u with your own tongue!" cried Jean Jacques,
turning on Louis Charron with a savage jerk of the whip he held. "She is
as pure--"

"It is no marriage, of course!" squeaked a voice from the crowd.

"It'll be all right among the English, won't it, monsieur le juge?"
asked the gentle widow of Palass Poucette, whom the scene seemed to
rouse out of her natural shyness.

"Most sure, madame, most sure," answered the Judge. "It will be all
right among the English, and it is all right among the French so far
as the law is concerned. As for the Church, that is another
matter. But--but see," he added addressing Louis Charron, "does the
station-master say what place they took tickets for?"

"Montreal and Winnipeg," was the reply. "Here it is in the telegram.
Winnipeg--that's as English as London."

"Winnipeg--a thousand miles!" moaned Jean Jacques.

With the finality which the tickets for Winnipeg signified, the shrill
panic emotion seemed to pass from him. In its mumbling, deadening force
it was like a sentence on a prisoner.

As many eyes were on Sebastian Dolores as on Jean Jacques. "It's the bad
blood that was in her," said a farmer with a significant gesture towards
Sebastian Dolores.

"A little bad blood let out would be a good thing," remarked a truculent
river-driver, who had given evidence directly contrary to that given by
Sebastian Dolores in the trial just concluded. There was a savage look
in his eye.

Sebastian Dolores heard, and he was not the man to invite trouble. He
could do no good where he was, and he turned to leave the market-place;
but in doing so he sought the eye of Virginie Poucette, who, however,
kept her face at an angle from him, as she saw Mere Langlois sharply
watching her.

"Grandfather, mother and daughter, all of a piece!" said a spiteful
woman, as Sebastian Dolores passed her. The look he gave her was not
the same as that he had given to Palass Poucette's widow. If it had
been given by a Spanish inquisitor to a heretic, little hope would have
remained in the heretic's heart. Yet there was a sad patient look on his
face, as though he was a martyr. He had no wish to be a martyr; but he
had a feeling that for want of other means of expressing their sympathy
with Jean Jacques, these rough people might tar and feather him at
least; though it was only his misfortune that those sprung from his
loins had such adventurous spirits!

Sebastian Dolores was not without a real instinct regarding th