e interrupted at this point; it seemed to be arguing and
trying to conciliate, but its tones were so low and spoken so rapidly
that it was only possible to gather its general intention. The first
voice spoke again.

"I don't care about the other man; there's no sense in looking for
him. He's probably dead by now. But the fellows I can't stand are
these blamed private traders; they're always up to some dirty work.
When I get my chance of putting one of them out of business, I don't
hesitate. To hell with all private traders, I say."

The canoe had now drawn level with the cove, so that Granger was able
to recognise its occupants. In the stern sat the Indian steersman,
with a rifle ready to his hand. Next to him sat a large red-bearded
man, broad in the shoulders, massive in the jowl, almost brutal in his
evidence of strength; even in that dusky light one could feel that his
face was clenched in a scowl, and that his eyes were piercingly gray
and cruel. Facing him, with his back towards the prow, sat Pere
Antoine, a little bent forward, gesticulating with his hands, his
whole attitude that of one who is trying to explain and persuade.
After him came the remaining three Indian and half-breed paddle-men,
sharp-featured and unemotional, stooping vigorously to their work.

"And what do you propose doing?" asked Pere Antoine.

"Why, what I've already told you a dozen times--treat him like a mad
dog. I shall arrest him at once, and take him back with me as prisoner
to God's Voice. When once I've got him there, I shall make him confess
and get together sufficient evidence to have him hanged. This whole
affair has been a scandal, and I'm going to put a stop to it. I shall
make an example of this man. Why, soon it won't be safe to travel
anywhere, unless you go protected. He must have had a nice lot of
ruffians for his friends, if this fellow Spurling was a specimen. And
now they've taken to paying him visits. . . ."

The canoe bore the speaker out of earshot, leaving the listeners with
the sentence uncompleted.

Granger was aroused from some very uncomfortable imaginings by
Spurling, who, touching him on the elbow, exclaimed in surprise, "Why,
it isn't me; it's you they're after!"

Then, when he received no answer, he asked, "What is it that you have
done?"

It was Cain accusing Judas with a vengeance.

"Done! I've done nothing," Granger exclaimed, pushing him aside;
"Robert Pilgrim is mistaken."

"That's what we all