“I am going to fight Bateese,” said David.  He wondered if St. Pierre could hear the thumping of his heart, or if his face gave betrayal of the hot flood it was pumping through his body.  “Bateese and I have pledged ourselves.  We shall fight, unless you tie one of us hand and foot.  And as for a wager—­”

“Yes—­what have you to wager?” demanded St. Pierre eagerly.

“You know the odds are great,” temporized Carrigan.

“That I concede, m’sieu.”

“But a fight without a wager would be like a pipe without tobacco, St. Pierre.”

“You speak truly, m’sieu.”

David came nearer and laid a hand on the other’s arm.  “St. Pierre, I hope you—­and your Jeanne—­will understand what I am about to offer.  It is this.  If Bateese whips me, I will disappear into the forests, and no word shall ever pass my lips of what has passed since that hour behind the rock—­and this.  No whisper of it will ever reach the Law.  I will forget the attempted murder and the suspicious mumblings of your Broken Man.  You will be safe.  Your Jeanne will be safe—­if Bateese whips me.”

He paused, and waited.  St. Pierre made no answer, but amazement came into his face, and after that a slow and burning fire in his eyes which told how deeply and vitally Carrigan’s words had struck into his soul.

“And if I should happen to win,” continued David, turning a bit carelessly toward the window, “why, I should expect as large a payment from you.  If I win, your fulfillment of the wager will be to tell me in every detail why your wife tried to kill me behind the rock, and you will also tell me all that you know about the man I am after, Black Roger Audemard.  That is all.  I am asking for no odds, though you concede the handicap is great.”

He did not look at St. Pierre.  Behind him he heard the other’s deep breathing.  For a space neither spoke.  Outside they could hear the soft swish of water, the low voices of men in the stern, and a shout and the barking of a dog coming from the raft far out on the river.  For David the moment was one of suspense.  He turned again, a bit carelessly, as if his proposition were a matter of but little significance to him.  St. Pierre was not looking at him.  He was staring toward the door, as if through it he could see the powerful form of Bateese bending over the stern sweep.  And Carrigan could see that his face was flaming with a great desire, and that the blood in his body was pounding to the mighty urge of it.

Suddenly he faced Carrigan.

“M’sieu, listen to me,” he said.  “You are a brave man.  You are a man of honor, and I know you will bury sacredly in your heart what I am going to tell you now, and never let a word of it escape—­ even to my Jeanne.  I do not blame you for loving her.  Non!  You could not help that.  You have fought well to keep it within yourself, and for that I honor you.  How do I know?  Mon Dieu, she has told me!