“Mother of God!” she cried, “what is this?”
Petit Marc, without a word, entered and deposited his burden in the clumsy chair which, covered with furs, stood before the fire.
“Jacques!” cried Jeanne. “Antoine!” For a moment she was helpless, looking from one to the other.
“I am beyond remedy,” whispered her brother; “go to Antoine.”
His friends had placed Antoine on the pile of skins in the corner; and he lay there pressing his hand to his side.
“You are hurt, my Antoine,” said Jeanne, the moan of a woman entering into the deep tones of her voice. She knelt beside him, touching him with tender fingers.
Alaine, like one dazed, looked on. “How did it happen? What is it?” she asked, turning to Petit Marc.
Antoine half raised himself. “I will tell. He called me a murderer, he, that wretched outlaw. He recognized me, called me by name, taunted me. I drew my pistol, but it was he who fired. Jacques rushed between. ‘Jeanne cannot spare you,’ he cried. He fell, and could I endure it? I rushed upon him with my knife, but he was ready, I was wounded and he has escaped.”
“Now God’s vengeance follow him!” Jeanne exclaimed. “Who was it? Who, who, Antoine?”
“Victor Le Roux,” he whispered; “it was he. I recognized him, as he did me, after all these years. ‘Hold there, Olivier Herault,’ he said; ‘murderer art thou, and liar as well, if thou sayest I cheat.’”