he filthy epithet, and Bull's spirit broke
through the bonds of will that held it. The insult had been hurled at
the moment and at the spot where the battle had been fought. Bull had
flung himself forthwith at the throat of the French Canadian almost
before the last syllable of the insult had passed the man's lips. And
the end of nearly a two hours' battle had been the downfall of the
bully, with the name of Bull Sternford hailed as a fighting man in his
place.

The firebrand was passed to the waiting missionary. He sucked in the
pleasant fumes of a lumberman's tobacco. Then the stick was flung back
to its place in the fire.

Father Adam nursed one long leg, which he flung across the other, while
his wide, intelligent eyes gazed squarely into the eyes of the man
opposite.

"Tell me," he said. "What brought you into the life of the woods? What
left you quitting the things I can see civilisation handed you? This is
the life of the wastrel, the fallen, the man who knows no better. It's
not for men starting out in possession of all those things--you have."

Bull sat for a moment without replying. Father Adam's "dope" had done
its work. His passionate moments had vanished like an ugly dream. His
turbulent spirit had attained peace. Suddenly he looked up with a frank
laugh.

"Now, why in hell should I tell you?"

It was an irresistible challenge. The missionary nodded his approval.

"Yes. Why--in hell--should you?"

He, too, laughed. And his laugh miraculously lit up his ascetic
features.

Instantly Bull flung out one bandaged hand in a sweeping gesture.

"Why shouldn't I--anyway?" he cried, with the abandon of a man
impatient of all subterfuge. "Guess I ought to turn right around and ask
who the devil you are to look into my affairs? Who are you to assume the
right of inquisitor?" He shook his head. "But I'm not going to. Now I'm
sane again I know just how much you did for me. I meant killing Laval.
Oh, yes, there wasn't a thing going to break my hold until he was
dead--dead. You got me in time to save me from wrecking my whole life.
And you got in at--the risk of your own. If I'd killed him all the
things and purposes I've worried with since I left college would have
been just so much junk; and I'd have drifted into the life of a bum
lumber-jack without any sort of notion beyond rye whiskey, and the camp
women, and a well swung axe. You saved me from that. You saved me from
myself. Well, you're real welcome to