, pleading and anxious.
He could follow the words as his lips framed them. In the present mood
Crossman did not wish to hear the Cure's denunciation. It was
sufficient to see that the Foreman had, evidently, no intention of
acting on the advice proffered.

As he softly closed the door between the main office and the living
room at the rear, he heard the men enter on a quick word of reproof in
the Cure's rich bass.

"She does her work sufficiently well, and I shall not order her from
the camp," Jakapa snapped in reply. "She is with Marceau; if he keeps
her in hand, what do I care? She leave him, that _his_ affair, _mon
Dieu, mon pere_."

"She has bewitched you, too, Jakapa. She has bewitched that other, the
young man who is here for the healing of his soul. What an irony, to
heal his soul, and she comes to poison it!"

"Heal his soul?" Jakapa laughed harshly. "He's had the weak lung,
shell-shock, and he's a friend of the owner. _Mon pere_, if he is here
for the good of his soul, that is _your_ province--but me?--I am here
to boss one job, and I boss him, that's all. I hope only you have not
driven the cook away, or the _pot-au-feu_, she will be thin." He tried
to speak the latter part of his sentence lightly, but his voice
betrayed his irritation.

Crossman opened the door and entered. "Antoine will be here in a
minute," he announced. "Aurore sent him back to feed the animals." He
took down the enamelled tin dishes and cups and set their places.
Jakapa eyed him covertly, with a half-sneering venom he had never
before shown.

It was a silent meal. The Cure sighed and shook his head at intervals,
and the Boss grumbled a few comments in answer to an occasional
question concerning his lumberjacks. Crossman sat in a dream. Could he
have understood aright when Antoine had spoken of the dawn?

Jakapa dropped a plate with a curse and a clatter. The sudden sound
ripped the sick man's nerves like an exploding bomb. White to the
lips, he jumped from his chair to meet the Boss's sneering eyes. The
Cure laid a gentle hand on his arm, and he settled back shamefacedly.

"Your pardon, _mon pere_--my nerves are on edge--excuse me--an
inheritance of the trenches."

"Emotion is bad for you, my son, and you should not emotion yourself,"
said the Priest gently.

"Do you travel far when you leave us now?" Crossman asked
self-consciously, anxious to change the subject.

"To the camp at the Chaumiere Noire, a matter of ten kilome