Her hatred for MacNair was real enough now.  That hatred, the shame and humility, and the fact that Lapierre was pleading with her as he had never pled before, were going far to convince the girl that her previous estimate of the quarter-breed had been a mistaken estimate, and that he was in truth the fine, clean, educated man of the North which on the surface he appeared to be.  A man whose aim it was to deal fairly and honourably with the Indians, and who in reality had the best interests of his people at heart.

No one but Chloe herself will ever know how near she came upon that afternoon to yielding to his pleading, and laying her soul bare to him.  But something interposed—­fate?  Destiny?  The materialist smiles “supper.”  Be that as it may, had she yielded to Lapierre’s plans, they would have stolen from the school that very night and proceeded to Fort Rae, to be married by the priest at the Mission.  For Lapierre, fully alive to the danger of delay, had eloquently pleaded his cause.

Not only was MacNair upon his trail—­MacNair the relentless, the indomitable—­but also the word had passed in the North, and the men of the Mounted—­those inscrutable sentinels of the silence whose watchword is “get the man”—­were aroused to avenge a comrade.  And Lapierre realized with a chill in his heart that he was “the man”!  His one chance lay in a timely marriage with Chloe Elliston, and a quick dash for the States.  If the dash succeeded, he had nothing to fear.  Even if it failed, and he fell into the hands of the Mounted—­with the Elliston millions behind him, he felt he could snap his fingers in the face of the law.  Men of millions do not serve time.

For the men who awaited him in the Bastile du Mort, Lapierre gave no thought.  He would stand by them as long as it furthered his own ends to stand by them.  When they ceased to be a factor in his own safety, they could shift for themselves, even as he, Lapierre, was shifting for himself.  Someone has said every man has his price.  It is certain that every man has his limit beyond which he may not go.

Lapierre, a man of consummate nerve, had put forth a final effort to save himself.  Had put forth the best effort that was in him to induce Chloe Elliston to marry him.  He had found the girl kinder, more receptive than he had dared hope.  His spirits arose to a point they had never before attained.  Success seemed within his grasp.  Then, suddenly, just as his fingers were about to close upon the prize—­the prize that meant to him life and plenty, instead of death—­the Louchoux girl, a passing folly of a bygone day, had suddenly risen up and confronted him—­and he knew that his cause was lost.

Lapierre had reached his limit of control, and when he turned at the sound of the Indian girl’s voice, his hand instinctively flew to his belt.  In his rage at the sudden turn of events, he became for the instant a madman, whose one thought was to destroy her who had wrought the harm.  The next instant the snarl died upon his lips and his hand dropped limply to his side.  In two strides Big Lena was upon him and her thick fingers bit deep into his shoulder as she spun him to face her—­to face the polished bit of the keen-edged ax which the huge woman flourished carelessly within an inch of his nose.