save him. He no
longer doubted this last immeasurable fact. Twenty times since then,
coldly and critically, he had thought of the woman who had been his
wife, and slowly and terribly the enormity of her crime had swept
further and further away from him the anguish of her loss. He was like a
man risen from a sick bed, breathing freely again, tasting once more
the flavour of the air that filled his lungs. All this he owed to Father
Roland, and because of this--and his confession of only two nights
ago--he felt a burning humiliation at the thought of telling the
Missioner that another face had come to fill his thoughts, and stir his
anxieties. And what less could he tell, if he confided in him at all?

He had gone a hundred yards or more into the forest, and in a little
open space, lighted up like a tiny amphitheatre in the glow of the moon,
he stopped. Suddenly there came to him, thrilling in its promise, a key
to the situation. He would wait until they reached Tavish's. And then,
in the presence of the Missioner, he would suddenly show Tavish the
picture. His heart throbbed uneasily as he anticipated the possible
tragedy--the sudden betrayal--of that moment, for Father Roland had
said, like one who had glimpsed beyond the ken of human eyes, that
Tavish was haunted by a vision of the dead. The dead! Could it be that
she, the girl in the picture....? He shook himself, set his lips tight
to get the thought away from him. And the woman--the woman in the coach,
the woman who had left in her seat this picture that was growing in his
heart like a living thing--who was she? Was her quest one of
vengeance--of retribution? Was Tavish the man she was seeking? Up in
that mountain valley--where the girl had stood on that rock--had his
name been Michael O'Doone?

He was trembling when he went on, deeper into the forest. But of his
determination there was no longer a doubt. He would say nothing to
Father Roland until Tavish had seen the picture.

Until now he had forgotten Baree. In the disquieting fear with which
his thoughts were weighted he had lost hold of the fact that in his hand
he still carried the slightly curved and solidly frozen substance of a
fish. The movement of a body near him, so unexpected and alarmingly
close that a cry broke from his lips as he leaped to one side, roused
him with a sudden mental shock. The beast, whatever it was, had passed
within six feet of him, and now, twice that distance away, stood like a