s foul and tattered almost beyond legibility; but
through the stains I deciphered in delicate penciling these words:

"In memory of last night's carouse in Lower Town, (one favor
deserves another, you know, and I got you free of that scrape),
spike the gun of my friend the enemy. If R-f-s G--p--e, E.
H--l-t-n, J--k MacK, or any of that prig gang come prying round
your camp for news, put them on the wrong track. I owe the
whole ---- ---- set a score. Pay it for me, and we'll call the
loan square."

No name was signed; but the scene in the Quebec club three years before,
when Eric had come to blows with Colonel Adderly, explained not only the
authorship but Louis' treachery. 'Tis the misfortune of errant rogues
like poor Louis that to get out of one scrape ever involves them in a
worse. Now I understood the tumult of contradictory emotions that had
wrought upon him when I had saved his life and he had resolved to undo
the wrong to Miriam.

Little Fellow put the small canoe to rights, and I had soon joined the
others at the Sutherland homestead. But for two days the priest lay as
one dead, neither moaning nor speaking. On the morning of the third,
though he neither opened his eyes nor gave sign of recognition, he asked
for bread. Then my heart gave a great bound of hope--for surely a man
desiring food is recovering!--and I sent Frances Sutherland to him and
went out among the trees above the river.

That sense of resilient relief which a man feels on discharging an
impossible task, or throwing off too heavy a burden, came over me.
Miriam was rescued, the priest restored, and I dowered with God's best
gift--the love of a noble, fair woman. Hard duty's compulsion no longer
spurred me; but my thoughts still drove in a wild whirl. There was a
glassy reflection of a faded moon on the water, and daybreak came
rustling through the trees which nodded and swayed overhead. A
twittering of winged things arose in the branches, first only the
cadence of a robin's call, an oriole's flute-whistle, the stirring
wren's mellow note. Then, suddenly, out burst from the leafed sprays a
chorus of song that might have rivaled angels' melodies. The robin's
call was a gust of triumph. The oriole's strain lilted exultant and a
thousand throats gushed out golden notes.

"Now God be praised for love and beauty and goodness--and above all--for
Frances--for Frances," were the words that every bird seemed to be
s