e you cared? One day you would fondle her, and the next you
were a savage--and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time. Then, for her
religion and the faith of her child--she has fought for it, prayed for
it, suffered for it. You thought you had no need, for you had so much
happiness, which you did not deserve--that was it. But she: with all a
woman suffers, how can she bear life--and man--without God? No, it is
not possible. And you thought you and your few superstitions were enough
for her.--Ah, poor fool! She should worship you! So selfish, so small,
for a man who knows in his heart how great God is.--You did not love
her."

"By the Heaven above, yes!" said Bagot, half starting to his feet.

"Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no! nor the child. For true love is
unselfish and patient, and where it is the stronger, it cares for the
weaker; but it was your wife who was unselfish, patient, and cared for
you. Every time she said an ave she thought of you, and her every
thanks to the good God had you therein. They know you well in heaven,
Bagot--through your wife. Did you ever pray--ever since I married you to
her?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"An hour or so ago."

Once again the priest's eyes glanced towards the lighted candles.

Presently he said: "You asked me if I had heard anything of your wife.
Listen, and be patient while you listen.... Three weeks ago I was
camping on the Sundust Plains, over against the Young Sky River. In the
morning, as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my young Cree Indian
with me, I saw coming over the crest of a land-wave, from the very lips
of the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I could not quite make
them out. I hoisted my little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to
me. I did not know the tribe--they had come from near Hudson's Bay. They
spoke Chinook, and I could understand them. Well, as they came near I
saw that they had a woman with them."

Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, every muscle tense. "A woman?"
he said, as if breathing gave him sorrow--"my wife?"

"Your wife."

"Quick! Quick! Go on--oh, go on, m'sieu'--good father."

"She fell at my feet, begging me to save her.... I waved her off."

The sweat dropped from Bagot's forehead, a low growl broke from him, and
he made such a motion as a lion might make at its prey.

"You wouldn't--wouldn't save her--you coward!" He ground the words out.

The priest raised his palm against the other's violence. "Hush!...
She