“I am wrong,” he apologized quickly.  “Jean, it is not that.  I am excited, and I take back my words.  It is not fear.  It is something else.  Why have you not killed him?”

“M’sieur, do you believe in an oath that you make to your God?”

“Yes.  But not when it means the crushing of human souls.  Then it is a crime.”

“Ah!” Jean was facing him now, his eyes aflame.  “I am a Catholic, M’sieur—­one of those of the far North, who are different from the Catholics of the south, of Montreal and Quebec.  Listen!  To-night I have broken a part of my oath; I am breaking a part of it in telling you what I am about to say.  But I am not a coward, unless it is a coward who lives too much in fear of the Great God.  What is my soul compared to that in the gentle breast of our Josephine?  I would sacrifice it to-night—­give it to Wetikoo—­lend it forever to hell if I could undo what has been done.  And you ask me why I have not killed, why I have not taken the life of a beast who is unfit to breathe God’s air for an hour!  Does it not occur to you, M’sieur, that there must be a reason?”

“Besides the oath, yes!”

“And now, I will tell you of the game I played, and lost, M’sieur.  In me alone Josephine knew that she could trust, and so it was to me that she bared her sorrow.  Later word came to me that this man, the father of the baby, was following her into the North, That was after I had given my oath to Josephine.  I thought he would come by the other waterway, where we met you.  And so we went there, alone.  I made a camp for her, and went on to meet him.  My mind was made up, M’sieur.  I had determined upon the sacrifice:  my soul for hers.  I was going to kill him.  But I made a mistake.  A friend I had sent around by the other waterway met me, and told me that I had missed my game.  Then I returned to the camp—­and you were there.  You understand this far, M’sieur?”

“Yes.  Go on.”

“The friend I had sent brought a letter for Josephine,” resumed Jean.  “A runner on his way north gave it to him.  It was from Le M’sieur Adare, and said they were not starting north.  But they did start soon after the letter, and this same friend brought me the news that the master had passed along the westward waterway a few days behind the man I had planned to kill.  Then we returned to Adare House, and you came with us.  And after that—­the face at the window, and the shot!”

Philip felt the half-breed’s arm quiver.

“I must tell you about him or you will not understand,” he went on, and there was effort in his voice now.  “The man whose face you saw was my brother.  Ah, you start!  You understand now why I was glad you failed to kill him.  He was bad, all that could be bad, M’sieur, but blood is thicker than water, and up here one does not forget those early days when childhood knows no sin.  And my brother came up from the south as canoe-man for the man I wanted to kill!  A few hours before you saw his face at the window I met him in the forest.  He promised to leave.  Then came the shot—­and I understood.  The man I was going to kill had sent him to assassinate the master of Adare.  That is why I followed his trail that night.  I knew that I would find the man I wanted not far away.”