avity of the features, and the
rugged but grand proportions of the head. There is no better light in
which to see an old man's face than the fitful firelight; and no better
background than that which the darkness makes.

One would have thought that the interrogation was not heard, for on the
trapper's face there showed no line of change. The girl remained looking
steadfastly into the face of the questioner, and Herbert made no
response.

"I asked you a question, old trapper," said the man; "a question which
reaches to the depths of human responsibility, and points to the heights
of human sacrifice. In the old days, the wisdom of the world was with
those who lived with Nature. Your head is white, and you tell me you
have lived in the woods since you were a boy. You have seen war; have
stood in battle; have slain your man, and made many graves of those you
have slain. Have you wisdom? Are you able to answer the question I have
asked you?"

"I have, as ye say," answered the trapper, "ben in wars. I've stood in
battle; I've slain men; I've buried those I have slain; I know what it
is to take a human creeter's life, and I think I know where the right to
do the deed stops and where it begins."

"Where does it begin?" asked the man; "where does the right to take
human life begin?"

The words came forth slowly and heavy-weighted with meaning. It was
evident that the question which the man asked was not asked as one
interrogates, but as one puts a question that has personal application
to himself. The trapper felt this. He looked into the man's face, and
studied his countenance a moment; noted the breadth of brow, the large,
deep-set eyes, the fine curvature of the chin and cheek; saw the beauty
and splendor of it; saw what some might not have seen,--both the beauty
of its peaceful mood and the terribleness of the wrath that might surge
out of it,--saw all this, and without answering the question, said
simply,--

"You have killed a man."

The stranger looked steadily back into the trapper's face, and answered
as simply,--

"Yes, I am a murderer."

Herbert started a trifle. The girl gave a slight exclamation and lifted
her hand as if in protest. The trapper alone made reply,--

"Ye sartinly don't look like a murderer, friend."

"He is none! he is none!" exclaimed the girl. "He had provocation, old
man! he had provocation!" and then she turned toward the man, and said:
"Why will you say such things? Why will you con