n, as he spoke to some one who was behind him in the
cabin.

"Pitch and brimstone, but it's black!" he cried. "You could carve it
with a knife, and stand it on end, AMANTE. But it's going west. In a
few hours the stars will be out."

He drew back into the cabin, and the door closed. David held his breath
in amazement, staring at the blackness where a moment before the light
had been. Who was it St. Pierre had called sweetheart? AMANTE! He could
not have been mistaken. The word had come to him clearly, and there was
but one guess to make. Marie-Anne was not on the bateau. She had played
him for a fool, had completely hoodwinked him in her plot with St.
Pierre. They were cleverer than he had supposed, and in darkness she
had rejoined her husband on the raft! But why that senseless play of
falsehood? What could be their object in wanting him to believe she was
still aboard the bateau?

He stood up on his feet and mopped the warm rain from his face, while
the gloom hid the grim smile that came slowly to his lips. Close upon
the thrill of his astonishment he felt a new stir in his blood which
added impetus to his determination and his action. He was not disgusted
with himself, nor was he embittered by what he had thought of a moment
ago as the lying hypocrisy of his captors. To be beaten in his game of
man-hunting was sometimes to be expected, and Carrigan always gave
proper credit to the winners. It was also "good medicine" to know that
Marie-Anne, instead of being an unhappy and neglected wife, had blinded
him with an exquisitely clever simulation. Just why she had done it,
and why St. Pierre had played his masquerade, it was his duty now to
find out.

An hour ago he would have cut off a hand before spying upon St.
Pierre's wife or eavesdropping under her window. Now he felt no
uneasiness of conscience as he approached the cabin, for Marie-Anne
herself had destroyed all reason for any delicate discrimination on his
part.

The rain had almost stopped, and in one of the near tents he heard a
sleepy voice. But he had no fear of chance discovery. The night would
remain dark for a long time, and in his bare feet he made no sound the
sharpest ears of a dog ten feet away might have heard. Close to the
cabin door, yet in such a way that the sudden opening of it would not
reveal him, he paused and listened.

Distinctly he heard St. Pierre's voice, but not the words. A moment
later came the soft, joyous laughter of a woman,