"Oh, _mais non_!" The good host's gesture was a masterpiece, even among a race of gesticulators. "Not to-night, monsieur." "And why not?" "By Gar! Who you theenk is inside now? Listen--she sing!" Campbell was too well acquainted with the universal French-Canadian use of the feminine pronoun to express any surprise when "she" proved to be the possessor of the aforesaid raucous, bass voice, which had broken into some song anent the passion of a sailor for a Portuguese young lady of great charm but doubtful modesty. "Who is our friend?" asked the officer. "What--you know not? She is the terrible Des Rosiers!" "Well, I don't like Mr. Des Rosiers's voice." "You nevair hear her name, monsieur? Sometime she is called 'Jacque Noir.' _Mon Dieu!_--she sleep with _le diable_." The landlord's eyes grew wide with horror; his shoulders contracted until they touched his ears. "Look here, my friend," said Campbell, with a tinge of impatience, "Jacque Noir or Jacque Rouge or Jacque Blanc is not going to keep me out here." "But, monsieur, once she _keel_ a man." "My dear fellow----" "One winter, a man has insult Des Rosiers, and--_voilà!_ Jacque Noir _burn_ her house--_keel_ her family--_murdair_ her"---- With a laugh, the newly created officer thrust the little man aside and entered the sacred precincts of "Les Voyageurs." A big, dirty, bearded fellow of about thirty years of age was leaning against the counter, waving a mug and bellowing a song. He looked formidable enough, but hardly justified the diabolical qualities attributed to him by Pierre Generaud. In spite of his unshaven face with its bloodshot, inebriated eyes, there was something not unpleasing about the fellow, and when his lips parted they disclosed teeth that were gleaming white. A group of villagers sat in open-mouthed admiration beneath the singer, for Des Rosiers's reputation had gathered velocity like a snowball rolling down the side of a hill, gaining in size every time it came into contact with the drifts of rumor, until it had become almost a legend of wickedness. His audience felt a timid pride in the event. It was as if his Satanic Majesty himself had condescended to appear from below and sing comic songs for their benefit. On the entrance of the officer, the song ceased, and all eyes were turned to the new-comer. "_Holà_," said Des Rosiers, with extraordinary resonance. "You drink by me, _eh bien_?" "No, thanks. I must only stay a minute." "You no drink?" roared the lumber-jack, whose hospitality was not unlike the forcefulness of the muscular Christian in "Androcles and the Lion." "You drink, or, by Gar, I brak your neck." A hum of admiration rose from the villagers. They bore no possible malice towards the officer, but it was gratifying to find Jacque Noir living up to his reputation. "_Messieurs_," said Campbell, ignoring the gentleman in question, "there is a war. _La belle France_ fights for her life, and Canada must help. She needs you--and you--and you."