d, and someone read the
names from a slip of paper. Chevet sat by the open fire listening, his
pipe in his mouth, his eyes scowling at the news; suddenly he blurted
out: "De Artigny, say you? In the name of the fiend! 'tis not the old
captain?" "No, no, Chevet," a voice answered testily, "Sieur Louis de
Artigny has not stepped foot on ground these ten years; 'tis his brat
Rene who serves this freebooter, though 'tis like enough the father
hath money in the venture." And they fell to discussing, sneering at
the value of the discovery, while I slipped unnoticed from the room.

Chevet did not return to the house after Monsieur Cassion's canoe had
disappeared. I saw him walking back and forth along the river bank,
smoking, and seemingly thinking out some problem. Nor did he appear
until I had the evening meal ready, and called to him down the arbor.
He was always gruff and bearish enough when we were alone, seldom
speaking, indeed, except to give utterance to some order, but this
night he appeared even more morose and silent than his wont, not so
much as looking at me as he took seat, and began to eat. No doubt
Cassion had brought ill news, or else the appearance of De Artigny had
served to arouse all his old animosity toward La Salle. It was little
to me, however, and I had learned to ignore his moods, so I took my
own place silently, and paid no heed to the scowl with which he
surveyed me across the table. No doubt my very indifference fanned his
discontent, but I remained ignorant of it, until he burst out
savagely.

"And so you know this young cockerel, do you? You know him, and never
told me?"

I looked up in surprise, scarce comprehending the unexpected
outburst.

"You mean the Sieur de Artigny?"

"Ay! Don't play with me! I mean Louis de Artigny's brat. Bah! he may
fool Cassion with his soft words, but not Hugo Chevet. I know the lot
of them this many year, and no ward of mine will have aught to do with
the brood, either young or old. You hear that, Adele! When I hate, I
hate, and I have reason enough to hate that name, and all who bear it.
Where before did you ever meet this popinjay?"

"At the convent three years ago. La Salle rested there overnight, and
young De Artigny was of the party. He was but a boy then."

"He came here today to see you?"

"No, never," I protested. "I doubt if he even had the memory of me
until I told him who I was. Surely he explained clearly why he came."

He eyed me fiercely, h