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Updated: May 3, 2025
For she had also told him that Kedsty would kill her, if he dared. He held himself in readiness. At a cry from her, or the first move on Kedsty's part to take her from the bungalow, he would give battle in spite of Marette's warning. He almost hoped one of these two things would happen. As he stood there, listening, waiting, the thought became almost a prayer. He had Pelly's revolver.
"You beautiful little fighter," he cried exultantly. "You you " His words were cut short by a snap that was like the report of a pistol close to his ears. He pitched forward and crashed to the bottom of the scow, Marette's slim body clutched in his arms as he fell. In a flash they were up, and mutely they stared where the sweep had been. The blade of it was gone.
"A pretty trick," he said, "but the bluff won't work!" "Oh, but it will!" came the reply. The little black gun was shifted to him, even as the constable's fingers touched his revolver holster. With half-smiling lips, Marette's eyes blazed at him. "Please put up your hands," she commanded. The constable hesitated; then his fingers gripped the butt of his gun.
So he brought out his pack and Marette's smaller bundle, and laid his rifle and pistol holster across them. It was three o'clock when the character of the river began to change, and Kent smiled happily. They were entering upon swifter waters. There were places where the channel narrowed, and they sped through rapids.
It was the horrible, overwhelming certainty of the thing. The years fell from him, and he sobbed sobbed like a boy stricken by some great childish grief, as he searched along the edge of the shore. Over and over again he cried and whispered Marette's name. But he did not shout it again, for he knew that she was dead. She was gone from him forever. Yet he did not cease to search.
After an interval his voice was a steady rumble. It rose higher. He heard the crash of a chair. Then the voice ceased, and after it came the tramping of Kedsty's feet. Not once did he catch the sound of Marette's voice, but he was sure that in the interval of silence she was talking. Then Kedsty's voice broke forth more furiously than before. Kent's fingers dug into the sill of the door.
And as his lips tightened, crushing fiercely the exclamation of his horror, there came a trembling happiness from Marette's lips, scarcely more than the whisper of a song, the low, thrilling melody of Le Chaudière. Her arms reached up, and she drew his head down to her, so that for a time his visions were blinded in that sweet smother of her hair.
"A pretty trick," he said, "but the bluff won't work!" "Oh, but it will!" came the reply. The little black gun was shifted to him, even as the constable's fingers touched his revolver holster. With half-smiling lips, Marette's eyes blazed at him. "Please put up your hands," she commanded. The constable hesitated; then his fingers gripped the butt of his gun.
He was almost physically insensible to all emotions but that one of shock and horror. He was staring at Kedsty's gray-white, twisted face when he heard Marette's door close. A cry came from his lips, but he did not hear it was unconscious that he had made a sound. His body shook with a sudden tremor. He could not disbelieve, for the evidence was there.
"I'm all right Jeems!" His swimming prowess was of little avail now. He was like a chip. All his effort was to make of himself a barrier between Marette's soft body and the rocks. It was not the water itself that he feared, but the rocks. There were scores and hundreds of them, like the teeth of a mighty grinding machine. And the jaw was a quarter of a mile in length.
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