Christine had come to kill the beast and, perhaps, the man. The man had saved her life, and now she had saved his; and together they had killed the bear which had maltreated Tom Ferrol.
Castine’s eyes were fixed on the dead beast. Everything was gone from him now—even the way to his meagre livelihood; and the cause of it all, as he in his blind, unnatural way thought, was this girl before him—this girl and her people. Her back was towards the door. Anger and passion were both at work in him at once.
“Chris,” he said, “Chris, let’s call it even-eh? Let’s make it up. Chris, ma cherie, don’t you remember when we used to meet, and was fond of each other? Let’s make it up and leave here—now—to-night-eh?
“I’m not so poor, after all. I’ll be paid by Papineau, the leader of the Rebellion—” He made a couple of unsteady steps towards her, for he was weak yet. “What’s the good—you’re bound to come to me in the end! You’ve got the same kind of feelings in you; you’ve—”
She had stood still at first, dazed by his words; but she grew angry quickly, and was about to speak as she felt, when he went on:
“Stay here now with me. Don’t go back. Don’t you remember Shangois’s house? Don’t you remember that night—that night when—ah! Chris, stay here—”
Her face was flaming. “I’d rather stay in a room full of wild beasts like that”—she pointed to the bear, “than be with you one minute—you murderer!” she said, with choking anger.
He started towards her, saying:
“By the blood of Joseph! but you’ll stay just the same; and—”
He got no further, for she threw the pistol in his face with all her might. It struck between his eyes with a thud, and he staggered back, blind, bleeding and faint, as she threw open the door and sped away in the darkness.