The storm raved on through the afternoon, but with the coming of night it slackened, the gusts were less fierce, the trees ceased their contortions, and gradually a deep stillness spread over the forest. In the hut the two men ate their supper; Jules fed the dogs. The fire burned lightly, and Crevier’s dark face showed in sharp relief against the light-gray logs.
“Vat you t’ink—” he began; then he caught sight of the child’s cap in its old place over the bed. He looked at it, then looked at Verbaux.
Jules had not seen the discovery of the cap. He sat, his broad shoulders stooped forward, his chin in his hands.
“Jules Verbaux!” Crevier spoke the name slowly and quietly.
Verbaux started, then his eyes looked sharply from under the strong, heavy brows. “Pourquoi you call me Jules Verbaux?” he asked. Crevier’s arm stretched out, long in the dancing light, the dark hand pointed silently to the little cap, and he smoked again.
“Ah tol’ you dat dees Verbaux hees place, hees territoire, dat he gone ’way las’ weeek!” Jules spoke aggressively.
Crevier shook his head. “Non!”
“Pourquoi non? You say dat I mak’ de lie?”
The other seemed not to notice the angry tones; he took his pipe leisurely from his mouth and spoke again in a low, soft voice. “Le Grand he tol’ to me dat Verbaux he had petite fille vonce, dat he loove dat enfant ver’ mooch. You tell to me dat dees ees hees place to mak’ la chasse; Ah see dat leetle chapeau là,” and he looked up again at the cap. “an’ den Ah, Crevier, say dat you aire Verbaux.”
“Pourquoi?” asked Jules again.