imself, for the unexpectedly pathetic results of his fantastic
attempt had shaken him. Twice he half turned as though to follow her.
Then shaking his shoulders he bent his attention to the old man in the
shadow of the chair.

He was given no opportunity for further speech, however, for at the
sound of the closing door Galen Albret's impassivity had fallen from
him. He sprang to his feet. The whole aspect of the man suddenly
became electric, terrible. His eyes blazed; his heavy brows drew
spasmodically toward each other; his jaws worked, twisting his beard
into strange contortions; his massive frame straightened formidably;
and his voice rumbled from the arch of his deep chest in a torrent of
passionate sound.

"By God, young man!" he thundered, "you go too far! Take heed! I will
not stand this! Do not you presume to make love to my daughter before
my eyes!"

And Ned Trent, just within the dusky circle of lamplight, where the
bold, sneering lines of his face stood out in relief against the
twilight of the room, threw back his head and laughed. It was a clear
laugh, but low, and in it were all the devils of triumph, and of
insolence. Where the studied insult of words had failed, this single
cachinnation succeeded. The Trader saw his opponent's eyes narrow. For
a moment he thought the Factor was about to spring on him.

Then, with an effort that blackened his face with blood, Galen Albret
controlled himself, and fell to striking the call-bell violently and
repeatedly with the palm of his hand. After a moment Matthews, the
English servant, came running in. To him the Factor was at first
physically unable to utter a syllable. Then finally he managed to
ejaculate the name of his bowsman with such violence of gesture that
the frightened servant comprehended by sheer force of terror and ran
out again in search of Me-en-gan.

This supreme effort seemed to clear the way for speech. Galen Albret
began to address his opponent hoarsely in quick, disjointed
sentences, a gasp for breath between each.

"You revived an old legend--_la Longue Traverse_--the myth. It shall
be real--to--you--I will make it so. By God, you shall not defy
me--"

Ned Trent smiled. "You do not deceive me," he rejoined, coolly.

"Silence!" cried the Factor. "Silence!--You shall speak no more!--You
have said enough--"

Me-en-gan glided into the room. Galen Albret at once addressed him in
the Ojibway language, gaining control of himself as he went on.