"If you have anything to say for yourself, reserve it for the proper time and place; for the present you must step into that sledge and come with me at once.—Mr. De Brunier, I shall meet you and your son at Garry on the twenty-ninth."
He marched his prisoners through the porch; a sullen silence reigned around. The sledge-bell tinkled, the snow gleamed white as ever in the morning sunshine, as Vanner and Mathurin left the farm.
With the air of a mute at a funeral, Forgill bolted the door behind them. Mr. De Brunier walked into the sleeping-room, to examine the scene of confusion it presented for himself.
Aunt Miriam came out, leaving the door behind her open, without knowing it. She moved like one in a dream. "I cannot understand all this," she said, "but we must do the thing that is nearest."
She directed Forgill to board up the broken window and to see that the house was secure, and took Pête with her to make up a bed for her brother in the dining-room. She laid her hand on Wilfred's shoulder as she passed him, but the words died on her lips.
The men obeyed her without reply. Forgill was afraid to go out of the house alone. As the cowman followed him, he patted Yula's head, observing, "After all that's said and done, it was this here dog which caught 'em. I reckon he's worth his weight in gold, wherever he comes from, that I do."
Yula shook off the stranger's caress as if it were an impertinent freedom. His eye was fixed on two small moccasined feet peeping out from under Aunt Miriam's bed.
There was a spring, but Wilfred's hand was in his collar.
"I know I had better stop him," he whispered, looking up at Gaspé, as he thought of Mr. De Brunier's reproof.
"Right enough now," cried Gaspé. "Wilfred, it is a girl."