He waited.  His head was in a jumble, and his thoughts were tumbling over one another in an effort to evolve some sort of coherence out of things amazing and unexpected.  One thing was impressed upon him—­he had saved St. Pierre’s life, and because he had done this Carmin Fanchet was very tender to him.  She had kissed him, and Marie-Anne had kissed him, and—­

A strange dawning was coming to him, thrilling him to his finger-tips.  He listened.  A new sound was approaching from the hall.  His door was opened, and a wheel-chair was rolled in by old Nepapinas.  In the chair was St. Pierre Audemard.  Feet and hands and arms were wrapped in bandages, but his face was uncovered and wreathed in smiling happiness when he saw David propped up against his pillows.  Nepapinas rolled him close to the bed and then shuffled out, and as he closed the door, David was sure he heard the subdued whispering of feminine voices down the hall.

“How are you, David?” asked St. Pierre.

“Fine,” nodded Carrigan.  “And you?”

“A bit scorched, and a broken leg.”  He held up his padded hands.  “Would be dead if you hadn’t carried me to the river.  Carmin says she owes you her life for having saved mine.”

“And Marie-Anne?”

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you about,” said St. Pierre.  “The instant they knew you were able to listen, both Carmin and Marie-Anne insisted that I come and tell you things.  But if you don’t feel well enough to hear me now—­”

“Go on!” almost threatened David.

The look of cheer which had illumined St. Pierre’s face faded away, and David saw in its place the lines of sorrow which had settled there.  He turned his gaze toward a window through which the afternoon sun was coming, and nodded slowly.

“You saw—­out there.  He’s dead.  They buried him in a casket made of sweet cedar.  He loved the smell of that.  He was like a little child.  And once—­a long time ago—­he was a splendid man, a greater and better man than St. Pierre, his brother, will ever be.  What he did was right and just, M’sieu David.  He was the oldest—­sixteen—­ when the thing happened.  I was only nine, and didn’t fully understand.  But he saw it all—­the death of our father because a powerful factor wanted my mother.  And after that he knew how and why our mother died, but not a word of it did he tell us until years later—­after the day of vengeance was past.

“You understand, David?  He didn’t want me in that.  He did it alone, with good friends from the upper north.  He killed the murderers of our mother and father, and then he buried himself deeper into the forests with us, and we took our mother’s family names which was Boulain, and settled here on the Yellowknife.  Roger—­Black Roger, as you know him—­brought the bones of our father and mother and buried them over in the edge of that plain where he died and where our first cabin stood.  Five years ago a falling tree crushed him out of shape, and his mind went at the same time, so that he has been like a little child, and was always seeking for Roger Audemard—­the man he once was.  That was the man your law wanted.  Roger Audemard.  Our brother,”