“His Honor, the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Henri Robitaille, has come to speak with you.... Stand up!” the Sheriff added, sharply, as Grassette kept his seat.
Grassette’s face flushed with anger, for the prison had not broken his spirit; 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 toward 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 Honor,’” 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 savory reputation in the West.