y Father, I heard her! And so we are
going to fight the great fight, M'sieur."

Philip waited. After a moment Jean said, as quietly as if he were
asking the time of day:

"Do you know whom we went out to see last night--and met again
to-night?" he asked.

"I have guessed," replied Philip. His face was white and hard.

Jean nodded.

"I think you have guessed correctly, M'sieur. It was the baby's father!"

And then, in amazement, he stared at Philip. For the other had flung
off his arm, and his eyes were blazing in the starlight.

"And you have had all this trouble, all this mystery, all this fear
because of HIM?" he demanded. His voice rang out in a harsh laugh. "You
met him last night, and again to-night, and LET HIM GO? You, Jean
Croisset? The one man in the whole world I would give my life to
meet--and YOU afraid of him? My God, if that is all--"

Jean interrupted him, laying a firm, quiet hand on his arm.

"What would you do, M'sieur?"

"Kill him," breathed Philip. "Kill him by inches, slowly, torturingly.
And to-night, Jean. He is near. I will follow him, and do what you have
been afraid to do."

"Yes, that is it, I have been afraid to kill him," replied Jean. Philip
saw the starlight on the half-breed's face. And he knew, as he looked,
that he had called Jean Jacques Croisset the one thing in the world
that he could not be: a coward.

"I am wrong," he apologized quickly. "Jean, it is not that. I am
excited, and I take back my words. It is not fear. It is something
else. Why have you not killed him?"

"M'sieur, do you believe in an oath that you make to your God?"

"Yes. But not when it means the crushing of human souls. Then it is a
crime."

"Ah!" Jean was facing him now, his eyes aflame. "I am a Catholic,
M'sieur--one of those of the far North, who are different from the
Catholics of the south, of Montreal and Quebec. Listen! To-night I have
broken a part of my oath; I am breaking a part of it in telling you
what I am about to say. But I am not a coward, unless it is a coward
who lives too much in fear of the Great God. What is my soul compared
to that in the gentle breast of our Josephine? I would sacrifice it
to-night--give it to Wetikoo--lend it forever to hell if I could undo
what has been done. And you ask me why I have not killed, why I have
not taken the life of a beast who is unfit to breathe God's air for an
hour! Does it not occur to you, M'sieur, that there must be a reason?"

"Besi