“And I would be glad to change mine for such a cause. You must promise not to interfere in any way. We will have some writings drawn up and signed before the priest.” Antoine gave a yawn. “To-morrow, or any time you like. What are you going to do now? It is late. If you will take a shakedown in the other room—you see, I’m not prepared for visitors.” “Yes; I have slept in worse places. The child has a box of clothes at St. Charles. Hers will have to do for to-night.” He straightened out the impromptu bed and fixed the child more comfortably. He was tired and sleepy himself. Antoine lighted a bit of wick drawn through a piece of tin floating in a bowl of oily grease and took it in the storeroom, where both men soon arranged a sort of bunk. “Good-night,” said Antoine, and shut the door. But he did not go to bed. The fire had mostly burned out, and now the torch dropped down and the room was full of shadows. He sat awhile on the edge of the bed and made it creak; then he rose and opened the shutter very softly, creeping out. Even then he listened suspiciously. Turning, he ran swiftly down to the river’s edge, through the wet sedge of last year’s grass. Then he gave a low whistle. Some one answered with an oath. “We were just going away,” in a hissing French voice. “What the devil kept you so?” “I could not get away. There was a fellow,” and Antoine prefaced the excuse with an oath. “He wouldn’t go; I had to fix a bunk for him.” “Antoine Freneau, if you betray us—” in a threatening tone. “Ah, bah! Would I kill the goose that lays golden eggs? Come, hurry.” They unloaded some cases from the piroque and dumped them on the soft ground. “Now, carry them yourself. What! No barrow? You are a fool! But we must be off up the river.” There was considerable smuggling in spite of the watchfulness of the authorities. Duties were levied on so many things, and some—many, indeed—closely under government supervision. Antoine Freneau tugged and swore. The cases of brandy were not light. He went back and forth, every time peering in the window and listening; but all was quiet. The cases he hid among the trees. He had drawn some tree branches, ostensibly for firewood, and covered the cases with this brush until he could dispose of them more securely. Once, several years before, his house had been thoroughly ransacked in his absence. He knew he was suspected of unlawful dealings, and he had a dim misgiving that Gaspard had one end of the secret. He had more than once been very overbearing. He came in wet and tired, and, disrobing himself, crawled into bed. Fine work, indeed, it would be to have a housekeeper and a prying child! He laughed to think Gaspard fancied that he would be unwilling to give her up.