Bull Sternford was younger.  He was clean and fresh from one of the finest colleges of the world.  He was an athlete by training and nature.  Then, too, his mentality was of that amazing fighting quality which stirs youth to go out and seek the world rather than vegetate in the nursery of childhood.  It was all there written in his keen, blue eyes, in the set of his jaws of even white teeth.  It was all there in the muscular set of his great neck, and in the poise of his handsome head, and in the upright carriage of his breadth of shoulder.  Even his walk was a thing to mark him out from his fellows.  It was bold, perhaps even there was a suggestion of arrogance in it.  But it was only the result of the military straightness of his body.

Little wonder, then, a man of Arden Laval’s brutal nature should mark him down as desired victim.  This man was “green.”  He was educated.  He possessed a spirit worth breaking.  Later he would learn.  Later he would become a force in the calling of the woods.  Now he would be easy.

The brute had sought every opportunity to bait and goad the man to his undoing.  For months he had “camped on his trail,” and Bull had endured.  Then came that moment of the filthy epithet, and Bull’s spirit broke through the bonds of will that held it.  The insult had been hurled at the moment and at the spot where the battle had been fought.  Bull had flung himself forthwith at the throat of the French Canadian almost before the last syllable of the insult had passed the man’s lips.  And the end of nearly a two hours’ battle had been the downfall of the bully, with the name of Bull Sternford hailed as a fighting man in his place.

The firebrand was passed to the waiting missionary.  He sucked in the pleasant fumes of a lumberman’s tobacco.  Then the stick was flung back to its place in the fire.

Father Adam nursed one long leg, which he flung across the other, while his wide, intelligent eyes gazed squarely into the eyes of the man opposite.

“Tell me,” he said.  “What brought you into the life of the woods?  What left you quitting the things I can see civilisation handed you?  This is the life of the wastrel, the fallen, the man who knows no better.  It’s not for men starting out in possession of all those things—­you have.”

Bull sat for a moment without replying.  Father Adam’s “dope” had done its work.  His passionate moments had vanished like an ugly dream.  His turbulent spirit had attained peace.  Suddenly he looked up with a frank laugh.

“Now, why in hell should I tell you?”

It was an irresistible challenge.  The missionary nodded his approval.

“Yes.  Why—­in hell—­should you?”

He, too, laughed.  And his laugh miraculously lit up his ascetic features.

Instantly Bull flung out one bandaged hand in a sweeping gesture.