Chloe Elliston drew back aghast.  The thin lips of the man had twisted into a snarl of rage, and a living, bestial hate seemed fairly to blaze from the smouldering eyes, as Lapierre’s thoughts dwelt upon the closing moments of that fight, when he felt himself giving ground before the hammering, smashing blows of Bob MacNair’s big fists.  Felt the tightening of the huge arms like steel bands about his body when he rushed to a clinch—­bands that crushed and burned so that each sobbing breath seemed a blade, white-hot from the furnace, stabbing and searing into his tortured lungs.  Felt the vital force and strength of him ebb and weaken so that the lean, slender fingers that groped for MacNair’s throat closed feebly and dropped limp to dangle impotently from his nerveless arms.  Felt the sudden release of the torturing bands of steel, the life-giving inrush of cool air, the dull pain as his dizzy body rocked to the shock of a crashing blow upon the jaw, the blazing flash of the blow that closed his eye, and, then—­more soul-searing, and of deeper hurt than the blows that battered and marred—­the feel of thick fingers twisted into the collar of his soft shirt.  Felt himself shaken with an incredible ferocity that whipped his ankles against floor and counter edge.  And, the crowning indignity of all—­felt himself dragged like a flayed carcass the full length of the room, out of the door, and jerked to his feet upon the verge of the steep descent to the lake.  Felt the propelling impact of the heavy boot that sent him crashing headlong into the underbrush through which he rolled and tumbled like a mealbag, to bring up suddenly in the cold water.

The whole scene passed through his brain as dreams flash—­almost within the batting of an eye.  Half-consciously, he saw the girl’s sudden start, and the look of alarm upon her face as she drew back from the glare of his hate-flashing eyes and the bestial snarl of his lips.  With an effort he composed himself: 

“Pardon, Miss Elliston, I have frightened you with an uncouth show of savagery.  It is a rough, hard country—­this land of the wolf and the caribou.  Primal instincts and brutish passions here are unrestrained—­a fact responsible for my present battered appearance.  For, as I said, it was no accident that marred me thus, unless, perchance, the prowling of the brute across my path may be attributed to accident—­rather, I believe it was timed.”

“The brute!  Who, or what is the brute?  And why should he harm you?”

“MacNair is his name—­Bob MacNair.”  There was a certain tense hardness in the man’s tone, and Chloe was conscious that the smouldering eyes were regarding her searchingly.

“MacNair,” said the girl, “why, that is the name on those bales!”

“What bales?”

“The bales in the scow—­they are on the river-bank now.”