At the words, Lapierre glanced into her flushed face, and, removing his hat, bowed reverently.  “God grant that your prophecy may be fulfilled.  And I speak, not because of any hatred for MacNair, but from a heart overflowing with love and compassion for my people.  For their welfare, it is my earnest prayer that this man’s just punishment shall not long be delayed.”

While he was yet speaking, from the midst of the turmoil red flames shot high into the air.  The yelling increased tenfold, and the frenzied horde surged toward the walls of the stockade.  The cabins of the Indians were burning!  Wider and higher flared the fire, and louder and fiercer swelled the sounds of yelling and the firing of rifles.  The walls of the stockade ignited.  The fire was eating its way toward the long, log storehouse.  Instantly through the girl’s mind flashed the memory of that other night when the sky glowed red, and the crash of rifles mingled with the hoarse roar of flames.  She gazed in fascination as the fire licked and curled above the roof of the storehouse.  Upon the shore, even the canoes were burning.

Suddenly a wild shriek was borne to her ears.  The firing of guns ceased abruptly, and around the corner of the burning storehouse dashed a figure of terror, hatless and coatless, with long hair streaming wildly in the firelight.  Tall, broad, and gaunt it appeared in the light of the flaring flames, and instantly Chloe recognized the form of Bob MacNair.  Lapierre also recognized it, and gasped audibly.  For at that moment he knew MacNair should have been far across the barrens on the trail of the caribou herd.

“Look!  Look!” cried the girl.  “What is he doing?” And watched in horror as the big man charged among the Indians, smashing, driving and kicking his way through the howling, rum-crazed horde.  At every lashing blow of his fist, every kick of his high-laced boot, men went down.  Others reeled drunkenly from his path screaming aloud in their fright; while across the open space in the foreground four or five men could be seen dashing frantically for the protection of the timber.  MacNair ripped the gun from the hand of a reeling Indian and, throwing it to his shoulder, fired.  Of those who ran, one dropped, rose to his knees, and sank backward.  MacNair fired again, and another crashed forward, and rolled over and over upon the ground.

Lapierre watched with breathless interest while the others gained the shelter of the timber.  He wondered whether one of the two men who fell was LeFroy.

“Oh!” cried Chloe in horror.  “He’s killing them!”

Lapierre made a swift sign to his paddlers, and the canoe shot behind a low sand-point where, in response to a tense command, the canoemen turned its bow southward; and, for the second time, Chloe Elliston found herself being driven by willing hands southward upon Snare Lake.

“He pounded—­and kicked—­and beat them!” sobbed the girl hysterically.  “And two of them he killed!”