their joys there
forever. A long and rather heavy nose, sensitive at the nostrils. High
cheek bones. A good forehead, but rather too flattened at the temples.
Long, thin meshes of white hair escaping through the border of the high
fox-skin cap. The complexion was bronze and the face beardless. This
last feature is said to be characteristic of low vitality, but it is
also frequently distinctive of eccentricity, and Batoche was clearly
eccentric, as the expression of his eyes showed. They were cold grey
eyes, but filled with wild intermittent illuminations. The reflection of
the fire-light gave them a weird appearance.

Batoche sat for fully half an hour in front of the fire, his long thin
hands thrust into his pockets, his fox-skin cap dashed to one side of
his head and his eyes steadily fixed upon the flames. Although
immoveable, he was evidently a prey to profound emotions, for the lurid
light, playing upon his face, revealed the going and coming of painful
thoughts. Now and then he muttered something in a half articulate voice
which the black cat seemed to understand, for it purred awhile in its
circular nest, then rising, rounded its back, and looked up at its
master with tender inquiry in its green eyes. But Batoche had no thought
for Velours to-night. His mind was entirely occupied with little Blanche
who, having gone into Quebec upon some errands, as was her wont, had not
yet returned.

The wind moaned dismally around the little hut, at times giving it a
wrench as if it would topple it from its foundations. The spruces and
firs in the neighborhood creaked and tossed in the breath of the
tempest, and there was a dull, heavy roar from the head of the Falls.
Suddenly, amid all these sounds, the solitary old man's quick ear caught
a peculiar cry coming from the direction of the road. It was a sharp,
shrill bark, followed by a low whine. He sat up, bent his head and
listened again. Velour's fur stood on end, and its whisker bristled like
wire. The sound was heard again, made clearer and more striking by a
sudden rush of wind.

"A wolf, a wolf!" exclaimed Batoche, as he sprang from his seat, seized
his gun from its hooks and rushed out of the house. He did not hesitate
one moment as to the direction which he should take, but bent his steps
to the main road.

"Never. Oh, it can never be," he gasped, as he hurried along. "God would
never throw her into the wolf's embrace."--

He reached the road at last, and paused