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She would as lief have the sore throat all the time, if she might only be alive. She said not a word, but the thoughts flew through her mind like a flock of startled swallows, not one after another, but all together; and so fast that they almost took her breath away. And O, such a naughty girl as she had been! Going barefoot! Telling a story about Crossman's orchard!
As the sled disappeared among the trees, bearing the queerly bundled figure of the Priest, the Boss unhooked his snowshoes from the wall. He seemed to have forgotten Crossman's presence, but as he turned, his smouldering eyes lighted on him. He straightened with a jerk. "What did he mean when he say, she have bewitch you?"
The strangely aloof acknowledgment of Crossman's possible relation to this woman, his woman, who yet was not his or any man's, somehow shocked Crossman. His blood flamed at the thought, and yet he felt her intangible, unreal. He had but to look into her shifting, glittering eyes, and there were silence and playing lights. Suddenly his vision of her changed, became human and vital.
Again she laughed, and her tingling, searching fingers stole slowly over his throbbing pulses. She released Crossman's arm with a jerk, and snapped the fingers that had just caressed him in the face of the furious lumberman. "Allons! Must I forever have no better revenge but to knife one paper doll? Am I to be hounded like a beast, and threatened wherever I go? I am tired of this dead camp.
"The short-cut trail to Chaumière Noire" "Shall I forever have no better revenge but to stab one paper doll?" Her words echoed in his ears. Jakapa was on the short cut to the Chaumière Noire! Only Crossman's accidental use of the field-glasses had betrayed his going.
Crossman's dog had ceased to bark at night, as was his wont, and sent her a note inquiring about it, for she thought there was something poetical in connection with nocturnal noises, which she hoped Mrs. Crossman felt also. Fanny conveyed the note, and read it likewise, as Mrs. Crossman declared her inability to read writing with her new spectacles, which a peddler had cheated her with lately.
She laughed at it, and sent word to Veronica that she was the curiousest young woman for her age that she had ever heard of; that the dog slept in the house of nights, for he was blind and deaf now; but that Crossman should get a new dog with a loud bark, if the dear child wanted it. A new dog soon came, so fierce that Abram told Temperance that people were afraid to pass Crossman's.
For an instant Crossman's impulse was to rush out and ring the alarm on the shrieking steel gong, but the next instant he laughed at himself. Yes, surely, he was a sick man of many imaginings. The gang boss was gone about his business. The log-brander had called upon his woman to accompany him. That was all. Her angry words were mere threats best forgotten.
"Dieu merci!" the Curé made the sign of the cross as he spoke. "As for this woman, send her away. She is not the wife of Antoine Marceau; she is not married she will not be." In spite of himself a savage joy burned in Crossman's veins. She was the wife of no man; she was a free being, whatever else she was. "I do not have to marry," she jeered.
He also hoped to injure the boy so badly in the encounter that he could not take his turn operating the Sky-Bird for the rest of the journey; at least, cripple him enough to delay his party in getting away from the island. With these evil intents the French flyer conceived still another. He stepped aside and whispered something in Chuck Crossman's ear, then came back and faced Paul. Mr.
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