Without even thanking him Sidonie started away, resolved to find him before succumbing to her fatigue. If she only could see Jean and tell her story, then she would not care what happened to herself. Bruno must be saved! Soon she was rewarded by hearing the woodcutter’s axe. Jean was wielding it. He was a powerful man, and with one stroke at the heart of a giant tree it trembled and presently yielded to his herculean blows. Around him on all sides lay enormous trees with interlacing branches. Each trunk which had seemed slender and unpretentious in life, now, prone on the ground, assumed larger proportions, like certain men whose measurements while living cannot be casually estimated. The snow made the progress of the work going on around him difficult. Every tree was covered with feathery layers, and the branches showed fantastic formations of all sorts. The glare was blinding. Ready to fall with fatigue, Sidonie ran from one man to another crying: “Where is L’Ours? Where is he?” One of the choppers pointed to the spot where Jean, with arms bare to the elbow, was striking his last blow into the tottering tree. Conscious only of the idea which for over two hours had sustained her, Sidonie did not realize her danger. She hastened toward Jean Manant with unsteady steps. He did not recognize her as he cried: “Look out there, will you? You will be killed!” The large oak-tree, wavering for an instant, fell toward Sidonie. Jean uttered a desperate cry. Bracing himself against a broken trunk, he pushed with all his might against the falling tree. His gigantic strength deviated it from the course in which it started, and as it crashed to the earth, a mass of twigs and splinters was showered around. Sidonie had not been conscious of her peril, so centred were her thoughts upon the man whom it was her dream to save. “L’Ours! Bruno!” she gasped, and fainted at his feet. Jean heard but the last exclamation. The blood mounted to his head and perspiration broke out on his forehead. After recognizing Sidonie he knew at once that something had happened to Bruno. He must be in danger. But of what? Sidonie remained inanimate upon the ground. Unused to seeing people in fainting spells, he knew not what to do. “Perhaps,” he thought, “cognac will revive her.” He put his flask to Sidonie’s lips and soon afterward she opened her eyes. Then Jean eagerly began to question her. “He is accused of murder. Murder, Jean! But he is innocent.” “Who accuses him?” “_Mon Dieu!_” she cried, “he accuses himself.” “What!” thundered Jean, picking up his coat. “He will save him,” Sidonie joyously murmured. “Get up and follow me,” he demanded, tersely. With an effort she struggled to her feet, and he led her toward the village. At the entrance to the little street stood a picturesque cottage ingeniously made of twisted roots. It was Jean’s own handiwork, and he lived very happily in this snug habitation.