In another moment St. Pierre’s wife was at the deformed giant’s side.  She seemed tall beside him.  She put her hands to his head and brushed back the grizzled black hair, laughing softly into his upturned face, her eyes shining and a strange glow in her cheeks.  Carrigan, looking at them, felt his heart stand still.  Was this man st. Pierre?  The thought came like a lightning flash—­and went as quickly; it was impossible and inconceivable.  And yet there was something more than pity in the voice of the woman who was speaking now.

“No, no, we have not seen him, Andre—­we have not seen Black Roger Audemard.  If he comes, I will call you.  I promise, Michiwan.  I will call you!”

She was stroking his bearded cheek, and then she put an arm about his twisted shoulders, and slowly she turned so that in a moment or two they were facing the sun—­and it seemed to Carrigan that she was talking and sobbing and laughing in the same breath, as that great, broken hulk of a man moved out slowly from under the caress of her arm and went on his way.  For a space she looked after him.  Then in a swift movement she closed the door and faced Carrigan.  She did not speak, but waited.  Her head was high.  She was breathing quickly.  The tenderness that a moment before had filled her face was gone, and in her eyes was the blaze of fighting fires as she waited for him to speak—­to give voice to what she knew was passing in his mind.

XI

For a space there was silence between Carrigan and St. Pierre’s wife.  He knew what she was thinking as she stood with her back to the door, waiting half defiantly, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes bright with the anticipation of battle.  She was ready to fight for the broken creature on the other side of the door.  She expected him to give no quarter in his questioning of her, to corner her if he could, to demand of her why the deformed giant had spoken the name of the man he was after, Black Roger Audemard.  The truth hammered in David’s brain.  It had not been a delusion of his fevered mind after all; it was not a possible deception of the half-breed’s, as he had thought last night.  Chance had brought him face to face with the mystery of Black Roger.  St. Pierre’s wife, waiting for him to speak, was in some way associated with that mystery, and the cripple was asking for the man McVane had told him to bring in dead or alive!  Yet he did not question her.  He turned to the window and looked out from where Marie-Anne had stood a few moments before.

The day was glorious.  On the far shore he saw life where last night’s camp had been.  Men were moving about close to the water, and a York boat was putting out slowly into the stream.  Close under the window moved a canoe with a single occupant.  It was Andre, the Broken Man.  With powerful strokes he was paddling across the river.  His deformity was scarcely noticeable in the canoe.  His bare head and black beard shone in the sun, and between his great shoulders his head looked more than ever to Carrigan like the head of a carven god.  And this man, like a mighty tree stricken by lightning, his mind gone, was yet a thing that was more than mere flesh and blood to Marie-Anne Boulain!