The sun was sinking behind the mountain as Jean reached the summit of the long hill, and it was almost dark when he came to the "Forks," about a mile from the first house. The main road led direct to St. Placide, about five miles away, while the road to the left went up over the mountain in the direction of Lake Beauport, and reached St. Placide by a route circuitous and difficult, especially after dark. Jean’s horse was accustomed to the main road, but stopped at the "Forks," and then quickly turned to climb the hill on the left. "_Sacré fou de cheval_," said Jean, with a laugh, "where are you going? You are not hungry, then. You don’t want to get home before midnight. There now, come about. It was a mistake. This way, old fellow. _Marche donc!_" The horse came about, though unwillingly, but just as he had begun to trot along in response to a sharp cut of the whip, Jean heard a voice that seemed to come from some one standing directly in front of him: "Take the other road!" "Who’s there?" said Jean, looking to see who could be on the lonely road so late in the evening, but was surprised to find that nobody was in sight, while the horse began to rear and to back in sheer terror, and nearly upset the cart. "There now, there now, old fool," said Jean, in a reassuring voice. "You thought you heard something, did you? But nothing is there. Gently, now. It is nothing. Go on, then. We could go by the mountain, to be sure, but when should we arrive? No, my friend, we must take the usual way. Go along, now, softly, if you like, but go along. There is nothing to fear. Go along." Jean drove on, in some little trepidation, it must be confessed, and was not a little relieved when he heard the familiar sound of chopping, some distance ahead. Turning a corner he saw, about a hundred yards away, a man in the act of felling a large tree. "Holloa, there!" he called. "Don’t fell that tree. It will block the road. Don’t fell it, I say! Ah, you idiot, you did it. Now, stupid, will you tell me how I shall get home." "You can walk, damn you!" said Tom Sullivan, for it was he; and beside him stood his cousin, Paddy Brady, also with an axe in his hand. "Oh, it is you, Tom," said Jean, with a friendly smile. "You are cutting some firewood, I see. Will you please take it out of the way as soon as possible." "Take it away yourself, you damned Frenchman," said Tom, with a sneer. "What business have you coming along at this time o’ night? A fine mail driver you are. You should have been at the office two hours ago. By the powers, it’ll take you two hours more to get there on shank’s mare. Ha! Ha! The new driver will be late, and it’s not long he’ll be carrying Her Majesty’s Mail. Her Majesty’ll be getting rid of him damn quick, I be thinking." "Tom," said Jean, in a conciliatory but firm tone, "will you take that timber away, or will you not?" "I will not," said Tom, defiantly.