“I had hoped to find you dead, M’seur,” he repeated in a voice so low it could not have been heard beyond the door.  “That is why I did not bind your wound and give you water when they turned you over to my care.  I wanted you to bleed to death.  It would have been easier—­for both of us.”

From under the table he drew forth a second stool and sat down opposite Howland.  The two men stared at each other over the sputtering remnant of the candle.  Before the engineer had recovered from his astonishment at the sudden appearance of the man whom he believed to be safely imprisoned in the old cabin, Croisset’s shifting eyes fell on the mass of torn wood under the aperture.

“Too late, M’seur,” he said meaningly.  “They are waiting up there now.  It is impossible for you to escape.”

“That is what I thought about you,” replied Howland, forcing himself to speak coolly.  “How did you manage it?”

“They came up to free me soon after they got you, M’seur.  I am grateful to you for thinking of me, for if you had not told them I might have stayed there and starved like a beast in a trap.”

“It was Meleese,” said Howland.  “I told her.”

Jean dropped his head in his hands.

“I have just come from Meleese,” he whispered softly.  “She sends you her love, M’seur, and tells you not to give up hope.  The great God, if she only knew—­if she only knew what is about to happen!  No one has told her.  She is a prisoner in her room, and after that—­after that out on the plain—­when she came to you and fought like one gone mad to save you—­they will not give her freedom until all is over.  What time is it, M’seur?”

A clammy chill passed over Howland as he read the time.

“Half-past four.”

The Frenchman shivered; his fingers clasped and unclasped nervously as he leaned nearer his companion.

“The Virgin bear me witness that I wish I might strike ten years off my life and give you freedom,” he breathed quickly.  “I would do it this instant, M’seur.  I would help you to escape if it were in any way possible.  But they are in the room at the head of the stair—­waiting.  At six—­”

Something seemed to choke him and he stopped.

“At six—­what then?” urged Howland.  “My God, man, what makes you look so?  What is to happen at six?”

Jean stiffened.  A flash of the old fire gleamed in his eyes, and his voice was steady and clear when he spoke again.

“I have no time to lose in further talk like this, M’seur,” he said almost harshly.  “They know now that it was I who fought for you and for Meleese on the Great North Trail.  They know that it is I who saved you at Wekusko.  Meleese can no more save me than she can save you, and to make my task a little harder they have made me their messenger, and—­”

Again he stopped, choking for words.

“What?” insisted Howland, leaning toward him, his face as white as the tallow in the little dish on the table.