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David Carrigan, in this most astounding moment of his life, found himself looking up into the face of a woman. For a matter of twenty seconds even longer it seemed to Carrigan the life of these two was expressed in a vivid and unforgettable tableau. One half of it David saw the blue sky, the dazzling sun, the girl in between.

They were Dr. Joseph A. Bennett of Sistersville; C. Burgess Taylor of Wheeling; the Hon. Charles E. Carrigan of Moundsville; Judge McWhorter and J. M. N. Downes of Buckhannon; Howard L. Swisher of Morgantown; the Hon. Tracy L. Jeffords and the Hon. B. Randolph Bias of Williamson; Mrs. Frank N. Mann of Huntington; Mrs. Flora Williams of Wheeling, soloist. Mrs.

I must ask the reader to again recall the fact that Sergeant Goody was one of the six hangmen who put the meal-sacks over the heads, and the ropes around the necks of the condemned. Corporal Carrigan was the gigantic prize fighter, who was universally acknowledged to be the best man physically among the whole thirty-four thousand in Andersonville.

She had done these things with courage and conviction. And of such a woman, Carrigan thought, St. Pierre must be very proud. He looked slowly about the cabin again and each thing that he saw was a living voice breaking up a dream for him. These voices told him that he was in a temple built because of a man's worship for a woman and that man was St. Pierre.

To Carrigan, looking through his window, there was an oppressive menace about it all. The shadowy figures ashore were more like a death-watch than a guard, and to dispel the gloom of it he lighted two of the lamps in the cabin, whistled, drummed a simple chord he knew on the piano, and finally settled down to smoking his pipe.

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.

A week of twenty-below-zero weather opened the month of January and halted work on the mesa. At that time four miles of canal remained to be dug. Bryant and Pat Carrigan sat by the stove in Lee's shack and waited, as the whole camp waited, for the thermometer to rise.

And his eyes had deepened into blue again and were almost friendly. "You would stake your life?" repeated Carrigan questioningly. "You would do that?" St. Pierre rose to his feet and looked about the cabin with a shining light in his eyes that was both pride and exaltation.

There was a space of only five or six feet between them, and he spoke with studied distinctness. "Possibly you have, m'sieu." Her voice was exquisite, clear as the note of a bird, yet so soft and low that she seemed scarcely to have spoken. And it was, Carrigan thought, criminally evasive under the circumstances. He wanted her to turn round and say something.

For Carrigan felt the thrill of these days when strong men were coming out of the north days when the glory of June hung over the land, when out of the deep wilderness threaded by the Three Rivers came romance and courage and red-blooded men and women of an almost forgotten people to laugh and sing and barter for a time with the outpost guardians of a younger and more progressive world.