was intensely religious and had a queer conglomeration of
doctrines that he had picked up here and there in his rambles through
this western world. He embraced alike the theory of purgatory and the
Presbyterian tenets of predestination and justification. He had acquired
the words of "Hail Mary!" from a French Catholic with whom he had hunted
on the banks of the Sewanee, as the Indians called it, and Chauvanon, as
the Gallic tongue metamorphosed the name,--perhaps these two were the
first white men that ever trod those bosky ways,--and he believed
faithfully in total immersion as promulgated by the Baptists. He was all
for peace, like the Quakers,--peace at any price; and yet when for the
entertainment of the boys at a friendly fireside he was urged to recount
how many men he had fought and killed, the long list failed only from
failure of memory.

Hamish expected to hear no more of him after they parted, and he
experienced a sort of repulsion which found an echo in Odalie's
exclamation, when Captain Demere proposed that Gilfillan should live
with them. "I should recommend a strong stockade if you go as far from
the fort as the bend of the river," the officer commented, when the spot
they had selected was made known to him. "And with only two gun men," he
cogitated, as he paused. "It would not be safe." Then brightening,--for
the officers of the post sought to facilitate in every way the prospects
of the settlers and the extension of the settlement,--"Take Gilfillan
with you; he's an odd fish, but he is equal to any four men, and he has
never quite settled down since the massacre on the Yadkin where he lost
his wife and children. Take Gilfillan."

A group from the fort strolled along the river-bank, and the ripples
were red under the red sunset sky, and the eastern mountains were blue
and misty, and the western were purple and massive and distinct, and
though sedges were sere and the birds gone, summer was in the air, and
they talked of hope and home.

Captain Demere's suggestion broke discordantly on the serenity of the
hour and the theme.

"Oh! oh!" cried Odalie, "and have Fifine forever tracing the map of
anguish all around that terrible head, never tiring of 'Here's where the
tomahawk hit him a clip!' and 'Here's where the scalping-knife began!'"

"What a consideration!" exclaimed the officer, with some asperity. "And
if you will excuse me, how very French! The man's rifle--the finest
marksman I ever saw--is the