“A shame!” he had said to Carrigan.  “A shame!” But the rascally Fanchet was hung by the neck until he was dead.

Carrigan drew himself up slowly until he was sitting erect.  He wondered what Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain would say if he told her about Carmin.  But there was a big gulf between the names Fanchet and Boulain.  The Fanchets had come from the dance halls of Alaska.  They were bad, both of them.  At least, so they had judged Carmin Fanchet—­along with her brother.  And Boulain—­

His hand, in dropping to his side, fell upon the butt of his pistol.  Neither Bateese nor the girl had thought of disarming him.  It was careless of them, unless Bateese was keeping a good eye on him from behind.

A new sort of thrill crept into Carrigan’s blood.  He began to see where he had made a huge error in not playing his part more cleverly.  It was this girl Jeanne who had shot him.  It was Jeanne who had stood over him in that last moment when he had made an effort to use his pistol.  It was she who had tried to murder him and who had turned faint-hearted when it came to finishing the job.  But his knowledge of these things he should have kept from her.  Then, when the proper moment came, he would have been in a position to act.  Even now it might be possible to cover his blunder.  He leaned toward her again, determined to make the effort.

“I want to ask your pardon,” he said.  “May I?”

His voice startled her.  It was as if the stinging tip of a whip-lash had touched her bare neck.  He was smiling when she turned.  In her face and eyes was a relief which she made no effort to repress.

“You thought I might be dead,” he laughed softly.  “I’m not, Miss Jeanne.  I’m very much alive again.  It was that accursed fever—­and I want to ask your pardon!  I think—­I know—­that I accused you of shooting me.  It’s impossible.  I couldn’t think of it—­In my clear mind.  I am quite sure that I know the rascally half-breed who pot-shotted me like that.  And it was you who came in time, and frightened him away, and saved my life.  Will you forgive me—­and accept my gratitude?”

There came into the glowing eyes of the girl a reflection of his own smile.  It seemed to him that he saw the corners of her mouth tremble a little before she answered him.

“I am glad you are feeling better, m’sieu.”

“And you will forgive me for—­for saying such beastly things to you?”

She was lovely when she smiled, and she was smiling at him now.  “If you want to be forgiven for lying, yes,” she said.  “I forgive you that, because it is sometimes your business to lie.  It was I who tried to kill you, m’sieu.  And you know it.”

“But—­”

“You must not talk, m’sieu.  It is not good for you:  Bateese, will you tell m’sieu not to talk?”

Carrigan heard a movement behind him.

“M’sieu, you will stop ze talk or I brak hees head wit’ ze paddle in my han’!” came the voice of Bateese close to his shoulder.  “Do I mak’ ze word plain so m’sieu compren’?”