"The sentry's bullet found his heart, Monsieur." "I saw him fall. Those papers were upon him--are they of value?" "That I know not; they possess no meaning to me, but they were addressed to the man killed at St. Ignace." "Hugo Chevet?" I exclaimed. "My uncle; may I not see them, Monsieur?" De Tonty placed them in my hands--a letter from a lawyer in Quebec, with a form of petition to the King, and a report of his search of the archives of New France. The other document was the sworn affidavit of Jules Beaubaou, a clerk of records, that he had seen and read a paper purporting to be a restoration from the King to the heirs of Captain la Chesnayne. It was signed and sealed. I looked up at the faces surrounding me; startled and frightened at this witness from the dead. "They are papers belonging to Chevet?" asked De Tonty. "Yes, Monsieur--see. He must have known, suspected the truth before our departure, yet had no thought such villainy was the work of M. Cassion. He sought evidence." "That is the whole story, no doubt. La Barre learned of his search, for he would have spies in plenty, and wrote his letter of warning to Cassion. The latter, fearing the worst, and desperate, did not even hesitate at murder to gain possession of these documents. Fate served him well, and gave him De Artigny as victim. I wonder only that he did not long ago destroy the papers." "There is always some weakness in crime," commented La Forest, "and the man has paid penalty for his. It would be my guess he desired to place them in La Barre's hands in proof of his loyalty. But, Messieurs, De Artigny needs to have his wound dressed. We can discuss all this later." * * * * * It was two days later, and the bright sunshine rested on Fort St. Louis flecking the sides of the great rock with gold, and bridging the broad valley below. De Artigny, yet too weak to rise unaided, sat in a chair Barbeau had made beside the open window, and to his call I joined him, my arm on his shoulder as I also gazed down upon the scene below. It was one of peace now, the silvery Illinois winding hither and yon among its green islands, the shadowy woods darkening one bank, and the vast meadows stretching northward from the other. Below the bend an Indian village, already rebuilt and occupied, slept in the sun, and I could see children and dogs playing before the tepees. Down the sharp trail from the fort a line of Indian packers were toiling slowly, their backs supporting heavy burdens which they bore to two canoes resting against the bank. About these were grouped a little party of white men, and when at last the supplies were all aboard, several took their places at the paddles, and pushed off into the stream.