She remembered the sharp, quick words of authority—­the words that caused the villainous Vermilion to whirl with a snarl of fear.  Remembered also, the swift sure shot that had ended Vermilion’s career, his absolute mastery of the situation, his lack of excitement or braggadocio, and the expressed regret over the necessity for killing the man.  Remembered the abject terror in the eyes of those who fled into the bush at his appearance, and the servility of the canoemen.

As she glanced into the half-turned face of the man, Chloe saw that the sneering smile had faded from the thin lips as he waited her answer.

“At my own instigation.”  There was an underlying hardness of defiance in her words, and the firm, sun-reddened chin unconsciously thrust forward beneath the encircling mosquito net.  She paused, but the man, expressionless, continued to gaze out over the surface of the river.

“I do not know exactly where,” she continued, “but it will be somewhere.  Wherever it will do the most good.  Upon the bank of some river, or lake, perhaps, where the people of the wilderness may come and receive that which is theirs of right——­”

“Theirs of right?” The man looked into her face, and Chloe saw that the thin lips again smiled—­this time with a quizzical smile that hinted at tolerant amusement.  The smile stung.

“Yes, theirs of right!” she flashed.  “The education that was freely offered to me, and to you—­and of which we availed ourselves.”

For a long time the man continued to gaze in silence, and, when at length he spoke, it was to ask an entirely irrelevant question.

“Miss Elliston, you have heard my name before?”

The question came as a surprise, and for a moment Chloe hesitated.  Then frankly, and looking straight into his eyes she answered: 

“Yes, I have.”

The man nodded, “I knew you had.”  He turned his injured eye quickly from the dazzle of the sunlight that flashed from the surface of the river, and Chloe saw that it was discoloured and bloodshot.  She arose, and stepping to his side laid her hand upon his arm.

“You are hurt,” she said earnestly, “your eye gives you pain.”

Beneath her fingers the girl felt the play of strong muscles as the arm pressed against her hand.  Their eyes met, and her heart quickened with a strange new thrill.  Hastily she averted her glance and then——­ The man’s arm suddenly was withdrawn and Chloe saw that his fist had clinched.  With a rush the words brought back to him the scene in the trading-room of the post at Fort Rae.  The low, log-room, piled high with the goods of barter.  The great cannon stove.  The two groups of dark-visaged Indians—­his own Chippewayans, and MacNair’s Yellow Knives, who stared in stolid indifference.  The trembling, excited clerk.  The grim chief trader, and the stern-faced factor who watched with approving eyes while two men fought in the wide cleared space between the rough counter and the high-piled bales of woollens and strouds.