to buy her a hair-brush at Winnipeg, and he had 
 brought her one worth ten dollars. She had beautiful 
 hair, and what pride she had in using this brush! 
 Every Sunday morning she spent a long time in washing, 
 curling, and brushing her hair, and every night she 
 tended it lovingly, so that it was a splendid rich brown 
 like her eye, coiling nobly above her plain, strong face 
 with its good colour. 
 
 Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain Halby's 
 face looking over his shoulder. It startled him, and he 
 turned round. There was the face looking out from a 
 photograph that hung on the wall in the recess where 
 the bed was. He noted now that the likeness hung 
 where the girl could see it the last thing at night and the 
 first thing in the morning. 
 
 "So far as that, eh!" he said. "And m'sieu' is a 
 gentleman, too. We shall see what he will do: he has 
 his chance now, once for all." 
 
 He turned, came to the door, softly opened it, passed 
 out, and shut it, then descended the stairs, and in half 
 an hour was at the door with Captain Halby, ready to 
 start. It was an exquisite winter day, even in its bitter 
 coldness. The sun was shining clear and strong, all the 
 plains glistened and shook like quicksilver, and the 
 vast blue cup of sky seemed deeper than it had ever 
 been. But the frost ate the skin like an acid, and when 
 Throng came to the door Pierre drove him back in- 
 stantly from the ah*. 
 
 "I only wanted to say to Liddy," hacked the 
 old man, "that I'm thinkin' a little m'lasses 'd kinder 
 help the boneset an' camomile. Tell her that the
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 303 
 
 cattle '11 all be hers an' the house, an' I ain't got no 
 one but 
 
 But Pierre pushed him back and shut the door, say- 
 ing: "I'll tell her what a fool you are, Jimmy Throng." 
 
 The old man, as he sat down awkwardly in his chair, 
 with Due stolidly lighting his pipe and watching him, 
 said to himself: "Yes, I be a durn fool; I be, I be!" 
 over and over again. And when the dog got up from 
 near the stove and came near to him, he added: "I be, 
 Touser; I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha' stole two or 
 three, an' then I'd not be alone, an' nothin' but sour 
 bread an' pork to eat. I ought to ha' stole three." 
 
 "Ah, Manet te ought to have given you some of your 
 own, it's true, that!" said Due stolidly. "You never 
 was a real father, Jim." 
 
 "Liddy got to look like me; she got to look like 
 Manette and me, I tell ye!" said the old man hoarsely. 
 
 Due laughed in his stupid way. "Look like you? 
 Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn milk sour? 
 Ho, ho!" 
 
 Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and made as 
 if to catch Due by the throat, but a fit of coughing 
 seized him, and presently blood showed on his lips. 
 Due, with a rough gentleness, wiped off the blood and 
 put the whisky-and-herbs to the sick man's lips, say- 
 ing, in a fatherly way: 
 
 "For why you do like that? You're a fool, Jimmy ! " 
 
 "I be, I be," said the old man in a whisper, and let 
 his hand rest on Due's shoulder. 
 
 "I'll fix the bread sweet next tune, Jimmy." 
 
 "No, no," said the husky voice peevishly. "She'll 
 do it Liddy '11 do it. Liddy 's comin'." 
 
 "All right, Jimmy. All right." 
 
 After a moment Throng shook his head feebly and 
 said, scarcely above a whisper:
 
 304 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "But I be a durn fool when she's not here." 
 Due nodded and gave him more whisky and herbs. 
 "My feet's cold," said the old man, and Due wrapped 
 a bearskin round his legs. 
 
 II 
 
 FOR miles Pierre and Halby rode without a word. 
 Then they got down and walked for a couple of miles, 
 to bring the blood into their legs again. 
 
 "The old man goes to By-by bientot," said Pierre at 
 last. 
 
 "You don't think he'll last long?" 
 
 "Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we don't get the 
 girl, out goes his torchlight straight." 
 
 "She's been very good to him." 
 
 "He's been on his knees to her all her life." 
 
 "There'll be trouble out of this, though." 
 
 "Pshaw! The girl is her own master." 
 
 "I mean, someone will probably get hurt over there." 
 He nodded in the direction of Fort O'Battle. 
 
 "That's in the game. The girl is worth fighting for, 
 hein?" 
 
 "Of course, and the law must protect her. It's a 
 free country." 
 
 "So true, my captain," murmured Pierre drily. "It 
 is wonderful what a man will do for the law." 
 
 The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning the 
 horizon abstractedly. 
 
 "You are always hitting at the law," he said. "Why 
 do you stand by it now?" 
 
 "For the same reason as yourself." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "She has your picture in her room, she has my lucky 
 dollar in her pocket."
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 305 
 
 Halby's face flushed, and then he turned and looked 
 steadily into Pierre's eyes. 
 
 "We'd better settle this thing at once. If you're 
 going to Fort O'Battle because you've set your fancy 
 there, you'd better go back now. That's straight. You 
 and I can't sail in the same boat. I'll go alone, so give 
 me the pistol." 
 
 Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand back. 
 
 "T'sh! What a high-cock-a-lorum! You want to 
 do it all yourself to fill the eye of the girl alone, and 
 be tucked away to By-by for your pains mais, quelle 
 folie! See: you go for law and love; I go for fun and 
 Jimmy Throng. The girl? Pshaw! she would come out 
 right in the end, without you or me. But the old man 
 with half a lung that's different. He must have sweet 
 bread in his belly when he dies, and the girl must make 
 it for him. She shall brush her hair with the ivory brush 
 by Sunday morning." 
 
 Halby turned sharply. 
 
 "You've been spying," he said. "You've been in 
 her room you " 
 
 Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on 
 Halby's lips. 
 
 "Slow, slow," he said; "we are both police to-day. 
 Voild! we must not fight. There is Throng and the girl 
 to think of." Suddenly, with a soft fierceness, he added : 
 " If I looked in her room, what of that? In all the North 
 is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what 
 if I carry her room in my eye; does that hurt her or 
 you?" 
 
 Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw 
 crept into Pierre's voice for an instant, for Halby sud- 
 denly put a hand on his shoulder and said: "Let's drop 
 the thing, Pierre."
 
 306 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 Pierre looked at him musingly. 
 
 "When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I will marry her, if she'll have me." 
 
 "But she is prairie-born, and you!" 
 
 "I'm a prairie-rider." 
 
 After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: "So 
 quiet and clean, and the print calico and muslin, and 
 the ivory brush!" 
 
 It is hard to say whether he was merely working on 
 Halby that he be true to the girl, or was himself soft- 
 hearted for the moment. He had a curious store of 
 legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman's power 
 of applying them, though he did it seldom. But now 
 he said in a half monotone: 
 
 "Have you seen the way I have built my nest? 
 
 (0 brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur!) 
 I have trailed the East, I have searched the West, 
 
 (0 clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!) 
 From South and North I have brought the best: 
 The feathers fine from an eagle's crest, 
 The silken threads from a prince's vest, 
 The warm rose-leaf from a maiden's breast 
 
 (0 long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur!}." 
 
 They had gone scarce a mile farther when Pierre, 
 chancing to turn round, saw a horseman riding hard 
 after them. They drew up, and soon the man a 
 Rider of the Plains was beside them. He had stopped 
 at Throng's to find Halby, and had followed them. 
 Murder had been committed near the border, and Halby 
 was needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with 
 distress, for there was Lydia. He turned to Pierre in 
 dismay. Pierre's face lighted up with the spirit of
 
 307 
 
 fresh adventure. Desperate enterprises roused him; 
 the impossible had a charm for him. 
 
 "I will go to Fort O'Battle," he said. "Give me 
 another pistol." 
 
 " You cannot do it alone," said Halby, hope, however, 
 in his voice. 
 
 "I will do it, or it will do me, voila!" Pierre replied. 
 
 Halby passed over a pistol. 
 
 "I'll never forget it, on my honour, if you do it," he 
 said. 
 
 Pierre mounted his horse and said, as if a thought 
 had struck him: "If I stand for the law in this, will 
 you stand against it some time for me?" 
 
 Halby hesitated, then said, holding out his hand, 
 "Yes, if it's nothing dirty." 
 
 Pierre smiled. "Clean tit for clean tat," he said, 
 touching Halby's fingers, and then, with a gesture and 
 an au revoir, put his horse to the canter, and soon a surf 
 of snow was rising at two points on the prairie, as the 
 Law trailed south and east. 
 
 That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long-Jo, find- 
 ing there firewood in plenty, and Tophet was made 
 comfortable in the lean-to. Within another thirty hours 
 he was hid hi the woods behind Fort O'Battle, having 
 travelled nearly all night. He saw the dawn break and 
 the beginning of sunrise as he watched the Fort, grow- 
 ing every moment colder, while his horse trembled and 
 whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he gave a little 
 grunt of satisfaction, for he saw two men come out of 
 the Fort and go to the corral. He hesitated a minute 
 longer, then said: "I'll not wait," patted his horse's 
 neck, pulled the blanket closer round him, and started 
 for the Fort. He entered the yard it was empty. He 
 went to the door of the Fort, opened it, entered, shut
 
 308 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 it, locked it softly, and put the key in his pocket. Then 
 he passed through into a room at the end of the small 
 hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire as he 
 did so, and one said: " Hullo, who're you?" Another 
 added: "It's Pretty Pierre." 
 
 Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, and said : 
 "Where's Lydia Throng?" 
 
 The elder of the three brothers replied: "There's no 
 Lydia Throng here. There's Lydia Bontoff, though, 
 and in another week she'll be Lydia something else." 
 
 "What does she say about it herself?" 
 
 "You've no call to know." 
 
 "You stole her, forced her from Throng's her 
 father's house." 
 
 "She wasn't Throng's; she was a Bontoff sister of 
 us." 
 
 "Well, she says Throng, and Throng it's got to be." 
 
 "What have you got to say about it?" 
 
 At that moment Lydia appeared at the door leading 
 from the kitchen. 
 
 "Whatever she has to say," answered Pierre. 
 
 "Who're you talking for?" 
 
 "For her, for Throng, for the law." 
 
 "The law by gosh, that's good! You, you darned 
 gambler; you scum!" said Caleb, the brother who 
 knew him. 
 
 Pierre showed all the intelligent, resolute coolness of 
 a trained officer of the law. He heard a little cry behind 
 him, and stepping sideways, and yet not turning his 
 back on the men, he saw Lydia. 
 
 "Pierre! Pierre!" she said in a half-frightened way, 
 yet with a sort of pleasure lighting up her face; and 
 she stepped forward to him. One of the brothers was 
 about to pull her away, but Pierre whipped out his com-
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 309 
 
 'Wait," he said. "That's enough. I'm for 
 the law; I belong to the mounted police. I have come 
 for the girl you stole." 
 
 The elder brother snatched the paper and read. 
 Then he laughed loud and long. "So you've come to 
 fetch her away," he said, "and this is how you do 
 it!" he shook the paper. "Well, by- Suddenly he 
 stopped. "Come," he said, "have a drink, and don't be 
 a dam' fool. She's our sister, old Throng stole her, 
 and she's goin' to marry our partner. Here, Caleb, fish 
 out the brandy-wine," he added to his younger brother, 
 who went to a cupboard and brought the bottle. 
 
 Pierre, waving the liquor away, said quietly to the 
 girl: "You wish to go back to your father, to Jimmy 
 Throng?" He then gave her Throng's message, and 
 added: "He sits there rocking in the big chair and 
 coughing coughing! And then there's the picture on 
 the wall upstairs and the little ivory brush- 
 She put out her hands towards him. "I hate them 
 all here," she said. "I never knew them. They forced 
 me away. I have no father but Jimmy Throng. I will 
 not stay," she flashed out in sudden anger to the others; 
 "I'll kill myself and all of you before I marry that 
 Borotte." 
 
 Pierre could hear a man tramping about upstairs. 
 Caleb knocked on the stove-pipe, and called to him to 
 come down. Pierre guessed it was Borotte. This would 
 add one more factor to the game. He must move at 
 once. He suddenly slipped a pistol into the girl's hand, 
 and with a quick word to her, stepped towards the door. 
 The elder brother sprang between which was what he 
 looked for. By this time every man had a weapon 
 showing, snatched from wall and shelf. 
 
 Pierre was cool. He said: "Remember, I am for 
 the law. I am not one man. You are thieves now; if
 
 310 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 you fight and kill, you will get the rope, every one. 
 Move from the door, or I'll fire. The girl comes with 
 me." He had heard a door open behind him, now there 
 was an oath and a report, and a bullet grazed his cheek 
 and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared not turn 
 round, for the other men were facing him. He did not 
 move, but the girl did. "Coward! " she said, and raised 
 her pistol at Borotte, standing with her back against 
 Pierre's. 
 
 There was a pause, in which no one stirred, and then 
 the girl, slowly walking up to Borotte, her pistol levelled, 
 said: " You low coward to shoot a man from behind; 
 and you want to be a decent girl's husband ! These men 
 that say they're my brothers are brutes, but you're a 
 sneak. If you stir a step I'll fire." 
 
 The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridiculous. He 
 dared not harm the girl, and her brothers could not pre- 
 vent her harming him. Here there came a knocking at 
 the front door. The other brothers had come, and found 
 it locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. 
 "The girl and I we will fight you to the end," he said, 
 "and then what's left of you the law will fight to the end. 
 Come," he added, "the old man can't live a week. 
 When he's gone then you can try again. She will have 
 what he owns. Quick, or I arrest you all, and then " 
 
 "Let her go," said Borotte; "it ain't no use." 
 
 Presently the elder brother broke out laughing. 
 "Damned if I thought the girl had the pluck, an' 
 damned if I thought Borotte was a crawler. Put an 
 eye out of him, Liddy, an' come to your brother's arms. 
 Here," he added to the others, "up with your popguns; 
 this shindy's off; and the girl goes back till the old man 
 tucks up. Have a drink," he added to Pierre, as he 
 stood his rifle in a corner and came to the table. 
 
 In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way,
 
 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 311 
 
 leaving Borotte quarrelling with the brothers, and all 
 drinking heavily. The two arrived at Throng's late 
 the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw dur- 
 ing the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping 
 from the eaves down the long icicles. 
 
 When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing hi his 
 chair. The sound of an axe out behind the house told 
 where Due was. The whisky-and-herbs was beside the 
 sick man's chair, and his feet were wrapped about with 
 bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and 
 then stepped softly over and, kneeling, looked into 
 Throng's face. The lips were moving. 
 
 "Dad," she said, "are you asleep?" 
 
 "I be a durn fool, I be," he said in a whisper, and 
 then he began to cough. She took his hands. They 
 were cold, and she rubbed them softly. "I feel so 
 a'mighty holler," he said, gasping, "an' that bread's 
 sour agin." He shook his head pitifully. 
 
 His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. 
 He broke into a giggling laugh; the surprise was almost 
 too much for his feeble mind and body. His hands 
 reached and clutched hers. "Liddy! Liddy!" he whis- 
 pered, then added peevishly, "the bread's sour, an' 
 the boneset and camomile's no good. . . . Ain't to- 
 morrow bakin'-day?" he added. 
 
 "Yes, dad," she said, smoothing his hands. 
 
 "What danged liars they be Liddy! You're my 
 gel, ain't ye?" 
 
 "Yes, dad. I'll make some boneset liquor now." 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said, with childish eagerness and a 
 weak, wild smile. "That's it that's it." 
 
 She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. 
 "I bin a good dad to ye, hain't I, Liddy? " he whispered. 
 
 "Always."
 
 312 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?" 
 
 "Never, dad." 
 
 "What danged liars they be!" he said, chuckling. 
 
 She kissed him, and moved away to the fire to pour 
 hot water and whisky on the herbs. 
 
 His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass 
 in the sun. He laughed such a wheezing, soundless 
 laugh! 
 
 "He! he! he! I ain't no durn fool bless the 
 Lord!" he said. 
 
 Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey 
 film, and the girl turned round suddenly, for the long, 
 wheezy breathing had stopped. She ran to him, and, 
 lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the 
 fool seem wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down 
 on the floor, laid her head against the arm of his chair, 
 and wept. 
 
 It was very quiet inside. From without there came 
 the twang of an axe, and a man's voice talking to his 
 horse. When the man came in, he lifted the girl up, and, 
 to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging 
 in her little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, 
 put it on a couch, and cared for it.
 
 THE PLUNDERER 
 
 IT was no use: men might come and go before her, 
 but Kitty Cline had eyes for only one man. Pierre 
 made no show of liking her, and thought, at first, that 
 hers was a passing fancy. He soon saw differently. 
 There was that look hi her eyes which burns conviction 
 as deep as the furnace from which it comes: the hot, 
 shy, hungering look of desire; most childlike, painfully 
 infinite. He would rather have faced the cold mouth 
 of a pistol; for he felt how it would end. He might be 
 beyond wish to play the lover, but he knew that every 
 man can endure being loved. He also knew that some 
 are possessed a dream, a spell, what you will for 
 their life long. Kitty Cline was one of these. 
 
 He thought he must go away, but he did not. From 
 the hour he decided to stay misfortune began. Willie 
 Haslam, the clerk at the Company's Post, had learned 
 a trick or two at cards in the east, and imagined that 
 he could, as he said himself, "roast the cock o' the roost" 
 meaning Pierre. He did so for one or two evenings, 
 and then Pierre had a sudden increase of luck (or de- 
 sign), and the lad, seeing no chance of redeeming the 
 I U, representing two years' salary, went down to 
 the house where Kitty Cline lived, and shot himself on 
 the door-step. 
 
 He had had the misfortune to prefer Kitty to the 
 other girls at Guidon Hill though Nellie Sanger would 
 have been as much to him, if Kitty had been easier to 
 win. The two things together told hard against Pierre. 
 Before, he might have gone; in the face of difficulty he 
 
 313
 
 314 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 certainly would not go. Willie Haslam's funeral was a 
 public function : he was young, innocent-looking, hand- 
 some, and the people did not know what Pierre would 
 not tell now that he had cheated grossly at cards. 
 Pierre was sure, before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, 
 that a movement was apace to give him trouble pos- 
 sibly fatal. 
 
 "You had better go," said Liddall. "There's no 
 use tempting Providence." 
 
 "They are tempting the devil," was the cool reply; 
 "and that is not all joy, as you shall see." 
 
 He stayed. For a tune there was no demonstration 
 on either side. He came and went through the streets, 
 and was found at his usual haunts, to observers as cool 
 and nonchalant as ever. He was a changed man, how- 
 ever. He never got away from the look in Kitty Cline's 
 eyes. He felt the thing wearing on him, and he hesi- 
 tated to speculate on the result; but he knew vaguely 
 that it would end in disaster. There is a kind of cor- 
 rosion which eats the granite out of the blood, and leaves 
 fever. 
 
 "What is the worst thing that can happen a man, 
 eh?" he said to Liddall one day, after having spent 
 a few minutes with Kitty Cline. 
 
 Liddall was an honest man. He knew the world tol- 
 erably well. In writing once to his partner in Montreal 
 he had spoken of Pierre as "an admirable, interesting 
 scoundrel." Once when Pierre called him "mon ami," 
 and asked him to come and spend an evening in his cot- 
 tage, he said: 
 
 "Yes, I will go. But pardon me not as your 
 friend. Let us be plain with each other. I never met a 
 man of your stamp before " 
 
 "A professional gambler yes? Bien?"
 
 THE PLUNDERER 315 
 
 "You interest me; I like you; you have great clever- 
 ness 
 
 "A priest once told me I had a great brain there is 
 a difference. Well?" 
 
 "You are like no man I ever met before. Yours is a 
 life like none I ever knew. I would rather talk with you 
 than with any other man in the country, and yet 
 
 "And yet you would not take me to your home? 
 That is all right. I expect nothing. I accept the terms. 
 I know what I am and what you are. I like men who are 
 square. You would go out of your way to do me a 
 good turn." 
 
 It was on his tongue to speak of Kitty Cline, but he 
 hesitated : it was not fair to the girl, he thought, though 
 what he had intended was for her good. He felt he had 
 no right to assume that Liddall knew how things were. 
 The occasion slipped by. 
 
 But the same matter had been in his mind when, later, 
 he asked, "What is the worst thing that can happen to 
 a man?" 
 
 Liddall looked at him long, and then said: "To stand 
 between two fires." 
 
 Pierre smiled : it was an answer after his own heart. 
 Liddall remembered it very well in the future. 
 
 "What is the thing to do in such a case?" Pierre 
 asked. 
 
 "It is not good to stand still." 
 
 "But what if you are stunned, or do not care?" 
 
 "You should care. It is not wise to strain a situ- 
 ation." 
 
 Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or 
 twice, then stood still, his arms folded, and spoke in a 
 low tone. "Once in the Rockies I was lost. I crept into 
 a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some wild
 
 316 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 animal; but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. 
 I fell asleep. When I woke it was towards morning 
 I saw two yellow stars glaring where the mouth of the 
 cave had been. They were all hate: like nothing you 
 could imagine: passion as it is first made yes. There 
 was also a rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I 
 was not scared. Hate need not disturb you. I am a 
 quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, and I ate the 
 haunch of deer I dragged from under her . . . ' 
 
 He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out 
 upon the village, to the roof of a house which they both 
 knew. "Hate," he said, "is not the most wonderful 
 thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could 
 lose the whole world and her own soul. She was a 
 good woman. The man was bad most: he never 
 could be anything else. A look like that breaks the 
 nerve. It is not amusing. In tune the man goes to 
 pieces. But before that comes he is apt to do strange 
 things. Eh so!" 
 
 He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly 
 in the dust upon the table. 
 
 Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more 
 brusquely than he felt: "Do you think it fair to stay 
 fair to her?" 
 
 "What if I should take her with me?" Pierre flashed 
 a keen, searching look after the words. 
 
 "It would be useless devilry." 
 
 "Let us drink," said Pierre, as he came to his feet 
 quickly: "then for the House of Lords" (the new and 
 fashionable tavern). 
 
 They separated in the street, and Pierre went to the 
 House of Lords alone. He found a number of men gath- 
 ered before a paper pasted on a pillar of the veranda. 
 Hearing his own name, he came nearer. A ranch-
 
 THE PLUNDERER 317 
 
 man was reading aloud an article from a newspaper 
 printed two hundred miles away. The article was 
 headed, " A Villainous Plunderer." It had been written 
 by someone at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable 
 in Pierre's life it set forth with rude clearness; he was 
 credited with nothing pardonable. In the crowd there 
 were mutterings unmistakable to Pierre. He suddenly 
 came among them, caught a revolver from his pocket, 
 and shot over the reader's shoulder six tunes into the 
 pasted strip of newspaper. 
 
 The men dropped back. They were not prepared for 
 warlike measures at the moment. Pierre leaned his 
 back against the pillar and waited. His silence and cool- 
 ness, together with an iron fierceness in his face, held 
 them from instant demonstration against him; but he 
 knew that he must face active peril soon. He pocketed 
 his revolver and went up the hill to the house of Kitty 
 Cline's mother. It was the first tune he had ever been 
 there. At the door he hesitated, but knocked presently, 
 and was admitted by Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned 
 faint with sudden joy, and grasped the lintel to steady 
 herself. 
 
 Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut 
 the door. She recovered, and gently disengaged herself. 
 He made no further advance, and they stood looking 
 at each other for a minute : he, as one who had come to 
 look at something good he was never to see again; she, 
 as at something she hoped to see for ever. They had 
 never before been where no eyes could observe them. 
 He ruled his voice to calmness. 
 
 "I am going away," he said, "and I have come to 
 say good-bye." 
 
 Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was 
 scarce above a whisper.
 
 318 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 "Why do you go? Where are you going?" 
 
 "I have been here too long. I am what they call a 
 villain and a plunderer. I am going to mon Dieu, I 
 do not know!" He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled 
 with a sort of helpless disdain. 
 
 She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her 
 voice was still that low, clear murmur. 
 
 "What people say doesn't matter." She staked her 
 all upon her words. She must speak them, though 
 she might hate herself afterwards. "Are you going 
 alone?" 
 
 "Where I may have to go I must travel alone." 
 
 He could not meet her eyes now; he turned his head 
 away. He almost hoped she would not understand. 
 
 "Sit down," he added; "I want to tell you of my 
 life." 
 
 He believed that telling it as he should, she would 
 be horror-stricken, and that the deep flame would die 
 out of her eyes. Neither he nor she knew how long 
 they sat there, he telling with grim precision of the life 
 he had led. Her hands were clasped before her, and 
 she shuddered once or twice, so that he paused; but 
 she asked him firmly to go on. 
 
 When all was told he stood up. He could not see 
 her face, but he heard her say: 
 
 "You have forgotten many things that were not bad. 
 Let me say them." She named things that would have 
 done honour to a better man. He was standing in the 
 moonlight that came through the window. She stepped 
 forward, her hands quivering out to him. "Oh, Pierre," 
 she said, "I know why you tell me this : but it makes no 
 difference none! I will go with you wherever you go." 
 
 He caught her hands in his. She was stronger than 
 he was now. Her eyes mastered him. A low cry broke
 
 THE PLUNDERER 319 
 
 from him, and he drew her almost fiercely into his 
 arms. 
 
 " Pierre! Pierre!" was all she could say. 
 
 He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. As 
 he did so, he heard footsteps and muffled voices with- 
 out. Putting her quickly from him, he sprang towards 
 the door, threw it open, closed it behind him, and drew 
 his revolvers. A half-dozen men faced him. Two bul- 
 lets whistled by his head, and lodged in the door. Then 
 he fired swiftly, shot after shot, and three men fell. 
 His revolvers were empty. There were three men left. 
 The case seemed all against him now, but just here a 
 shot, and then another, came from the window, and a 
 fourth man fell. Pierre sprang upon one, the other 
 turned and ran. There was a short sharp struggle: 
 then Pierre rose up alone. 
 
 The girl stood in the doorway. "Come, my dear," 
 he said, "you must go with me now." 
 
 "Yes, Pierre," she cried, a mad light in her face, "I 
 have killed men too for you." 
 
 Together they ran down the hillside, and made for 
 the stables of the Fort. People were hurrying through 
 the long street of the town, and torches were burning, 
 but they came by a roundabout to the stables safely. 
 Pierre was about to enter, when a man came out. It 
 was Liddall. He kept his horses there, and he had 
 saddled one, thinking that Pierre might need it. 
 
 There were quick words of explanation, and then, 
 "Must the girl go too?" he asked. "It will increase 
 the danger besides 
 
 "I am going wherever he goes," she interrupted 
 hoarsely. "I have killed men; he and I are the same 
 now." 
 
 Without a word Liddall turned back, threw a saddle
 
 320 A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS 
 
 on another horse, and led it out quickly. "Which way? " 
 he asked; "and where shall I find the horses?" 
 
 "West to the mountains. The horses you will find 
 at Tete Blanche Hill, if we get there. If not, there is 
 money under the white pine at my cottage. Good- 
 bye!" 
 
 They galloped away. But there were mounted men 
 in the main street, and one, well ahead of the others, 
 was making towards the bridge over which they must 
 pass. He reached it before they did, and set his horse 
 crosswise in its narrow entrance. Pierre urged his mare 
 in front of the girl's, and drove straight at the head 
 and shoulders of the obstructing horse. His was the 
 heavier animal, and it bore the other down. The rider 
 fired as he fell, but missed, and, in an instant, Pierre 
 and the girl were over. The fallen man fired the sec- 
 ond tune, but again missed. They had a fair start, but 
 the open prairie was ahead of them, and there was no 
 chance to hide. Riding must do all, for their pursuers 
 were hi full cry. For an hour they rode hard. They 
 could see their hunters not very far in the rear. Sud- 
 denly Pierre started and sniffed the air. 
 
 "The prairie's on fire," he said exultingly, defiantly. 
 
 Almost as he spoke, clouds ran down the horizon, and 
 then the sky lighted up. The fire travelled with in- 
 credible swiftness: they were hastening to meet it. It 
 came on wave-like, hurrying down at the right and the 
 left as if to close in on them. The girl spoke no word; 
 she had no fear: what Pierre did she would do. He 
 turned round to see his pursuers: they had wheeled 
 and were galloping back the way they came. His horse 
 and hers were travelling neck and neck. He looked at 
 her with an intense, eager gaze. 
 
 "Will you ride on?" he asked eagerly. "We are
 
 THE PLUNDERER 321 
 
 between two fires." He smiled, remembering his words 
 to Liddall. 
 
 "Ride on," she urged in a strong, clear voice, a kind 
 of wild triumph in it. "You shall not go alone." 
 
 There ran into his eyes now the same infinite look 
 that had been in hers that had conquered him. The 
 flame rolling towards them was not brighter or hotter. 
 
 "For heaven or hell, my girl!" he cried, and they 
 drove their horses on on. 
 
 Far behind upon a Divide the flying hunters from 
 Guidon Hill paused for a moment. They saw with 
 hushed wonder and awe a man and woman, dark and 
 weird against the red light, ride madly into the flick- 
 ering surf of fire.
 
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