sper pushed open the door. The interior was so dim that at
first he could not distinguish the occupant, but when his eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, he discovered the figure of the prisoner,
who was lying with his back toward him on the ground of the little hut
with nothing but a thin blanket beneath him. The only light revealing
the barren details of this Indian residence sifted through the small
doorway or peered timorously down through a narrow aperture in the
roof that served for a chimney. As Saint-Prosper gazed at the
prostrate man, the latter moved uneasily, and from the parched lips
fell a few words:

"Lock the doors, Oly-koeks! Hear the songsters, Mynheer Ten
Breecheses! Birds of prey, you Dutch varlet! What do you think of the
mistress of the manor? The serenading anti-renters have come for her."
Then he repeated more slowly: "The squaw Pewasch! For seventeen and
one-half ells of duffels! A rare principality for the scornful minx!
Lord! how the birds sing now around the manor--screech owls,
cat-birds, bobolinks!"

The soldier started back, vivid memories assailing his mind. Who was
this man whose brain, independent of the corporeal shell, played
waywardly with scenes, characters and events, indissolubly associated
with his own life?

"Do you know, Little Thunder, the Lord only rebuked the Pharisees?"
continued the prostrate man. "Though the Pharisee triumphs after all!
But it was the stroller I wanted, not the principality."

He stirred quickly, as if suddenly aware of the presence of another in
the hut, and, turning, lifted his head in a startled manner, surveying
the figure near the doorway with conflicting emotions written on his
pallid countenance. Perhaps some fragment of a dream yet lingered in
his brain; perhaps he was confused at the sight of a face that met his
excited look with one of doubt and bewilderment, but only partial
realization of the identity of the intruder came to him in his fevered
condition.

Arising deliberately, his body, like a machine, obeying automatically
some unconscious power, he confronted the officer, who recognized in
him, despite his thin, worn face and eyes, unnaturally bright, the
once pretentious land baron, Edward Mauville. Moving toward the door,
gazing on Saint-Prosper as though he was one of the figures of a
disturbing phantasm, he reached the threshold, and, lifting his hand
above his head, the prisoner placed it against one of the supports of
the hut