Grassette's face flushed with anger, for the prison had not broken his spirits; then he got up slowly. "I not stand up for you," he growled at the Sheriff; "I stand up for him." He jerked his head towards Sir Henri Robitaille. This grand Seigneur, with Michelin, had believed in him in those far-off days which he had just been seeing over again, and all his boyhood and young manhood was rushing back on him. But now it was the Governor who turned pale, seeing who the criminal was.
"Jacques Grassette!" he cried in consternation and emotion, for under another name the murderer had been tried and sentenced, nor had his identity been established—the case was so clear, the defence had been perfunctory, and Quebec was very far away.
"M'sieu'!" was the respectful response, and Grassette's fingers twitched.
"It was my sister's son you killed, Grassette," said the Governor in a low, strained voice.
"Nom de Dieu!" said Grassette hoarsely.
"I did not know, Grassette," the Governor went on "I did not know it was you."
"Why did you come, m'sieu'?"
"Call him 'your Honour,"' said the Sheriff sharply. Grassette's face hardened, and his look turned upon the Sheriff was savage and forbidding. "I will speak as it please me. Who are you? What do I care? To hang me—that is your business; but, for the rest, you spik to me differen'. Who are you? Your father kep' a tavern for thieves, vous savez bien!" It was true that the Sheriff's father had had no savoury reputation in the West.
The Governor turned his head away in pain and trouble, for the man's rage was not a thing to see—and they both came from the little parish of St. Francis, and had passed many an hour together.
"Never mind, Grassette," he said gently. "Call me what you will. You've got no feeling against me; and I can say with truth that I don't want your life for the life you took."