Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 39: what you’re looking at

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

Ambush fiercely. ‘You don’t hate me. In spite of all, you don’t hate me.” “There you’re wrong,” she flashed. ‘“‘I do hate you. I hate you with my father’s hatred of your father, with his eternal loath- ing of a Carlisle.” He leaned over till his eyes were close to hers, till he could catch every flicker of expression, every shade of emotion. “With his hatred,” he admitted trium- phantly, “but not with your own! Great heavens, Joan, I showed my feeling in the Rapide des Boisfranc, and you showed me yours in the teepee in the forest when you thought I was asleep. No — no—don’t say you didn’t. You can’t deceive me. I won't take a thousand denials. You’re acting—acting a lie for your father’s sake. By the God of the Northmen, girl, you care!”’ “No! no! no, I don’t!” He laid his palms on the arms that hugged the bunch of tangled flowers. “Vou care!’ he repeated chokingly. » “No, Paul, I——” The rest was lost in the swift sliding of his palms to her shoulders and the swifter crushing of herself against his great frame. “Stop, Paul, stop!”’ she implored, her face like a wild flower all sprayed with crimson among the crushed roses. “The blood of my mother stands between. And my father forbade me even to meet you on the trail. Let me go. If any of his men should come by and see!”’ ey’d see the truth, for you’re living a lie” he passionately persisted. “Tell me it’s a lie!”’ His caress was the elemental, soul-shaking caress that had swayed her in the caldron of the rapids, and with a little cry, Joan involuntarily tightened one arm upon his shoulders. “Ves, I lie—I do,”’ she panted. “And I shall go on lying—for my father’s sake, for my dead mother’s sake. I shall hate you day by day. Let me go! Here, take the flowers, the bluebells for my eyes, the daisies for my hair, as my father says. “They’re all you'll ever have of me. Takethem. And, oh, Paul, no matter how I hate you, how I hurt. you, remember that Ilie! There! There! My God, what have I said—and done?” She had forced the crushed flowers into his arms and, writhing free, darted through the saskatoon bushes into the fringe of trees that straggled ’round to Fort Wayne. 37 A radiant light on his features, Carlisle looked down at the crushed, tangled armful of flowers she had left him. His vision was blurred, and he seemed to-see them as her palpitant self, her longings crushed like the bruised petals upon her vow of parental devotion. He held the blooms tight as he moved away along the grassy hills, through the hollows and over the brake of fern to Cumberland House, and continually his eyes strayed to his fragrant burden. Lounging in the gateway of the stockade Galt and Drummond saw him coming and stared their surprise. “Ba gar, w’at’s dat he be got, Henry?” demanded the brigade leader. “Flowers of the hills,”’ replied the keen- eyed half-breed. “Certainement, dat’s right! Ha! Factor, you be peeck de bouquet for de post dis mornin’, eh?” Carlisle looked up, startled. “Oh— ah— yes, Eugene!” he returned. “The hills are covered withthem. Did you ever see such shades? But they wilt quickly. And say, now that I think of it, is Cotameg about?” “De Chippewa canoeman? I’m t’ink he be gone on de lac. Oui, I’m remembaire heem say he be goin’ after w’itefish.” ‘“Well, when he comes in, send him to me. I have a journey for him this afternoon.” “Oui,”’ assured Drummond, ‘“‘soon’s I be set eyes on hees canoe!”’ The Factor passed on through the gate and up to his house, and the moment his back disappeared Eugene grasped the half- breed chief trader by the arm. ‘You be see it, Galt?”’ he chuckled. “No,” confessed Galt whose sight had failed him for once, “see what?” “He peeck dem, eh?” Eugene laughed enigmatically. ‘‘For sure he peeck dem. An’ you ain’t see it? Ba gar, wound ’round de stems—forgotten? Wandainty handkerchief, silk, all ovaire dat stinky smell—w/’at you call it?-—out, perfume! Diable, Galt, an’ dat’s strange flowaire for grow on de wild rose bush!” CHAPTER VIII THE PRICE OF A KISS” A! THE moment Eugene Drummond was speaking of Cotameg as having gone on the lake, the Chippewa’s canoe was turning into Carcajou Cove up the Pine COnmmiclboooks (C@