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Meanwhile Ridgar and De Courtenay pushed silently forward with the limp body of McElroy swinging between, while the girl stepped softly in their trail, straining her ears for sounds from the camp, and carrying the only weapon among them, a rifle which Ridgar had taken from the Indian he had killed.

"What a change has come over my flock within a few days! my husband, and Sarah, and dear little Bub murdered by the Indians, and Charlie, also, I suppose I must say, although there is something peculiarly trying in the mystery that hangs over his fate." "You do not really know, then, what became of him," observed Mrs. McElroy. "No; and this uncertainty is agonizing.

The next evening Nicodemus waylaid George and poured a bucket of ice-water over him. One day, while Nicodemus was in swimming, Tom McElroy "tied" his clothes. Nicodemus made a bonfire of Tom's by way of retaliation. A third joke was played upon Nicodemus a day or two later he walked up the middle aisle of the village church, Sunday night, with a staring handbill pinned between his shoulders.

McElroy has made observations in the glass-factories in his neighborhood, and estimates that in the nine working hours of each day a glass-blower drinks from 50 to 60 pints of water. In addition to this many are addicted to the use of beer and spirits after working hours and at lunch-time. The excreta and urine never seem to be perceptibly increased.

"Friends," he said, "bound for the west and the country of the Saskatchewan." For all his appearance he spoke with the accent of the French, and for a moment McElroy looked closely at him. "Of the Company?" he asked sharply. "Aye," said the other, with a little of wonder in voice and look, "of the Company, M'sieu most assuredly."

It was the lodge of the chief and within lay the stark body of the murdered Negansahima. As the faint light grew, one by one the warriors rose out of the mass like smoke spirals, drawing away to disappear among the tepees. Soon there came the sound of falling poles and McElroy knew that they were striking the camp. For what? Why, surely, for one thing.

"The man you saw taken from the canoe is Monsieur Anders McElroy, Factor of Fort de Seviere on the Assiniboine, and of the Hudson's Bay Company." "Faith of me fathers! Say ye so! A man of our own men!" "Aye. Then you are also of the Company? Good!

Comely Rette flushed to her sleek hair and some flicker of a girlhood that had its modicum of grace, flared up in the swift curtsy with which she acknowledged the compliment. And with a last flash of his blue coat Alfred de Courtenay was gone. McElroy ran his fingers helplessly through his tousled light hair and faced his friend.

As his eyes met those of his factor all doubt was swept away. This was his friend, McElroy knew in that one swift moment, even as he watched his torture, his friend on whose faith and goodness he would stake his soul anew. It was strange what a keen joy surged through him with that subtle knowledge, what smart of tear-mist stung his eyes.

Instead of the bending bodies, the rhythmic stamping of soft-shod feet, the extended palms, there were unspeakable leapings, writhings, and grimaces revolting in their horror, brandishing of knives, and yelling that was incessant. McElroy closed his eyes and forced his mind to the Petition for Mercy.