“It is Pierre Thoreau,” he said, “eldest brother to Meleese.  It is he who should say what I am about to tell you, M’seur.  But he is too full of grief to speak.  You wonder at that?  And yet I tell you that a man with a better soul than Pierre Thoreau never lived, though three times he has tried to kill you.  Do you remember what you asked me a short time ago, M’seur—­if I thought that you were the John Howland who murdered the father of Meleese sixteen years ago?  God’s saints, and I did until hardly more than half an hour ago, when some one came from the South and exploded a mine under our feet.  It was the youngest of the three brothers.  M’seur we have made a great mistake, and we ask your forgiveness.”

In the silence the eyes of the two men met across the table.  To Howland it was not the thought that his life was saved that came with the greatest force, but the thought of Meleese, the knowledge that in that hour when all seemed to be lost she was nearer to him than ever.  He leaned half over the table, his hands clenched, his eyes blazing.  Jean did not understand, for he went on quickly.

“I know it is hard, M’seur.  Perhaps it will be impossible for you to forgive a thing like this.  We have tried to kill you—­kill you by a slow torture, as we thought you deserved.  But think for a moment, M’seur, of what happened up here sixteen years ago this winter.  I have told you how I choked life from the man-fiend.  So I would have choked life from you if it had not been for Meleese.  I, too, am guilty.  Only six years ago we knew that the right John Howland—­the son of the man I slew—­was in Montreal, and we sent to seek him this youngest brother, for he had been a long time at school with Meleese and knew the ways of the South better than the others.  But he failed to find him at that time, and it was only a short while ago that this brother located you.

“As Our Blessed Lady is my witness, M’seur, it is not strange that he should have taken you for the man we sought, for it is singular that you bear him out like a brother in looks, as I remember the boy.  It is true that Francois made a great error when he sent word to his brothers suggesting that if either Gregson or Thorne was put out of the way you would probably be sent into the North.  I swear by the Virgin that Meleese knew nothing of this, M’seur.  She knew nothing of the schemes by which her brothers drove Gregson and Thorne back into the South.  They did not wish to kill them, and yet it was necessary to do something that you might replace one of them, M’seur.  They did not make a move alone but that something happened.  Gregson lost a finger.  Thorne was badly hurt—­as you know.  Bullets came through their window at night.  With Jackpine in their employ it was easy to work on them, and it was not long before they sent down asking for another man to replace them.”

For the first time a surge of anger swept through Howland.