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Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the coward in his face. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll be goin’, for ye’ve got y’r teeth all raspin’.”

As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. “Wind like a bag,” said Hatchett. “Bone like a marrow-fat pea,” added Wiley.

Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. “If ye care to sail agin’ that wind, an’ gnaw on that bone, I’d not be sayin’ you no.”

“Will to-night do–at sunset?” said Wiley.

“Bedad, then, me b’ys, sunset’ll do–an’ not more than two at a time,” he added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went out, followed by Pierre.

Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed a little confusedly. “What’s that he said?” muttered Wiley. “Not more than two at a time, was it?”

“That was it. I don’t know that it’s what we bargained for, after all.” He looked round on the other settlers present, who had been awed by the childlike, earnest note in Macavoy’s last words. They shook their heads now a little sagely; they weren’t so sure that Pierre’s little game was so jovial as it had promised.

Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his giant as yet. In a little while he had got Macavoy back to his old humour.

“What was I made for but war!” said the Irishman, “an’ by war to kape thim at peace, wherever I am.” Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to go with Pierre to Bareback’s lodge, where, sitting at the tent door, with idlers about, he smoked with the chief and his braves. Again Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he became loud in speech, and grandly patronising.

“I’ve stood by ye like a father, ye loafers,” he said, “an’ I give you my word, ye howlin’ rogues–“

Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up suddenly from the ground, and the chief said fiercely: “You speak crooked things. We are no rogues. We will fight.”

Macavoy’s face ran red to his hair. He scratched his head a little foolishly, and gathered himself up. “Sure, ’twas only me tasin’, darlins,” he said, “but I’ll be comin’ again, when y’are not so narvis.” He turned to go away.

Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian touched the giant on the arm. “Will you fight?” said he.

“Not all o’ ye at once,” said Macavoy slowly, running his eye carefully along the half-dozen; “not more than three at a toime,” he added with a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like the dove’s. “At what time will it be convaynyint for ye?” he asked.

“At sunset,” said the chief, “before the Fort.” Macavoy nodded and walked away with Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians did not make them thoroughly happy.

To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had already three engagements of violence for sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a roundabout to the Company’s stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in the giant’s spirits. Here at least he could be himself, he thought, here no one should say him nay. As if nerved by the idea, he plunged at once into boisterous raillery of the Chief Trader. “Oh, ho,” he began, “me freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!” The Trader snarled at him. “What d’ye mean, by such talk to me, sir? I’ve had enough–we’ve all had enough–of your brag and bounce; for you’re all sweat and swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, that though by the Company’s rules I can’t go out and fight you, you may have your pick of my men for it. I’ll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh–Irish pemmican!”

Macavoy’s face became mottled with sudden rage. He roared, as, perhaps, he had never roared before: “Are ye all gone mad-mad-mad? I was jokin’ wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o’ me pipe, and the sweat o’ me skin, I’ll drink the blood o’ yees, Trader, me darlin’. An’ all I’ll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o’ the pack is in front o’ the Fort–but not more than four o’ yees at a time–for little scrawney rats as y’are, too many o’ yees wad be in me way.” He wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently.