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“But the tribe was after them in fifty canoes, some coming straight along, some spreading out to close in later. It was no equal game, for these people were so quick and strong with the oars, and they were a hundred or more to two. There could be but one end. It was what the Great Slave had looked for: to fight till the last breath. He should fight for the woman who had risked all for him–just a common woman of the north, but it seemed good to lose his life for her; and she would be happy to die with him.

“So they stood side by side when the spears and arrows fell round them, and they gave death and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. When, at last, the Indians climbed into the canoe, the Great Slave was dead of many wounds, and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to his wet, red cheek. She smiled as they dragged her away; and her soul hurried after his to the Camp of the Great Fires.”

It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said: “If I could but tell it as you have told it to me, Pierre!” Pierre answered: “Tell it with your tongue, and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What English have I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not write it, mais non! Writing wanders from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, and the time, that is the thing. But in a book–it will sound all cold and thin. It is for the north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before a man rolls into his blanket, and is at peace. No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere with your tongue.”

“And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, tell me more about the letters at Fort O’Glory. You know his name–what was it?”

“You said five hundred dollars for one of those letters. Is it not?”

“Yes.” Tybalt had a new hope.

“T’sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! But, here, answer me a question: Was the lady–his wife, she that was left in England–a good woman? Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. If you say right you shall have a letter–one that I have by me.”

Tybalt’s heart leapt into his throat. After a little he said huskily: “She was a good woman–he believed her that, and so shall I.”

“You think he could not have been so great unless, eh? And that ‘Charles Rex,’ what of him?”

“What good can it do to call him bad now?” Without a word, Pierre drew from a leather wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and yet again.

“Poor soul! poor lady!” he said. “Was ever such another letter written to any man? And it came too late; this, with the king’s recall, came too late!”

“So–so. He died out there where that wild duck flies–a Great Slave. Years after, the Company’s man brought word of all.”

Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of the letter.

“How do they call that name?” asked Pierre. “It is like none I’ve seen–no.”

Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not answer.