The quondam squatter saw before him only a feature of gloom and darkness--ejection from his ill-gotten home and clearing--a return to his lowly life--to toil and poverty--along with a dishonoured old age. Mingling with these black thoughts, there was one blacker--a regret that he had not pulled the trigger in time! Had he shot Pierre Robideau inside the tree all would have been well. No one would have known that he had killed him; and to his own daughter he could have pleaded ignorance that there was any one inside. Much as she might have lamented the act, she could scarcely have believed it wilful, and would have said nothing about it. It was too late now. To kill the young man as he stood, in the darkness--it might still have been done--or even at a later time, would be the same as to murder him under the eyes of his daughter. From what she now knew the hand of the assassin could not be concealed. These thoughts occupied Jerry Rook scarce any time. They came and passed like lightning that flashes deadly through dark clouds. This prolonged silence was due to other thoughts. He was reflecting on what course he would take with the man, whose unexpected appearance had placed him in such a dilemma. Turning to the latter, he at length spoke-- "How long 've ye been back, Pierre?" The tone of pretended kindness did not deceive the returned gold-seeker. "I came into the neighbourhood yesterday," he replied, coldly. "Have ye seed any one that know'd ye?" "Not that I am aware of." "Ye'll excuse me for bein' a leetle rough wi' ye. I war a bit flurried 'beout the gurl bein' out, not knowin' who she wur with. There's a lot o' fellars arter her, an' it's but right I shed be careful." Pierre could not object to this. "Of course," pursued Jerry, after another pause of reflection, "ye heerd all that passed atween me an' that lot o' diggers?" "Every word of it." "An' I suppose you know who they war?" "Yes; I have good reason." "Yu're right thar. Ye'll be knowin' then why this chile ain't livin' any more in the ole shanty, but in a good, comftable frame-house, wi' a clarin' roun' it?" "Yes, Jerry Rook, I think I understand that matter." "Yur won't wonder, then, why I tuk so much pains, six years ago, to send yur out o' the way? No doubt yur did wonder at that?" "I did; I don't now. It is all clear enough!" "An' I reck'n it'll be equally clar to ye, thet yur comin' back ain't a gwine to do _me_ any good. Jest ruinates me, that's all." "I don't see that, Jerry Rook." "Ye don't! But this chile do. The minute any o' them six sets eyes on yur my game's up, an' thar's nothin' more left but clear out o' this, an' take to the trees agin. At my time o' life that ere'll be pleasant." "You mean that by my showing myself you would lose the six hundred dollars per annum I've heard you make mention of."