“Sl’ip—dormir,” answered Jules, hoarsely, and the other said no more.
Before daylight the next morning Jules deftly wound a bandage securely over Lavalle’s now seeing eyes.
“Tritou, vat you do?” he asked with fear and anger. Without answering, Jules tied Lavalle’s ankles and wrists, and carried him out to the sledge, lashed him to it, and harnessed the dogs, while Lavalle cursed and raved. They started off in the gray darkness of dawn, and travelled all that day and all night across the wilderness. The following evening they stopped, and Jules fed the blindfolded man as usual; then wrapped him in a blanket, still bound hand and foot, curled up himself, and slept. They were off again at dawn, and on and on till noon; then Jules halted the team, lifted Lavalle, and steadied him on his feet.
“Ah feex you, Tritou! Dam’ fine vay to breeng me to la poste! Vell, Tritou, you got ze head h’of Verbaux for to geef le facteur?” asked he.
“Oui,” answered Jules. He cut the wrist and ankle bindings, and with a quick turn of his knife severed the bandage over Lavalle’s forehead. It was dim in the forest, and the other rubbed his eyes gently.
“Trit—” he began; then his half-opened eyes cringed, and an awful fear came into them, as they saw the tall, gaunt figure with wide snow-shoes.
“Oh! Oh, Dieu! Grâce!” he cried wildly, and shrieked in his terror; he tried to run, but Jules caught his arm in a powerful grip.
“Leesten to moi, Lavalle! You try keel moi, Jules Verbaux. Ah sauf you’ laife for sak’ du bon Dieu; tak’ you’ dog’, go to la poste! Here de vay! An’—rememb’ Jules Verbaux! Allez!” He stood like a statue, pointing to the westward along the blazed trail.
Slowly and haltingly Lavalle crept to the sledge, crawled on it, and screamed, “Mush!” to the dogs; and they raced away among the trees.