Jules straightened up proudly. “Ah’m no h’afraid of la mort, M’sieu’ le Facteur, an’ Jules Verbaux he no can be forcé to do vat he no vant to do!” he answered.
The Scotchman shook his head slowly. “I’m vera sorry,” he said, stepping back; he nodded to the shooting squad. They moved forward, cocking their guns, then stopped. A picture of a woman, alone, destitute, maybe hounded by an Indian; the reflection of a rugged face, of a strong form now bent of wounds, yet doing what he could for his sake, passed rapidly before Jules; then came the thought of the child: this was its mother after all. The craving to see Marie again some time, to find her, the heart’s cry for her, was too strong, and won at last. The deep voice spoke hoarsely.
“Ah geeve ma promesse, M’sieu’ Le Facteur,” Jules said.
A long sigh came from the men; Le Pendu cursed under his breath.
“I’m glad, Verbaux! Cut him loose,” and the factor went away.
Some one parted his wrist-thongs and Verbaux was free, alone in the yard; from beyond a tepee Le Pendu shook his fist at him and disappeared.
Jules went to the gates and walked out to the edge of the dark woods. The smell of the trees drove him to madness, and he caressed the rough bark of a tall hemlock. “Ah go fas’, dey no catch me!” he thought, and looked back. Nothing stirred at the post; the gray light made shapes dimly visible. “Non! Jules he geeve hees promesse, he no can go,” he whispered, and went into the yard again. He felt friendless and alone; nowhere to go, no one to speak to, no one to say a kind word to Her, or tell him of Her.
Hesitatingly he wandered to his prison tepee and threw himself on the cold earth. At first he regretted his weakness, then he condoned it with thoughts of Marie. “Somme taime Ah fin’ dat fille, eef Le Grand he ees h’alive an’ stay veet’ her’ an’ Ah know dat he do dat!” Then he resigned himself to the situation, and stepped gravely out among the fires that crackled cheerily for the morning meals at Hudson Bay Company’s Poste Reliance.