ng out of his
pocket and rolling almost to his own feet.

"Champagne Charlie is my name,"

sang the medicine-man. All Charley's old life surged up in him as
dyked water suddenly bursts bounds and spreads destruction. He had an
uncontrollable impulse. As a starving animal snatches at the first food
offered it, he stooped, with a rattle in his throat, seized the bottle,
uncorked it, put it to his lips, and drank--drank--drank.

Then he turned and plunged away into the trees. The sound of the song
followed him. It came to him, the last refrain, sung loudly to the
laughter of the crowd, in imitation of his own voice as it used to
be--it had been a different voice during this past year. He turned with
headlong intention, and, as the last notes of the song and the applause
that followed it, died away, threw back his head and sang out of the
darkness:

"Champagne Charlie is my name--"

With a shrill laugh, like the half-mad cry of an outcast soul, he flung
away farther into the trees.

There was a sudden silence. The crowd turned with half-apprehensive
laughter to the trees. Upon John Brown the effect was startling. His
face blanched, his eyes grew large with terror, his mouth opened in
helpless agitation. Charley Steele was lying under the waters of the
great river, his bones rotting there for a year, yet here was his voice
coming out of the night, in response to his own grotesque imitation of
the dead man. Seeing his agitation, women turned pale, men felt their
flesh creep, imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air. For a
moment the silence was unbroken. Then John Brown stretched out his hand
and said, in a hoarse whisper:

"It was his voice--Charley's voice, and he's been dead a year!"

Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven
to the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him.

CHAPTER XXVII. OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL.

There was one person in the crowd surrounding the medicine-man's wagon
who had none of that superstitious thrill which had scattered the
habitants into little awe-stricken groups, and then by twos and threes
to their homes; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to
such nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village.
Jo Portugais had recognised the voice--that of Charley Steele the lawyer
who had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice
of M'sieu'! There was that