t the snow banks and the
pale blue sky! How lovely seemed the whole world! Pasmore
was thinking about many things, but most he was thinking
of some one whom he hoped was now making her way over
the snow, and for whose sake he was now here. No, he did
not grudge his life, but it was a strange way to die
after all his hopes--mostly shattered ones; to be led
like a brute beast amongst a crowd of jeering half-breeds
who, only a few days before, were ready to doff their
caps at sight of him; and to be shot dead by them with
such short shrift, and because he had only done his
duty!...

They were coming to the rise now. How like a gallows that
tall, dead, scraggy pine looked against the pale grey!
How the hound-like mob alongside yelled and jeered! One
of them--he knew him well--he of the evil Mongolian-like
eyes and snaky locks--whom he had spoken a timely word
to a year ago and saved from prison--from some little
distance took the opportunity of throwing a piece of
frozen snow at Pasmore. It struck the policeman behind
the ear, causing him to feel sick and dizzy. He felt the
hot blood trickling down his neck, and he heard one or
two of the pack laughing.

"He will be plenty dead soon," said one. "What does it
matter?"

But the big breed, with a touch of that humanity which
beats down prejudice and makes us all akin, turned upon
the now unpleasantly demonstrative rabble, and swore at
them roundly. In another moment Pasmore was himself again,
and he could see that gallows-like tree right in front
of him... And what was that hulking brute alongside
saying about skulking shermoganish? Was he going to his
death hearing the uniform he wore insulted by cowardly
brutes without making a resistance of some sort? He knew
he would be shot down instantly if he did, and they would
be glad of an excuse, but that would be only cutting
short the agony. The veins swelled on his forehead, and
he felt his limbs stiffen. He made a sudden movement,
but the big breed caught his arm and whispered in his
ear. It was an Indian saying which meant that until the
Great Spirit Himself called, it was folly to listen to
those who tempted. It was not so much the hope these few
words carried with them, as the spirit in which they were
uttered, that stayed Pasmore's precipitate action. He
knew that no help would come from the invested Fort, but
God at times brought about many wonderful things.

As they led him up the rough, conical mound he breat