ill-gotten goods.  Some of the lounging figures at the door even had resplendent new sashes, and odd-looking articles that did duty for them, wound round their waists and necks.  At intervals Pasmore could hear an odd rifle shot, and he guessed that the Fort must be closely invested.  His first thoughts, however, were for Dorothy and her father, whom he hoped were now safely back under the friendly protection of Child-of-Light.

“Sar-jean,” said a big half-breed whom he recognised as one of his guards of the previous night, “will you haf to eat and drink?”

The fellow did not look such a callous fanatic as some of the others, and although this promise of breakfast was not particularly exhilarating, still, Pasmore had a healthy appetite, and he answered in the affirmative.

The big breed issued some orders, and in a few minutes, to Pasmore’s no little satisfaction, a lad brought a tin of biscuits, a tin of salmon, a piece of cheese, and a spoon, all obviously supplied by the Hudson Bay Company on the previous evening free of charge—­and against its will.

He sat down on the upturned pail once more and enjoyed the simple fare.  It was queer to think that this meal in all probability would be his last on earth.  His surroundings seemed incongruous and unreal, and his mind ran in a vein of whimsical speculation.  It is strange to think, but it is a fact, all the same, that certain temperaments, when face to face with death, allow their thoughts to take an oddly critical and retrospective view of things in general.  The fear of death does not affect them, although, at the same time, they are fully conscious of the momentous issues of their fate.

The crowd gathered around the door of the long building, and many were the uncouth jests made at the expense of the prisoner.  One or two still half-drunk Indians pushed their way through and came close up to him, talking volubly and shaking their fire-arms in his face.  But the big breed let out at them with his great fists, and sent them away expostulating still more volubly.  Pasmore could easily have settled the matter himself under other circumstances, but he did not wish to precipitate matters.  The crowd grew in numbers, and very soon he gathered something in regard to what was on foot.

He was to be taken to a certain little rise on the outskirts of the village, where the Police had shot a notorious malcontent and murderer some years before, and there he was, in his turn, to be executed.  This would be retributive justice!  Pasmore recollected with cynical amusement how some of these very same rebels had lived for years in dread of their lives from that desperado, and how at the time nearly the whole population had expressed their satisfaction and thanks to the Police for getting rid of the outlaw, who had been killed in resisting arrest.  Now, when it suited their ends, the latter was a martyr, and he was a malefactor.  He wished they would hurry up and shoot him out of hand, if he was to be shot He did not know what horrible formality might not be in store for him before they did that.  But how beautifully the sun was shining!  He had hardly thought that Battleford could be so fair to look upon.