shoot. Yes, I
would have shot him when the chance came. But all at once Francois
Breault sprang back to the door, and he cried: 'Jan Thoreau, I am
mad--mad! Great God, what have I done?' Yes, he said that, m'sieu,
those very words--and then he was gone."

"And that same day--a little later--Jan went away from the cabin, and
was gone a long time," whispered Blake. "Was it not so, Marie?"

"Yes; he went to his trap-line, m'sieu."

For the first time Blake made a movement. He took her face boldly
between his two hands, and turned it so that her staring eyes were
looking straight into his own. Every fiber in his body was trembling
with the thrill of his monstrous triumph. "My dear little girl, I must
tell you the truth," he said. "Your husband, Jan, did not go to his
trap-line three days ago. He followed Francois Breault, and killed him.
And I am not John Duval. I am Corporal Blake of the Mounted Police, and
I have come to get Jan, that he may be hanged by the neck until he is
dead for his crime. I came for that. But I have changed my mind. I have
seen you, and for you I would give even a murderer his life. Do you
understand? For YOU--YOU--YOU--"

And then came the grand finale, just as he had planned it. His words
had stupefied her. She made no movement, no sound--only her great eyes
seemed alive. And suddenly he swept her into his arms with the wild
passion of a beast. How long she lay against his breast, his arms
crushing her, his hot lips on her face, she did not know.

The world had grown suddenly dark. But in that darkness she heard his
voice; and what it was saying roused her at last from the deadliness of
her stupor. She strained against him, and with a wild cry broke from
his arms, and staggered across the cabin floor to the door of her
bedroom. Blake did not pursue her. He let the darkness of that room
shut her in. He had told her--and she understood.

He shrugged his shoulders as he rose to his feet. Quite calmly, in
spite of the wild rush of blood through his body, he went to the cabin
door, opened it, and looked out into the night. It was full of stars,
and quiet.

It was quiet in that inner room, too--so quiet that one might fancy he
could hear the beating of a heart. Marie had flung herself in the
farthest corner, beyond the bed. And there her hand had touched
something. It was cold--the chill of steel. She could almost have
screamed, in the mighty reaction that swept through her like an
electric sho