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Pierre whip him until he avows me his master." "You do not know the half-breed, m'sieu. Twice I have tried him in friendly combat myself and have been beaten." "But I shall whip him," repeated Carrigan. "I will wager you anything anything in the world even life against life that I whip him!" The gloom had faded from the face of St. Pierre Boulain. But in a moment it clouded again.
Carrigan pulled himself a little higher on his pillow and with a new interest scanned the cabin. He had never heard of Boulain women. Yet here was the proof of their existence and of the greatness that ran in the red blood of their veins. The history of the great northland, hidden in the dust-dry tomes and guarded documents of the great company, had always been of absorbing interest to him.
And he leaned back against his dunnage-sack, staring again at the witching slimness of the lovely Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain as she calmly resumed her paddling in the bow of the canoe. In the few minutes following the efficient and unexpected warning of Bateese an entirely new element of interest entered into the situation for David Carrigan.
For a space there was silence, and then, from far out in the black shadow of the river, rolled back the great voice of St. Pierre Boulain singing the wild river chant, "En Roulant ma Boule." At the open window he listened. It seemed to him that from far over the river, where the giant raft lay, there came a faint answer to the words of the song,
His fingers dug into the slippery wood of the log under him, his blood ran hot, and in his eyes blazed the fury of an animal as he stared into the wall of gloom between him and Marie-Anne Boulain. How much did she know? That was the first question which pounded in his brain.
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