St. Pierre paused, and he smiled, and then grimaced as he tried to rub his two bandaged hands together.  “David, fate mixes things up in a funny way.  My Carmin came out and stood over you, hating you; and Marie-Anne knelt down there at your side, loving you.  Yes, it is true.  And over you they fought for life or death, and love won, because it is always stronger than hate.  Besides, as you lay there bleeding and helpless, you looked different to my Carmin than as you did when you hanged her brother.  So they dragged you up under a tree, and after that they plotted together and planned, while I was away up the river on the raft.  The feminine mind works strangely, M’sieu David, and perhaps it was that thing we call intuition which made them do what they did.  Marie-Anne knew it would never do for you to see and recognize my Carmin, so in their scheming of things she insisted on passing herself off as my wife, while my Carmin came back in a canoe to meet me.  They were frightened, and when I came, the whole thing had gone too far for me to mend, and I knew the false game must be played out to the end.  When I saw what was happening—­that you loved Marie-Anne so well that you were willing to fight for her honor even when you thought she was my wife—­I was sure it would all end well.  But I could take no chances until I knew.  And so there were bars at your windows, and—­”

St. Pierre shrugged his shoulders, and the lines of grief came into his face again, and in his voice was a little break as he continued:  “If Roger had not gone out there to fight back the flames from the graves of his dead, I had planned to tell you as much as I dared, M’sieu David, and I had faith that your love for our sister would win.  I did not tell you on the river because I wanted you to see with your own eyes our paradise up here, and I knew you would not destroy it once you were a part of it.  And so I could not tell you Carmin was my wife, for that would have betrayed us—­and—­besides—­that fight of yours against a love which you thought was dishonest interested me very much, for I saw in it a wonderful test of the man who might become my brother if he chose wisely between love and what he thought was duty.  I loved you for it, even when you sat me there on the sand like a silly loon.  And now, even my Carmin loves you for bringing me out of the fire—­But you are not listening!”

David was looking past him toward the door, and St. Pierre smiled when he saw the look that was in his face.

“Nepapinas!” he called loudly.  “Nepapinas!”

In a moment there was shuffling of feet outside, and Nepapinas came in.  St. Pierre held out his two great, bandaged hands, and David met them with his own, one bandaged and one free.  Not a word was spoken between them, but their eyes were the eyes of men between whom had suddenly come the faith and understanding of a brotherhood as strong as life itself.

Then Nepapinas wheeled St. Pierre from the room and David straightened himself against his pillows, and waited, and listened, until it seemed two hearts were thumping inside him in the place of one.