John Gaviller sat in his swivel chair behind his desk, leaning his head on his hand. Ambrose was shocked by the change that three months' illness had worked in him.
The self-assured, the scornfully affable trader had become a mere pantaloon with sunken cheeks and trembling hands. Ambrose looked with quick compassion toward Colina.
She went to her father and stood by his chair with a hand on his shoulder. She coldly ignored Ambrose's glance.
"What have you to say for yourself?" Gaviller demanded in a weak, harsh voice.
"Do you know the reason for this attack?" demanded Ambrose.
Several voices answered "No!"
"All the flour was stored in Michel Trudeau's shack. Some wretch set fire to it and destroyed it all. Naturally they thought it was done by John Gaviller's orders. This is their reprisal."
"You dared to think we would stoop to such a thing!" cried Colina.
The general animosity that he felt like a wall around him made Ambrose defiant.
"I said they thought so," he retorted. "I harangued them until my throat was sore. I couldn't hold them, and I hid myself and came with them, thinking perhaps I could help you."