s kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all
behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow,
came forth no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still
gave him his title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and
generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple King." His seven feet and over
shambled about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled force. No one
hated Macavoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and the
cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so much man useless--such
an engine of life, which might do great things, wasting fuel. Nobody
thought much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre, who
sometimes said, "My simple king, some day you shall have your great
chance again; but not as a king--as a giant, a man--voila!"

The day did not come immediately, but it came. When Ida, the deaf and
dumb girl, married Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and
some from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents of one kind or
another. Pierre's gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding Ida's name
on it with the broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered on him,
having just returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne.

"Is it digging out or carvin' in y'are?" he asked, puffing into his
beard.

Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply to the insinuation,
for he never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it; and he would
not quarrel with Macavoy.

"What are you going to give?" he asked.

"Aw, give what to who, hop-o'-me-thumb?" Macavoy said, stretching
himself out in the doorway, his legs in the sun, head in the shade.

"You've been taking a walk in the country, then?" Pierre asked, though
he knew.

"To Fort Ste. Anne: a buryin', two christ'nin's, an' a weddin'; an'
lashin's av grog an' swill-aw that, me button o' the North!"

"La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You've got the things end
foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette,
and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode."

"Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It's like a baby's, me breath is,
milk and honey it is--aw yis; an' Father Corraine, that was doin' the
trick for the love o' God, says he to me, 'Little Tim Macavoy,'--aw yis,
little Tim Macavoy,--says he, 'when are you goin' to buckle to, for
the love o' God?' says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine
should spake to me like that, for I'd only a tw