“Yes, I have been having a rough time,” he nodded, “This is for you!”

He placed the basket on the table.  It held half a bushel, and was filled to the curve of the handle.  What lay in it was hidden under a cloth securely tied about it.

“And you are responsible,” he added, stretching himself in a chair with a gesture of weariness.  “I should kill you, Carrigan.  And instead of that I bring you good things to eat!  Half the day she has been fussing with the things in the basket, and then insisted that I bring them to you.  And I have brought them simply to tell you another thing.  I am sorry for her.  I think, M’sieu Carrigan, you will find as many tears in the basket as anything else, for her heart is crushed and sick because of the humiliation she brought upon herself this morning.”

He was twisting his big, rough hands, and David’s own heart went sick as he saw the furrowed lines that had deepened in the other’s face.  Black Roger did not look at him as he went on.

“Of course, she told me.  She tells me everything.  And if she knew I was telling you this, I think she would kill herself.  But I want you to understand.  She is not what you might think she is.  That kiss came from the lips of the best woman God ever made, M’sieu Carrigan!”

David, with the blood in him running like fire, heard himself answering, “I know it.  She was excited, glad you had not stained your hands with my life—­”

This time Audemard smiled, but it was the smile of a man ten years older than he had appeared yesterday.  “Don’t try to answer, m’sieu.  I only want you to know she is as pure as the stars.  It was unfortunate, but to follow the impulse of one’s heart can not be a sin.  Everything has been unfortunate since you came.  But I blame no one, except—­”

“Carmin Fanchet?”

Audemard nodded.  “Yes.  I have sent her away.  Marie-Anne is in the cabin on the raft now.  But even Carmin I can not blame very greatly, m’sieu, for it is impossible to hold anything against one you love.  Tell me if I am right?  You must know.  You love my Marie-Anne.  Do you hold anything against her?”

“It is unfair,” protested David.  “She is your wife, Audemard, is it possible you don’t love her?”

“Yes, I love her.”

“And Carmin Fanchet?”

“I love her, too.  They are so different.  Yet I love them both.  Is it not possible for a big heart like mine to do that, m’sieu?”

With almost a snort David rose to his feet and stared through one of the windows into the darkness of the river.  “Black Roger,” he said without turning his head, “the evidence at Headquarters condemns you as one of the blackest-hearted murderers that ever lived.  But that crime, to me, is less atrocious than the one you are committing against your own wife.  I am not ashamed to confess I love her, because to deny it would be a lie.  I love her so much that I would sacrifice myself—­soul and body—­if that sacrifice could give you back to her, clean and undefiled and with your hand unstained by the crime for which you must hang!”