nation. He had seen them in the sun, but never as
they revealed themselves now in that cabin lamp glow. He scarcely
looked at St. Pierre, who was on his feet, looking down upon her--not
until St. Pierre reached out and crumpled the smothering mass of
glowing tresses in his big hands, and laughed. It was a laugh filled
with the unutterable joy of possession. The woman rose to her feet. Up
through her hair went her two white, bare arms, encircling St. Pierre's
neck. The giant drew her close. Her slim form seemed to melt in his,
and their lips met.

And then the woman threw back her head, laughing, so that her glory of
hair fell straight down, and she was out of reach of St. Pierre's lips.
They turned. Her face fronted the window, and out in the night Carrigan
stifled a cry that almost broke from his lips. For a flash he was
looking straight into her eyes. Her parted lips seemed smiling at him;
her white throat and bosom were bared to him. He dropped down, his
heart choking him as he stumbled through the darkness to the edge of
the raft. There, with the lap of the water at his feet, he paused. It
was hard for him to get Breath. He stared through the gloom in the
direction of the bateau. Marie-Anne Boulain, the woman he loved, was
there! In her little cabin, alone, on the bateau, was St. Pierre's
wife, her heart crushed.

And in this cabin on the raft, forgetful of her degradation and her
grief, was the vilest wretch he had ever known--St. Pierre Boulain. And
with him, giving herself into his arms, caressing him with her lips and
hair, was the sister of the man he had helped to hang--CARMIN FANCHET!

XX

The shock of the amazing discovery which Carrigan had made was as
complete as it was unexpected. His eyes had looked upon the last thing
in the world he might have guessed at or anticipated when they beheld
through the window of St. Pierre's cabin the beautiful face and partly
disrobed figure of Carmin Fanchet. The first effect of that shock had
been to drive him away. His action had been involuntary, almost without
the benefit of reason, as if Carmin had been Marie-Anne herself
receiving the caresses which were rightfully hers, and upon which it
was both insult and dishonor for him to spy. He realized now that he
had made a mistake in leaving the window too quickly.

But he did not move back through the gloom, for there was something too
revolting in what he had seen, and with the revulsion of it a swift
unde