is eyes over the river for his canoe, which was
now a speck in the distance.

"Ba gosh! I'm hell of a t'ing for lookin' at," he said. "I'm paddle
hard--dat's w'y. Sacre! how I sweat!" He hitched nervously at the band
of his overalls, while Necia answered:

"That's all right, Poleon." Then, without warning, her face froze with
mingled repulsion and wonder. "Look! Look!" she whispered, pointing
past him.

Runnion was moving slowly, crawling painfully into a sitting posture,
uplifting a terribly mutilated face, dazed and half conscious, groping
for possession of his wits. He saw them, and grimaced frightfully,
cowering and cringing.

Poleon felt the girl's hand upon his arm, and heard her crying in a
hard, sharp voice:

"He needs killing! Put him away!"

He stared down at his gentle Necia, and saw the loathing in her face
and the look of strange ferocity as she met his eyes boldly.

"You don't know what he--what he did," she said, through her shut
teeth. "He--" But the man waited to hear no more.

Runnion saw him coming, and scrambled frantically to all-fours, then
got on his feet and staggered down the bar. As Poleon overtook him, he
cried out piteously, a shrill scream of terror, and, falling to his
knees, grovelled and debased himself like a foul cripple at fear of the
lash. His agony dispelled the savage taint of Alluna's aboriginal
training in Necia, and the pure white blood of her ancestors cried out:

"Poleon, Poleon! Not that!" She hurried after him to where he paused
above the wretch waiting for her. "You mustn't!" she said. "That would
be murder, and--and--it's all over now."

The Frenchman looked at her wonderingly, not comprehending this sudden
leniency.

"Let him alone; you've nearly killed him; that's enough." Whereat
Runnion, broken in body and spirit, began to beg for his life.

"Wat's dat you say jus' now?" Doret asked the girl. "Was dat de truth
for sure w'at you speak?"

"Yes, but you've done your work. Don't touch him again."

He hesitated, and Runnion, quick to observe it, added his entreaty to
hers.

"I'm beaten, Doret. You broke me to pieces. I need help--I--I'm hurt."

"W'at you 'spec' I do wit' 'im?" the Canadian asked, and she answered:

"I suppose we'll have to take him where he can get assistance."

"Dat skiff ain' carry all free of us."

"I'll stay here," groaned the frightened man. "I'll wait for a steamer
to pick me up, but for God's sake don't touch me again!"

Pole