But the big breed, with a touch of that humanity which beats down prejudice and makes us all akin, turned upon the now unpleasantly demonstrative rabble, and swore at them roundly.  In another moment Pasmore was himself again, and he could see that gallows-like tree right in front of him...  And what was that hulking brute alongside saying about skulking shermoganish?  Was he going to his death hearing the uniform he wore insulted by cowardly brutes without making a resistance of some sort?  He knew he would be shot down instantly if he did, and they would be glad of an excuse, but that would be only cutting short the agony.  The veins swelled on his forehead, and he felt his limbs stiffen.  He made a sudden movement, but the big breed caught his arm and whispered in his ear.  It was an Indian saying which meant that until the Great Spirit Himself called, it was folly to listen to those who tempted.  It was not so much the hope these few words carried with them, as the spirit in which they were uttered, that stayed Pasmore’s precipitate action.  He knew that no help would come from the invested Fort, but God at times brought about many wonderful things.

As they led him up the rough, conical mound he breathed a prayer for Divine aid.  It would be nothing short of a miracle now if in a few minutes he were not dead.  They faced him about and tied him to the tree; and now he looked down upon the upturned faces of the wild-eyed, fiery-natured rebels.

Riel stepped forward with the papers in his hand.

“Prisoner,” he said, “you have been caught red-handed, and the metis will it that you must die.  Is it not so?” He turned to the crowd.  “On the spot where he now stands he spilt the blood of the metis.  What say you?”

There was a hoarse yell of assent from the followers of the fanatic.

Riel turned to one of his generals, who cried to some one in the crowd.  It was the next of kin to Heinault, who had been shot on that very spot, and in very truth he looked a fit representative of the man who had perished for his crimes.  He was indeed an ill-looking scoundrel.  There was a gratified grin upon his evil face.  He knew Pasmore of old, and Pasmore had very good reason to know him.  Their eyes met.

“Now you will nevare, nevare threaten me one, two, three times again,” he cried.

Pasmore looked into the cruel, eager face of the breed, and he knew that no hope lay there.  Then he caught the gleam of snow on the crest of the opposite ridge—­it was scintillating as if set with diamonds.  How beautiful was that bit of blue seen through the pillar-like stems of the pines!

Pasmore’s thoughts were now elsewhere than with his executioners, when unexpectedly there came an interruption.  There was a hurried scattering of the crowd at the foot of the mound, and Pepin Quesnelle, leading his bear, appeared upon the scene.  That his short legs had been sorely tried in reaching the spot there could be little doubt, for his face was very red, and it was evident he had wrought himself into something very nearly approaching a passion.