ed?"

"The De Meurons!" This was fairly screamed.

I shook him till he sputtered something more.

"They've captured the fort--our people didn't want to shed blood----"

"And threw down their guns," I interjected, disgusted beyond word.

"Threw down their guns," he repeated, as though that were a praiseworthy
action. "The s-s-sentinels--saw the court--full--full--full of
s-soldiers!"

"Full of soldiers!" I thundered. "There are not a hundred in the gang."

Thereupon I gave the caitiff a toss that sent him reeling against the
wall, and dashed up-stairs for the papers. All was darkness, and I nigh
broke my neck over a coffin-shaped rough box made for one of the
trappers, who had died in the fort. Why was the thing lying there,
anyway? The man should have been put into it and buried at once without
any drinking bout and dead wake, I reflected with some sharpness, as I
rubbed my bruised shins and shoved the box aside. Shouts rang up from
the courtyard. Heavy feet trampled in the hall below. Hamilton, as a
Hudson's Bay man, and Father Holland, I knew, were perfectly safe. But I
was far from safe. Why were they not there to help me, I wondered, with
the sort of rage we all vent on our friends when we are cornered and
they at ease. I fumbled across the apartment, found the right desk,
pried the drawer open with my knife, and was in the very act of seizing
the documents when I saw my own shadow on the floor. Lantern light burst
with a glare through the gloom of the doorway.

CHAPTER XXVI

FATHER HOLLAND AND I IN THE TOILS

Behind the lantern was a face with terrified eyes and gaping mouth. It
was the priest, his genial countenance a very picture of fear.

"What's wrong, Father?" I asked. "You needn't be alarmed; you're all
right."

"But I am alarmed, for you're all wrong! Lord, boy, why didn't ye stay
with that peppery Scotchman? What did Frances mane by lettin' you out
to-night?" and he shaded the light of the lantern with his hand.

"I wanted these things," I explained.

"Ye want a broad thumpin', I'm thinkin', ye rattle-pate, to risk y'r
precious noodle here to-night," he whispered, coming forward and fussing
about me with all the maternal anxiety of a hen over her only chicken.

"Listen," said I. "The whole mob's coming in."

"Go!" he urged, pushing me from the desk over which I still fumbled.

"Run for those dogs of mercenaries!" I protested.

"Ye swash-buckler! Ye stiff-necked braggart!" bawled