Adventure, November 1915 — page 113: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Posts “Ciel” blurted Dubawni. “You are right. It must be that he repents, is ashamed of his company. And no branded bond-slave of Helbaud’s would dare offer us aid in the face of Helbaud’s orders. This Francois of yours must be of a different breed. I will go out. I will see——” “No, no!” cried Masita hastily, pulling him back. “It is no work for you. If Hel- baud or any of his men saw they would at once grow suspicious. Let me go. None will be suspicious of me. I shall get his word. I shall bring you good news, father, and meantime, keep well within sight of the drinkers here. They will not suspect.” Light as a fawn she sprang away from him, her moccasins making no sound on the council-hall floor, and the next instant she had drifted through the doorway at the front. : Dubawni, blocking the other doorway against any curious gaze with his shoulder touching the jamb, breathed with relief as she disappeared. A sudden exaltation thrilled him. MHelbaud’s stroke had not yet won. There was still a nebulous chance. CHAPTER VII FRANCOIS LAVERGNE REMEMBERS UT once outside Masita was careful not to rush. She walked slowly, ap- parently aimlessly, over the flat rock-beach in front of the council-hall. - Down by the river, his back to her and his eyes impassively fixed upon the swift- gliding river waters, stood Francois. Far- ther along the shore paced the gorilla-built Betarde, doing sentinel duty by the water’s edge. Canoes lay about in profusion, and Masita idly noted that Frangois stood very close to one. | Other men were about, the second relay waiting for their meal and cursing their fel- lows who lingered so long over the rum. Off the portage came the packers who had been bound down when the supper bell rang, and these deposited their bales of furs under the sheds and joined the throng about the di- ning-hall door. While up the rocky path of the portage itself a solitary sentinel paced along against the orange sky. Masita noted these things subconsciously, as it were, and they worried her since they lessened the chances of any daring break of Pillage which Francois Lavergne might make. Betarde’s eyes took in everything that went on, and the sentinel on the portage looked down on them as from a tower. Lethargically, as one in despair and cher- ishing no hope, she angled off from the coun- cil-hall toward the gap of the portage, turned irresolutely several times, scanned the fringing spruce as if considering its pos- sibilities as a hiding-place and resignedly wheeled back along the water’s edge. Betarde, watching her, came quickly for- ward, as if to warn her away from the ca- noes, but Lavergne nodded unconcernedly toward him. “There is no need,” he observed gravely. “I am here,” And Betarde, remembering how the head voyageur had saved him his bet at the chasm on the portage, nodded knowingly and paced back to the lower end of the beach. “Francois! Fran¢ois!’”’ exclaimed Masita tremulously. ‘You remembered. I knew you would remember.” He turned from the river, and Masita saw that the stern, impassive face that had greeted them on Manikuagan Portage was aglow with tenderness. It was not the same face, yet it was his face, the face of Francois the youth. The fire of hope, ambition, dreams, touched his cheeks crimson as of old, and the light of an exalted worship burned in the golden-brown eyes. ““Mon Dieu, Francois, you wore a mask!” she cried. “You wore a mask, but you re- membered all the same.” “Remembered?” he _ echoed tensely. “But I have never forgotten. There was no day when I didn’t remember. And I have tried to come where I could speak with you, but when people are in different com- panies, that is not always easy. I could not even send a message. I knew where you were, but I could send nothing. You un- derstand? The rivalry is bitter in the La- -brador, and one stands with one’s company to the death.” “So?” flashed Masita, her indignation getting the better of her. ‘You cleave thus to Helbaud, to a dog, to a——” “No, no!” interrupted Lavergne. “I am no liege of Helbaud’s, Surely you knew me better than that, Masita. In the old days would I have joined such a rascal as Helbaud? No, you say. Well, I am the same still. My heart is the heart you knew and my code is the code you knew. Hel- COMIC OOOKS (C IIL (E@)