ice of the peace or into a court
room?"

If Haward heard, it did not appear. He was leaning back in his chair, his
eyes fixed upon the trader's twitching face in a cold and smiling regard.
"Well, Monacan?" he demanded.

The half-breed straightened himself, and with a mighty effort strove in
vain for a composure that should match the other's cold self-command,--a
command which taunted and stung now at this point, now at that. "I am a
Frenchman!" he cried, in a voice that broke with passion. "I am of the
noblesse of the land of France, which is a country that is much grander
than Virginia! Old Pierre at Monacan-Town told me these things. My father
changed his name when he came across the sea, so I bear not the _de_ which
is a sign of a great man. Listen, you Englishman! I trade, I prosper, I
buy me land, I begin to build me a house. There is a girl that I see every
hour, every minute, while I am building it. She says she loves me not, but
nevertheless I shall wed her. Now I see her in this room, now in that; she
comes down the stair, she smiles at the window, she stands on the
doorstep to welcome me when I come home from my hunting and trading in
the woods so far away. I bring her fine skins of the otter, the beaver,
and the fawn; beadwork also from the villages and bracelets of copper and
pearl. The flowers bloom around her, and my heart sings to see her upon my
doorstep.... The flowers are dead, and you have stolen the girl away....
There was a stream, and the sun shone upon it, and you and she were in a
boat. I walked alone upon the bank, and in my heart I left building my
house and fell to other work. You laughed; one day you will laugh no more.
That was many suns ago. I have watched"--

Foam was upon his lips, and he strained without ceasing at his bonds.
Already pulled far awry, his great peruke, a cataract of hair streaming
over his shoulders, shading and softening the swarthy features between its
curled waves, now slipped from his head and fell to the floor. The change
which its absence wrought was startling. Of the man the moiety that was
white disappeared. The shaven head, its poise, its features, were Indian;
the soul was Indian, and looked from Indian eyes. Suddenly, for the last
transforming touch, came a torrent of words in a strange tongue, the
tongue of his mother. Of what he was speaking, what he was threatening, no
one of them could tell; he was a savage giving voice to madness and hate.

Haward pushe