It almost drew a cry from him, but he forced himself to speak
without betraying it.

"You tried to murder me--and almost succeeded. Haven't you anything to
say?"

"Not now, m'sieu--except that it was a mistake, and I am sorry. But you
must not talk. You must remain quiet. I am afraid your skull is
fractured."

Afraid his skull was fractured! And she expressed her fear in the
casual way she might have spoken of a toothache. He leaned back against
his dunnage sack and closed his eyes. Probably she was right. These
fits of dizziness and nausea were suspicious. They made him top-heavy
and filled him with a desire to crumple up somewhere. He was
clear-mindedly conscious of this and of his fight against the weakness.
But in those moments when he felt better and his head was clear of
pain, he had not seriously thought of a fractured skull. If she
believed it, why did she not treat him a bit more considerately?
Bateese, with that strength of an ox in his arms, had no use for her
assistance with the paddle. She might at least have sat facing him,
even if she refused to explain matters more definitely.

A mistake, she called it. And she was sorry for him! She had made those
statements in a matter-of-fact way, but with a voice that was like
music. She had spoken perfect English, but in her words were the
inflection and velvety softness of the French blood which must be
running red in her veins. And her name was Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain!

With eyes closed, Carrigan called himself an idiot for thinking of
these things at the present time. Primarily he was a man-hunter out on
important duty, and here was duty right at hand, a thousand miles south
of Black Roger Audemard, the wholesale murderer he was after. He would
have sworn on his life that Black Roger had never gone at a killing
more deliberately than this same Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain had gone
after him behind the rock!

Now that it was all over, and he was alive, she was taking him
somewhere as coolly and as unexcitedly as though they were returning
from a picnic. Carrigan shut his eyes tighter and wondered if he was
thinking straight. He believed he was badly hurt, but he was as
strongly convinced that his mind was clear. And he lay quietly with his
head against the pack, his eyes closed, waiting for the coolness of the
river to drive his nausea away again.

He sensed rather than felt the swift movement of the canoe. There was
no perceptible tremor to its progress.