“Yes, fault of me, too-well treated were those pagans,” interrupted a sunburnt voyageur, whose head was adorned with waving red feathers, “Drinking brandy that disappeared down their throats as quickly as though it had been poured into a hole made in the earth. They were provided with all they desired.” “Bah! that explains itself; the brandy was to deaden their sufferings,” added a woman standing by. “Better chance had those heathens than many Christians. The Fathers baptized them, addressing merely a few brief words of exhortation (for to do more would be merely washing a death’s head), and free from their sins they ascended straight to Heaven.” Suddenly, while trade and amusement were in the full tide of activity, high above the babble of chattering and bargaining and the echo of jovial laughter rose the death-cry. Instantly every sound and motion ceased; it was as though a sudden spell had fallen upon the busy gathering, an awed, breathless silence. Once, twice, eight times it was heard, rising and falling in weird cadences. Its significance was perfectly comprehended by the listeners, most of whom were habituated to modes of savage warfare. This was the signal given by a war-party returning in triumph with the scalps of eight enemies. Every man snatched his weapon, and for a time all was confusion. Among the authorities hurriedly whispered consultations took place, then, inspired by a sudden and irresistible impulse, soldiers, priests, traders, Indians, women and children, all rushed off in the direction whence the sound proceeded. A man of gigantic stature, painted, greased and feathered like an Indian, and almost as swarthy of complexion, strode forward with a majestic air of composure, as though enjoying a happy sense of his own importance. In one hand he held eight long sticks from which were suspended a like number of lank waving tresses. In front of him, tied together like children in leading strings, walked two squaws with downcast eyes, whose resigned and stoical countenances looked as though carved out of wood. “Who can this be?” each one asked his neighbor. “He is one of ours, a Frenchman.” Suddenly among the voyageurs a cry arose. “It is Dubocq, or his spirit—no, it _is_ Dubocq, yes, truly, Dubocq!” Then they raised a resounding shout of welcome—“Vive Dubocq! our brave Dubocq, our champion against our enemies!” CHAPTER XII. _A CANADIAN BUSHRANGER._ DUBOCQ smiled condescendingly upon the enthusiasm with which his appearance was greeted; he accepted with sedateness the embraces and warm congratulations of his friends, but, perfectly conscious of his own dignity, resolutely refused to divulge any of the particulars of his story until he reached M. de Callière, Governor of Ville Marie.