At last he saw several breeds approaching, and one of them carried with him an axe and a quantity of rope.

And behind the breeds, greeted by lusty acclamations from the mob, came Louis Riel.

CHAPTER XVII

A CLOSE CALL

As the would-be priest and originator of two rebellions approached Pasmore, the ragged, wild-eyed, clamorous crowd made way for him.  It was ludicrous to note the air of superiority and braggadocio that this inordinately vain and ambitious man adopted.  The prisoner was standing surrounded by his now largely augmented guard, who, forgetful of one another’s contiguity, had their many wonderfully and fearfully made blunderbusses levelled at him, ready to blow him into little pieces at a moment’s notice if he made the slightest attempt to resist or escape.  Great would have been the slaughter amongst the metis if this had happened.

“Prisoner,” said Riel, with a decided French accent, “you are a spy.”  He fixed his dark grey eyes upon Pasmore angrily, and jerked out what he had to say.

“I fail to see how one who wears the Queen’s uniform can be a spy,” said Pasmore, undoing the leather tags of his long buffalo coat and showing a serge jacket with the regimental brass button on it.

“Ah, that is enough—­one of the Mounted Police!  What are you doing in this camp?”

“It is I who should be asking you that question.  What are you doing under arms?  Another rebellion?  Be warned by me, Monsieur Riel, and stop this bloodshed as you value your immortal soul.”

He knew that through the fanatic’s religion lay the only way of reaching him at all.

But the only effect these words had upon Riel was to further incense the arch rebel.

“Bind him, and search him,” he cried.

Pasmore knew that resistance was hopeless, so quietly submitted.  Their mode of tying him was unique.  They put a rope round his waist, leaving his arms free, while the two ends were held on either side by a couple of men.  His late guard, the big breed, who could not have been such a bad fellow, discovered his pipe, tobacco, and matches in one pocket, but withdrew his hand quickly.

“Nozing thar,” he declared.

Whether or not he thought the prisoner might soon require them on his way to the Happy Hunting Grounds is a matter of speculation.

They took his pocket-knife and keys, and in the inner pocket of his jacket they found the usual regimental papers and weekly reports pertaining to the Police Detachment.  These are alike as peas throughout the Territories, and not of the slightest value or interest, save to those directly concerned, but to Riel it was a great find.  He spread them out, scanned a few lines here and there, opened his eyes wide, pursed his lips, and then, as if it were superfluous pursuing the matter further, waved his hand in a melodramatic fashion, and cried—­