r, the grinding of a key in the lock, the
shooting of bolts, and a face appeared at the little wicket in the door.
Then the door opened, and the Sheriff stepped inside, accompanied by a
white-haired, stately old man. At sight of this second figure--the Sheriff
had come often before, and would come for one more doleful walk with
him--Grassette started. His face, which had never whitened in all the
dismal and terrorizing doings of the capture and the trial and sentence,
though it had flushed with rage more than once, now turned a little pale,
for it seemed as if this old man had stepped out of the visions which had
just passed before his eyes.

"His Honor, the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Henri Robitaille, has come to
speak with you.... Stand up!" the Sheriff added, sharply, as Grassette
kept his seat.

Grassette's face flushed with anger, for the prison had not broken his
spirit; then he got up slowly. "I not stand up for you," he growled at the
Sheriff; "I stand up for him." He jerked his head toward Sir Henri
Robitaille. This grand Seigneur, with Michelin had believed in him in
those far-off days which he had just been seeing over again, and all his
boyhood and young manhood was rushing back on him. But now it was the
Governor who turned pale, seeing who the criminal was.

"Jacques Grassette!" he cried, in consternation and emotion, for under
another name the murderer had been tried and sentenced, nor had his
identity been established--the case was so clear, the defence had been
perfunctory, and Quebec was very far away!

"M'sieu'!" was the respectful response, and Grassette's fingers twitched.

"It was my sister's son you killed, Grassette," said the Governor, in a
low, strained voice.

"_Nom de Dieu_!" said Grassette, hoarsely.

"I did not know, Grassette," the Governor went on--"I did not know it was
you."

"Why did you come, m'sieu'?"

"Call him 'your Honor,'" said the Sheriff, sharply.

Grassette's face hardened, and his look, turned upon the Sheriff, was
savage and forbidding. "I will speak as it please me. Who are you? What do
I care? To hang me--that is your business; but, for the rest, you spik to
me differen'! Who are you? Your father kep' a tavern for thieves, _vous
savez bien_!" It was true that the Sheriff's father had had no savory
reputation in the West.

The Governor turned his head away in pain and trouble, for the man's rage
was not a thing to see--and they both came from the little parish of