s help one not able help himself! Ha! _Tres bien! Noblesse oblige!
La Gloire!_ She--near! She here! She where I, Louis Laplante, son of a
seigneur, snare that she-devil, trap that fox, trick the tigress!
Ha--ol' tombstone! _Noblesse oblige_--I say! She near--she here," and he
flung up both arms like a frenzied maniac.

"Man! Are you mad?" I demanded, uncertain whether he were apostrophizing
Diable's squaw, or abstract glory. "Speak out!" I shouted, shaking him
by the shoulder.

"These--are they all friends?" asked Louis, suddenly cooled and looking
suspiciously at the group.

"All," said I, still holding him by the shoulder.

"That--that thing--that bear--that bruin--he a friend?" and Louis
pointed to Mr. Sutherland.

"Friend to the core," said I, laying both hands upon his shoulders.
"Core with prickles outside," gibed Louis.

"Louis," I commanded, utterly out of patience, "what of Miriam? Speak
plain, man! Have you brought the tribe as you promised?"

It must have been mention of Miriam's name, for the white, drawn face of
Eric Hamilton bent over my shoulder and fiery, glowing eyes burned into
the very soul of the Frenchman. Louis staggered back as if red irons had
been thrust in his face.

"_Sacredie_," said he, backing against Father Holland, "I am no
murderer."

It was then I observed that Frances Sutherland had followed me. Her
slender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the French
adventurer.

"Monsieur Laplante will tell us what he knows," she said softly, and she
waited for his answer.

"The daughter of _L'Aigle_," he replied slowly and collectedly, all the
while feasting upon that fair face, "comes down the Red with her tribe
and captives, many captive women. They pass here to-night. They camp
south the rapids, this side of the rapids. Last night I leave them. I
run forward, I find Le Petit Garcon--how you call him?--Leetle Fellow?
He take me to the priest. He bring canoe here. He wait now for carry us
down. We must go to the rapids--to the camp! There my contract! My
bargain, it is finished," and he shrugged his shoulders, for Frances had
removed her hand from his.

Whether Louis Laplante's excitable nature were momentarily unbalanced by
the success of his feat, I leave to psychologists. Whether some
premonition of his impending fate had wrought upon him strangely, let
psychical speculators decide. Or whether Louis, the sly rogue, worked up
the whole situation for the purpose of drawi