hed
a prayer for Divine aid. It would be nothing short of a
miracle now if in a few minutes he were not dead. They
faced him about and tied him to the tree; and now he
looked down upon the upturned faces of the wild-eyed,
fiery-natured rebels.

Riel stepped forward with the papers in his hand.

"Prisoner," he said, "you have been caught red-handed,
and the metis will it that you must die. Is it not so?"
He turned to the crowd. "On the spot where he now stands
he spilt the blood of the metis. What say you?"

There was a hoarse yell of assent from the followers of
the fanatic.

Riel turned to one of his generals, who cried to some
one in the crowd. It was the next of kin to Heinault,
who had been shot on that very spot, and in very truth
he looked a fit representative of the man who had perished
for his crimes. He was indeed an ill-looking scoundrel.
There was a gratified grin upon his evil face. He knew
Pasmore of old, and Pasmore had very good reason to know
him. Their eyes met.

"Now you will nevare, nevare threaten me one, two, three
times again," he cried.

Pasmore looked into the cruel, eager face of the breed,
and he knew that no hope lay there. Then he caught the
gleam of snow on the crest of the opposite ridge--it was
scintillating as if set with diamonds. How beautiful
was that bit of blue seen through the pillar-like stems
of the pines!

Pasmore's thoughts were now elsewhere than with his
executioners, when unexpectedly there came an interruption.
There was a hurried scattering of the crowd at the foot
of the mound, and Pepin Quesnelle, leading his bear,
appeared upon the scene. That his short legs had been
sorely tried in reaching the spot there could be little
doubt, for his face was very red, and it was evident he
had wrought himself into something very nearly approaching
a passion.

Riel, who had at first turned round with an angry
exclamation on his lips, seemed somewhat startled when
he saw the weird figures before him, for he, too, like
the breeds and Indians, was not without a species of
superstitious dread of the manikin and his strange
attendant. The executioner glared at the intruder angrily.

"Wait, you just wait one bit--_coquin_, rascal, fool!"
gasped Pepin, pulling up within a few yards of him, and
shaking his stick. "You will not kill that man, I say
you will not! I know you, Leon Heinault; it is because
this man will stop you from doing as your vile cousin
did that you want