that a blow from your hand struck at
Francois Cassion would separate us forever? Surely that is not the end
you seek. I would not have you bear affront longer, yet no open
quarrel will serve to better our affairs. Certainly no clash of
swords. Perhaps it cannot be avoided, for Cassion may so insult you
when he sees us together, as to let his insolence go beyond restraint.
But I beg of you, Monsieur, to hold your hand, to restrain your
temper--for my sake."

"You make it a trial, a test?"

"Yes--it is a test. But, Monsieur, there is more involved here than
mere happiness. You must be cleared of the charge of crime, and I must
learn the truth of what caused my marriage. Without these facts the
future can hold out no hope for either of us. And there is only one
way in which this end can be accomplished--a confession by Cassion. He
alone knows the entire story of the conspiracy, and there is but one
way in which he can be induced to talk."

"You mean the same method you proposed to me back on the Ottawa?"

I faced him frankly, my eyes meeting his, no shade of hesitation in my
voice.

"Yes, Monsieur, I mean that. You refused me before, but I see no harm,
no wrong in the suggestion. If the men we fought were honorable I
might hesitate--but they have shown no sense of honor. They have made
me their victim, and I am fully justified in turning their own weapons
against them. I have never hesitated in my purpose, and I shall not
now. I shall use the weapons which God has put into my hands to wring
from him the bitter truth--the weapons of a woman, love, and jealousy.
Monsieur, am I to fight this fight alone?"

At first I thought he would not answer me, although his hand grip
tightened, and his eyes looked down into mine, as though he would read
the very secret of my heart.

"Perhaps I did not understand before," he said at last, "all that was
involved in your decision. I must know now the truth from your own
lips before I pledge myself."

"Ask me what you please; I am not too proud to answer."

"I think there must be back of this choice of yours something more
vital than hate, more impelling than revenge."

"There is, Monsieur."

"May I ask you what?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and I feel no shame in answering; I love you! Is that
enough?"

"Enough! my sweetheart--"

"Hush!" I interrupted, "not now--Barbeau returns yonder."

CHAPTER XXIV

WE ATTACK THE SAVAGES

It was already so dark that the soldier was alm