hose eyes of yours," he said, with
whimsical seriousness. "You mustn't let any young Johnny
Crapaud or Indian see them any more than you can help."

They descended the bluff and walked silently together
for some little distance through the thicket of birch
and saskatoon bushes. They were now close to the garden
of the first straggling house, and they could see dark
figures moving about everywhere. He pointed out to her
the way she would have to take.

"Now, au revoir," he said, "and good luck to you."

They shook hands, and she wished him an equal luck. "You
have been very good to us," she added, "and I hope you
will believe that we are grateful."

He took off his cap to her, and they went on their separate
ways.

Now that the girl had gone so far that there was no
turning back, she rose to the occasion as she said she
would. She faced the ghastly sights with much of her
father's old spirit.

She put her hands in her large side pockets and lounged
leisurely past the gable end of a house. A half-breed
woman, carrying a large armful of loot, met her on the
side-walk. In the moonlight the girl caught the glint of
the bold, black, almond-shaped eyes and the flushed face.
The woman was breathing hard, and her two arms encircled
the great bundle. She shot a quick glance at Dorothy.
She was more Indian than white.

Only that the rebels that night did not see with their
normal eyesight, the girl realised that she would have
been detected and undone.

Two drunken Indians came walking unsteadily towards her,
talking excitedly. Though quaking inwardly, she kept
straight on her way, imitating a man's gait as much as
she could, for with those long buffalo coats that reach
to the ground, it was impossible to tell a man from a
woman save by the walk. The moccasins made the difference
even less. But the Indians passed her, and she breathed
more freely. Several people crossed and recrossed her
path, but beyond a half-curious look of inquiry, they
did not trouble about her. She passed a store in flames,
and saw a number of breeds and Indians yelling and whooping
and encouraging an intoxicated metis to dash into it at
the imminent risk of his life to fetch out some article
of inconsiderable value as a proof of his prowess. As
she passed on she heard a dull thud; and, looking back,
realised by the vast shaft of sparks which rose into the
air that the roof had fallen in. Jean Ba'tiste had played
with Death once too often.