That day he brooded dismally. That night he woke from troubled sleep, thinking he saw a nightmare. But the anxious features of the priest at his bedside were real. Real also the face of Basil Dreaulond! He had a bandage on his head, stained with dried blood!
Dunvegan sat up with a jerk.
"What's wrong, Basil?" he shouted. "My God, men, speak!"
"Wan party Nor'westaires waylay de canoe express," stammered Basil. "Dey must been spyin' round de post! Got de packet an' de girl. An' takin' her to Ferguson at La Roche! Dey keel ma voyageurs, mais I escape, me, in de woods."
The chief trader threw on his clothes and rushed for the door.
Brochet blocked him. "What now?" the priest demanded.
"Follow and——"
"No good dat," interrupted Dreaulond. "Dey got wan whole day start. No good!"
"We have men," cried Dunvegan wildly. "We must storm La Roche."
"Be wise!" Brochet urged, half angrily. "Twice your force couldn't storm La Roche—and you know it!"