For just a moment Auguste felt his burden of fear grow lighter. He would fight Raoul in a courtroom. No one need die. But no--he waved the idea away. "They acquitted me of murder, but a jury of new settlers in Illinois is not likely to make an Indian the biggest landholder in the county." Nicole said, "They would, because they would know that if they found for you and against Raoul, they would be finding for the whole family, not just you." Auguste said, "Even if I could get a fair trial, I wouldn't live to hear the verdict." "Yes, you would," said Frank. "Fear of the Regulators would stop Raoul from murdering you." Auguste felt the ropy net tightening. Three moons ago his life had been in the hands of twelve white men. Now Frank was asking him to trust unknown white men again. And again, it seemed, he had no choice. "Is there nothing else I can do?" The words came out as a cry of pain. "You said you want to live as whites do," said Frank. "Then you have to start to think and act like a civilized white man. Seek your remedy in the law." More than once, Auguste thought, he'd seen that civilized white men were as quick to flout the law as to seek a remedy in it. But, resigned, he slumped in his chair, his hands hanging down between his knees. "I will follow your advice." Nicole came over to him and stroked his hair. "We'll be beside you every moment, Auguste." The menace of rope or bullet or knife seemed driven off a bit, as Guichard put another log on the fire and they began to talk about going to Vandalia, finding a lawyer--perhaps Thomas Ford again--and filing suit against Raoul. There was still the possibility--the likelihood--of failure. But at least he might come through alive. The clock struck two. A sharp banging on the door startled Auguste. Everyone fell silent, dreading what might be out there. Guichard went to the door, opened it a crack, then pulled it wide. Auguste saw a flash of blond hair under a bonnet and eyes of deepest blue. The sudden leap of his heart lifted him out of his chair. He barely heard the little serving table beside him topple over, spilling his brandy. He ran to Nancy, holding out his arms. * * * * * The lenses on the desk stared accusingly up at Raoul. _Why do I keep taking them out and looking at them?_ It was like picking at a scab, making it bleed over and over again, so that the wound never healed. With a gentle hand he closed the silver case. He had long since cleaned and polished it, but he still remembered it as he had first seen it, streaked with the blood of the Indian woman he had just killed. He put the case in his desk drawer. Armand Perrault, sitting across the desk from Raoul, grunted with disgust. Ignoring him, Raoul picked up his whiskey glass and sipped from it, running the tip of his tongue over the ends of his mustache. "Why don't you get rid of those damned spectacles?" Armand said as he refilled his glass from Raoul's jug.