He unbuttoned his furs and taking out a pocket-book and pencil began to write. Jean Bènard, having fed his dogs, began to prepare a meal for himself. Anderton sat by the fire, staring into the flames, reflecting on the irony of fate that had selected him of all men in the Mounted Service to be the one to arrest his whilom fellow-student. Stane had turned away and joined Helen, who still paced to and fro in the shadows. Her face, as her lover saw, was full of trouble.
"Oh!" she whispered. "It is unbearable to watch a man one has known go all to pieces!"
"It is certainly very sad," agreed Stane, out of whose heart all hatred suddenly vanished. "I wish that things were not as they are."
"Let us try to forget," said Helen with a quick glance towards the fire. "Tell me what happened when you went out of the cabin last night."
"Well," answered her lover falling into step by her side, "when I went out, I thought I was certainly going to my death."
"Ah, I knew that was in your mind!... But how did you escape?"
"It was a narrow thing. An Indian grappled me, and another man was hurrying towards me with an ax. I could not get away, and a third person appeared suddenly with a knife. I thought the knife was meant for me, but it was not. It was meant for my antagonist, and he went down and just after—my—my—saviour was killed by the second Indian, who also struck at me, knocking me senseless."
"Who was the person with the knife? Someone with Jean Bènard?"
"No," answered Stane slowly, "it was the Indian girl, Miskodeed."
"Miskodeed!" cried Helen in utter surprise.