drew
her within and closed the door upon--St. Ange?

Another tap--this time upon the wooden shutter of the bedchamber!

Gaston shivered and trembled. He was not outside; he was stifling in the
dark room. The light had gone entirely, and he was struggling to free
himself from an intangible enemy or friend; a thing that had, unknown to
himself, evolved during those isolated years among the pines, and was
restraining his lower nature now.

He battled to get to that little, insistent girl. He heard her sob, a
childish sob, half desire, half fear. The veins stood out on his
forehead and his hands gripped the edge of his desk as he got upon his
feet.

The sob outside was echoed by a stifled groan from within--then all was
still.

Slow retreating steps presently sounded without. She, that sad, broken,
little temptress, was going to meet the fore-ordained future that lay
before. There was nothing else left for her to do. All her reserves were
taken.

Then Gaston, when all was beyond his power of recall or desire, opened
the window.

Softly, sweetly, the fresh morning air entered. It was a young and good
morning. A morning cool and faintly tinted, a morning to soothe a hurt
heart, not to stimulate it too harshly.

Gaston's lined face smoothed under the caress. His armour arose as if
unseen hands guided it, and placed it again upon him. Once more he was
the strong, quiet man that St. Ange had taken upon faith, and accepted
without question.

As he looked at the scene, his self-respect giving him courage to meet
the day, Jude Lauzoon's soft-stepping figure materialized upon the edge
of the pine woods.

The humour of the situation for a moment gripped Gaston's senses. Had
all St. Ange stayed awake and been on guard while the night passed? But
the smile faded. How long had Jude been there? Long enough to _know
all_, or just long enough to know half?

What should he do? If Jude knew but half, no explanation could possibly
avail. If he knew all; if he had been on guard before Joyce came--been
camping out with no definite purpose, since his late talk in the
shack--why, then it was simply a matter to be settled between Lauzoon
and Joyce. God help her! He, Gaston, could serve best by retiring. This
he did physically.

He put away his treasures and locked them fast; then, flinging himself
upon the pine-bough bed, dressed as he was, he soon fell into a troubled
sleep.

CHAPTER III

Jared Birkdale, with a contem