t the thing that had risen up to point its finger at
him. After all, it did not hurt a man to go through a bit of fire--if
he came out of it unburned. And deep in his heart he knew it was not a
sin to love, even as he loved, if he kept that love to himself. What he
had done when Marie-Anne stood at the window he could not undo. St.
Pierre would probably have killed him for touching her hair with his
lips, and he would not have blamed St. Pierre. But she had not felt
that stolen caress. No one knew--but himself. And he was happier
because of it. It was a sort of sacred thing, even though it brought
the heat of shame into his face.

He went to the door, opened it, and stood out in the sunshine. It was
good to feel the warmth of the sun in his face again and the sweet air
of the open day in his lungs. The bateau was free of the shore and
drifting steadily towards midstream. Bateese was at the great birchwood
rudder sweep, and to David's surprise he nodded in a friendly way, and
his wide mouth broke into a grin.

"Ah, it is coming soon, that fight of ours, little coq de bruyere!" he
chuckled gloatingly. "An' ze fight will be jus' lak that, m'sieu--you
ze little fool-hen's rooster, ze partridge, an' I, Concombre Bateese,
ze eagle!"

The anticipation in the half-breed's eyes reflected itself for an
instant in David's. He turned back into the cabin, bent over his pack,
and found among his clothes two pairs of boxing gloves. He fondled them
with the loving touch of a brother and comrade, and their velvety
smoothness was more soothing to his nerves than the cigar he was
smoking. His one passion above all others was boxing, and wherever he
went, either on pleasure or adventure, the gloves went with him. In
many a cabin and shack of the far hinterland he had taught white men
and Indians how to use them, so that he might have the pleasure of
feeling the thrill of them on his hands. And now here was Concombre
Bateese inviting him on, waiting for him to get well!

He went out and dangled the clumsy-looking mittens under the
half-breed's nose.

Bateese looked at them curiously. "Mitaines," he nodded. "Does ze
little partridge rooster keep his claws warm in those in ze winter?
They are clumsy, m'sieu. I can make a better mitten of caribou skin."
Putting on one of the gloves, David doubled up his fist. "Do you see
that, Concombre Bateese?" he asked. "Well, I will tell you this, that
they are not mittens to keep your hands warm. I