of death. Granger felt that he would scarcely experience
surprise were he to witness, drifting on poised wings from an opening
in the clouds, a flight of shadowy angels, voyaging to some newer
planet where they should startle other shepherds, singing to them the
tidings of the Christ.

Antoine recalled him, saying, "I may not be doing right, for I cannot
guess your motives, but I have come to tell you that I am willing to
help you to escape."

If he had come to him on any other errand than that of his own
preservation, Granger knew, as he watched the pity struggling with the
sternness in his face, that he would have followed him anywhere, to
peril and to shame. But now, that was impossible.

"Antoine," he replied, "I cannot. Spurling is dead."

Le Pere surveyed him curiously in silence. "But you--did you do it?"
he said.

"You know that I always meant to do it."

"Then you are determined to die?"

"Yes."

"For some one else?"

"Pshaw! For me it is no sacrifice. You know that I would have killed
him, had God given me the time."

Antoine drew off his mitten, and held out to him his bare right hand.
"You are a noble man," he said; "I will keep your secret."

As they returned to the shack, Eyelids looked up at them inquiringly,
as though he were about to ask them what preparations he should make
for their journey. When he saw how, saying nothing, they sat
themselves down to wait, he shrugged his shoulders desperately.
Presently, with a false show of indifference, he set about playing the
moccasin-game, which consists of placing buttons, bullets, and
anything small which comes handy, into an empty moccasin, shaking
them up together, and guessing the number which the shoe contains. It
is a gambling game which, in earlier days, was wont to cause much
bloodshed and ruin among the buffalo-runners of the plains.

The hours went by and the night grew late. The meal which had been
spread was still untasted. They did not converse; there seemed so
little to say, and, moreover, their voices might prevent them from
hearing the first warning of Peggy's approach. The roaring of the logs
in the stove, and the monotonous clicking of the buttons and bullets
one against the other as Eyelids shook them, and again as he emptied
them upon the floor, like the ominous tapping of muffled hammers at
work about a coffin, were the only sounds, and these, at last, by
reason of their regularity, began to grow nerve-racking. Between the