“Somet’ing ver’ funny once more, is eet—­w’at?” he demanded.

“I was thinking, Bateese—­what will happen to me if you get me in those arms when we fight?  But it isn’t going to happen.  I fight with my fists, and I’m going to batter you up so badly that nobody will recognize you for a long time.”

“You wait!” exploded Bateese, making a horrible grimace.  “I choke you lak w’ite bear, I t’row you ovair my should’r, I mash you lak leetle strawberr’, I—­” He paused in his task to advance with a formidable gesture.

“Not now,” warned Carrigan.  “I’m still a bit groggy, Bateese.”  He pointed down at the bed.  “I’m driving her from that,” he said.  “I don’t like it.  Is she sleepin’ over there—­in the camp?”

“Mebby—­an’ mebby not, m’sieu,” growled Bateese.  “You mak’ guess, eh?”

He began extinguishing the lights, until only the one nearest the door was left burning.  He did not turn toward Carrigan or speak to him again.  When he Went out, David heard the click of a lock in the door.  Bateese had not exaggerated.  It was the intention of St. Pierre’s wife that he should consider himself a prisoner—­at least for tonight.

He had no desire to lie down again.  There was an unsteadiness in his legs, but outside of that the evil of his sickness no longer oppressed him.  The staff doctor at the Landing would probably have called him a fool for not convalescing in the usual prescribed way, but Carrigan was already beginning to feel the demand for action.  In spite of what physical effort he had made, his head did not hurt him, and his mind was keenly alive.  He returned to the window through which he could see the fires on the western shore, and found no difficulty in opening it.  A strong screen netting kept him from thrusting out his head and shoulders.  Through it came the cool night breeze of the river.  It seemed good to fill his lungs with it again and smell the fresh aroma of the forest.  It was very dark, and the fires across the river were brighter because of the deep gloom.  There was no promise of the moon in the sky.  He could not see a star.  From far in the west he caught the low intonation of thunder.

Carrigan turned from the window to the end of the cabin in which the piano stood.  Here, too, was the second divan, and he saw the meaning now of two close-tied curtains, one at each side of the cabin.  Drawn together on a taut wire stretched two inches under the ceiling, they shut off this end of the bateau and turned at least a third of the cabin into the privacy of the woman’s bedroom.  With growing uneasiness David saw the evidences that this had been her sleeping apartment.  At each side of the piano was a small door, and he opened one of these just enough to discover that it was a wardrobe closet.  A third door opened on the shore side of the bateau, but this was locked.  Shut out from the view of the lower end of the cabin by a Japanese screen were a small dresser and a mirror.  In the dim illumination that came from the distant lamp David bent over the open sheet of music on the piano.  It was Mascagni’s Ave Maria.