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“Magor will do the man injury?”

“What would you have? Put the matter on your own hearthstone, eh?… Pardon, if I say these things bluntly.” Pierre still lightly rocked the cradle with one foot.

“But vengeance is in God’s hands.”

“M’sieu’,” said the half-breed, “vengeance also is man’s, else why did we ten men from Fort Cypress track down the Indians who murdered your brother, the good priest, and kill them one by one?”

Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, and helped her to a chair, then turned a sad face on Pierre. “Were you–were you one of that ten?” he asked, overcome; and he held out his hand.

The two river-driving camps joined at Mud Cat Point, where was the crush of great timber. The two men did not at first come face to face, but it was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the bank while the others worked, that the old man watched his enemy closely. The work of undoing the great twist of logs was exciting, and they fell on each other with a great sound as they were pried off, and went sliding, grinding, into the water. At one spot they were piled together, massive and high. These were left to the last.

It was here that the two met. Old Magor’s face was quiet, if a little haggard; and his eyes looked out from under his shaggy brows piercingly. Dugard’s manner was swaggering, and he swore horribly at his gang. Presently he stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate log. He was at the foot of an incline of timber, and he was not aware that Magor had suddenly appeared at the top of that incline. He heard his name called out sharply. Swinging round, he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under a huge timber, hanging at the top of the incline. He was standing in a hollow, a kind of trench. He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old man’s design. He gave a cry and made as if to jump out of the way, but with a laugh Magor threw his whole weight on the handspike, the great timber slid swiftly down and crushed Dugard from his thighs to his feet, breaking his legs terribly. The old man called down at him: “A slip–a little accident, mon ami!” Then, shouldering his handspike, he made his way through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on homewards.

Magor had done what he wished. Dugard would be a cripple for life; his beauty was all spoiled and broken: there was much to do to save his life. II

Nora also about this time took to her bed with fever. Again and again Pierre rode thirty miles and back to get ice for her head. All were kind to her now. The vengeance upon Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of her shame in the eyes of Bamber’s Boom. Such is the way of the world. He that has the last blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora began to recover, the child fell ill also. In the sickness of the child the old man had a great temptation–far greater than that concerning Dugard. As the mother grew better the child became much worse. One night the doctor came, driving over from another settlement, and said that if the child got sleep till morning it would probably live, for the crisis had come. He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same that had been given to the mother. If it did not sleep, it would die. Pierre was present at this time.

All through the child’s illness the old man’s mind had been tossed to and fro. If the child died, the living stigma would be gone; there would be no reminder of his daughter’s shame in the eyes of the world. They could go away from Bamber’s Boom, and begin life again somewhere. But, then, there was the child itself which had crept into his heart,–he knew not how, and would not be driven out. He had never, till it was taken ill, even touched it, nor spoken to it. To destroy its life!–Well, would it not be better for the child to go out of all possible shame, into peace, the peace of the grave?