"Don't be a fool, Batoche. Keep your ammunition for other wolves than these. You will soon need it all," said a voice in a low tone.
The hunter immediately recognized Barbin, a farmer of Beauport.
"What are you doing here?"
"No time for questions to-night. You will know later."
"And who are those in the thicket yonder?"
"My friends and yours."
Batoche shook his head dubiously, and muttered something about going forward to satisfy himself by personal inspection. He was an enemy of prowlers of all sorts, and must know with whom he had to deal before abandoning the search.
A low whistle was heard and the thicket was instantaneously cleared.
Barbin tried to retain him, but the old man's temper rose, and he snatched himself away.
"Don't be a fool, I say to you again, Batoche. You know who I am and you must understand that I would not be out in such a place and on such a night without necessary cause. These are my friends. For sufficient reasons, they must not be known at present. Believe me, and don't advance further. Besides they are now invisible."