the chief of the Boulains stood looking at David.  He wore a gray flannel shirt open at the throat, and it was a splendid throat David saw, and a splendid head above it, with its reddish beard and hair.  But what he saw chiefly were St. Pierre’s eyes.  They were the sort of eyes he disliked to find in an enemy—­a grayish, steely blue that reflected sunlight like polished flint.  But there was no flash of battle-glow in them now.  St. Pierre was neither excited nor in a bad humor.  Nor did Carrigan’s attitude appear to disturb him in the least.  He was smiling; his eyes glowed with almost boyish curiosity as he stared appraisingly at David—­and then, slowly, a low chuckle of laughter rose in his deep chest, and he advanced with an outstretched hand.

“I am St. Pierre Boulain,” he said.  “I have heard a great deal about you, Sergeant Carrigan.  You have had an unfortunate time!”

Had the man advanced menacingly, David would have felt more comfortable.  It was disturbing to have this giant come to him with an extended hand of apparent friendship when he had anticipated an entirely different sort of meeting.  And St. Pierre was laughing at him!  There was no doubt of that.  And he had the colossal nerve to tell him that he had been unfortunate, as though being shot up by somebody’s wife was a fairly decent joke!

Carrigan’s attitude did not change.  He did not reach out a hand to meet the other.  There was no responsive glimmer of humor in his eyes or on his lips.  And seeing these things, St. Pierre turned his extended hand to the open box of cigars, so that he stood for a moment with his back toward him.

“It’s funny,” he said, as if speaking to himself, and with only a drawling note of the French patois in his voice.  “I come home, find my Jeanne in a terrible mix-up, a stranger in her room—­and the stranger refuses to let me laugh or shake hands with him.  Tonnerre, I say it is funny!  And my Jeanne saved his life, and made him muffins, and gave him my own bed, and walked with him in the forest!  Ah, the ungrateful cochon!”

He turned, laughing openly, so that his deep voice filled the cabin.  “Vous aves de la corde de pendu, m’sieu—­yes, you are a lucky dog!  For only one other man in the world would my Jeanne have done that.  You are lucky because you were not ended behind the rock; you are lucky because you are not at the bottom of the river; you are lucky—­”

He shrugged his big shoulders hopelessly.  “And now, after all our kindness and your good luck, you wait for me like an enemy, m’sieu.  Diable, I can not understand!”

For the life of him Carrigan could not, in these few moments, measure up his man.  He had said nothing.  He had let St. Pierre talk.  And now St. Pierre stood there, one of the finest men he had ever looked upon, as if honestly overcome by a great wonder.  And yet behind that apparent incredulity in his voice and manner David sensed the deep underflow of another thing.  St. Pierre was all that Marie-Anne had claimed for him, and more.  She had given him assurance of her unlimited confidence that her husband could adjust any situation in the world, and Carrigan conceded that St. Pierre measured up splendidly to that particular type of man.  The smile had not left his face; the good humor was still in his eyes.