that soon he would meet the broken and twisted hulk of a man who had known Black Roger Audemard, every nerve in him would have thrilled in anticipation of that hour.  He realized this as he paced back and forth over the thick rugs of the bateau floor.  And he knew, even as he struggled to bring them back, that the old thrill and the old desire were gone.  It was impossible to lie to himself.  St. Pierre, in this moment, was of more importance to him than Roger Audemard.  And St. Pierre’s wife, Marie-Anne—­

His eyes fell on the crumpled handkerchief on the piano keys.  Again he was crushing it in the palm of his hand, and again the flood of humiliation and shame swept over him.  He dropped the handkerchief, and the great law of his own life seemed to rise up in his face and taunt him.  He was clean.  That had been his greatest pride.  He hated the man who was unclean.  It was his instinct to kill the man who desecrated another man’s home.  And here, in the sacredness of St. Pierre’s paradise, he found himself at last face to face with that greatest fight of all the ages.

He faced the door.  He threw back his shoulders until they snapped, and he laughed, as if at the thing that had risen up to point its finger at him.  After all, it did not hurt a man to go through a bit of fire—­if he came out of it unburned.  And deep in his heart he knew it was not a sin to love, even as he loved, if he kept that love to himself.  What he had done when Marie-Anne stood at the window he could not undo.  St. Pierre would probably have killed him for touching her hair with his lips, and he would not have blamed St. Pierre.  But she had not felt that stolen caress.  No one knew—­but himself.  And he was happier because of it.  It was a sort of sacred thing, even though it brought the heat of shame into his face.

He went to the door, opened it, and stood out in the sunshine.  It was good to feel the warmth of the sun in his face again and the sweet air of the open day in his lungs.  The bateau was free of the shore and drifting steadily towards midstream.  Bateese was at the great birchwood rudder sweep, and to David’s surprise he nodded in a friendly way, and his wide mouth broke into a grin.

“Ah, it is coming soon, that fight of ours, little coq de bruyere!” he chuckled gloatingly.  “An’ ze fight will be jus’ lak that, m’sieu—­you ze little fool-hen’s rooster, ze partridge, an’ I, Concombre Bateese, ze eagle!”

The anticipation in the half-breed’s eyes reflected itself for an instant in David’s.  He turned back into the cabin, bent over his pack, and found among his clothes two pairs of boxing gloves.  He fondled them with the loving touch of a brother and comrade, and their velvety smoothness was more soothing to his nerves than the cigar he was smoking.  His one passion above all others was boxing, and wherever he went, either on pleasure or adventure, the gloves went with him.  In many a cabin and shack of the far hinterland he had taught white men and Indians how to use them, so that he might have the pleasure of feeling the thrill of them on his hands.  And now here was Concombre Bateese inviting him on, waiting for him to get well!