“I—­I knew I was going to be Jan’s wife,” she went on, the hands she had withdrawn from his twisting nervously in her lap.  “We both knew.  And yet—­he had not spoken—­he had not been definite.  Oo-oo, do you understand, M’sieu Duval?  It was my fault at the beginning!  Francois Breault loved me.  And so—­I played with him—­only a little, m’sieu!—­to frighten Jan into the thought that he might lose me.  I did not know what I was doing.  No—­no; I didn’t understand.

“Jan and I were married, and on the day Jan saw the missioner—­a week before we were made man and wife—­Francois Beault came in from the trail to see me, and I confessed to him, and asked his forgiveness.  We were alone.  And he—­Francois Breault—­was like a madman.”

She was panting.  Her hands were clenched.  “If Jan hadn’t heard my cries, and come just in time—­” she breathed.

Her blazing eyes looked up into Blake’s face.  He understood, and nodded.

“And it was like that—­again—­three days ago,” she continued.  “I hadn’t seen Breault in two years—­two years ago down at Wollaston Post.  And he was mad.  Yes, he must have been mad when he came three days ago.  I don’t know that he came so much for me as it was to kill Jan, He said it was Jan.  Ugh, and it was here—­in the cabin—­that they fought!”

“And Jan—­punished him,” said Blake in a low voice.

Again the convulsive shudder swept through Marie’s shoulders.

“It was strange—­what happened, m’sieu.  I was going to shoot.  Yes, I would have shot him when the chance came.  But all at once Francois Breault sprang back to the door, and he cried:  ’Jan Thoreau, I am mad—­mad!  Great God, what have I done?’ Yes, he said that, m’sieu, those very words—­and then he was gone.”

“And that same day—­a little later—­Jan went away from the cabin, and was gone a long time,” whispered Blake.  “Was it not so, Marie?”

“Yes; he went to his trap-line, m’sieu.”

For the first time Blake made a movement.  He took her face boldly between his two hands, and turned it so that her staring eyes were looking straight into his own.  Every fiber in his body was trembling with the thrill of his monstrous triumph.  “My dear little girl, I must tell you the truth,” he said.  “Your husband, Jan, did not go to his trap-line three days ago.  He followed Francois Breault, and killed him.  And I am not John Duval.  I am Corporal Blake of the Mounted Police, and I have come to get Jan, that he may be hanged by the neck until he is dead for his crime.  I came for that.  But I have changed my mind.  I have seen you, and for you I would give even a murderer his life.  Do you understand?  For you—­you—­you—­”

And then came the grand finale, just as he had planned it.  His words had stupefied her.  She made no movement, no sound—­only her great eyes seemed alive.  And suddenly he swept her into his arms with the wild passion of a beast.  How long she lay against his breast, his arms crushing her, his hot lips on her face, she did not know.