d risen almost to a shout. His bandaged hands clenched
into fists like limbs of mutton. He held them out at the man opposite,
and in his agony of rage, it gave the impression he was threatening.

Father Adam stirred. He reached down into the box under him and picked
up a pannikin. Then he produced a flask from an inner pocket. He
unscrewed the top and poured out some of its contents. He held it out to
the other.

"Drink it," he said quietly.

The blue eyes searched the dark face before them. In a moment excitement
had begun to pass.

"What is it?" Bull demanded roughly.

"It's brandy, and there's dope in it."

"Dope?"

"Yes. Bromide. You'll feel better after you've swallowed it. You see I
want to make a big talk with you. That's why I brought you here. That's
why I stopped you killing that feller--that, and other reasons. But I
can't talk with you acting like--like I'd guess Arden Laval would act.
Drink that right up. And you needn't be scared of it. It'll just do you
the good you need."

Father Adam watched while the other took the pannikin. He watched him
raise it, and sniff suspiciously at its contents. And a shadowy smile
lit his dark eyes.

"It's as I said," he prompted. Then he added: "I'm not a--Caesar."

The youth glanced across at him, and for the first time since his battle
a smile broke through the angry gleam of his eyes. He put the pannikin
to his lips and gulped down the contents.

Father Adam drew a deep sigh. It was curious how this act of obedience
and faith affected him. The weight of his responsibility seemed suddenly
to have become enormous.

It was always the same. This man accepted him as did every other
lumber-jack throughout the forests of Quebec. He was a father whose
patient affection for his lawless children was never failing, a man of
healing, with something of the gentleness of a woman. An adviser and
spiritual guide who never worried them, and yet contrived, perhaps all
unknown to themselves, to leave them better men for their knowledge of
him. He came, and he departed. Whence he came and whither he went no one
enquired, no one seemed to know. He just moved through the twilight
forests like a ghostly, beneficent shadow, supreme in his command of
their rugged hearts.

Bull set the pannikin on the ground beside him. His smile had deepened.

"You needn't to tell me that, Father," he said, almost humbly. "There
isn't a feller back there in the camp," he added with a jerk of hi