“Ah—Paul—” she panted, “now I know the blessed Mother hears my prayer. Bring the man—the policeman to me—quick! I have a heavy load here,” she struck her breast, “I wish to give it to him.” “Why not tell the missionary, Onawata?” said Paul. “You need not tell the policeman.” “No, Paul. The policeman is best. Oh, I have prayed to get to Edmonton to tell the police. Bring him, Paul. Bring him. I am strong, and I must tell him. Go, Paul, quick.” Without delay Paul did her bidding. And in a few minutes the three men were at her bedside. “You have found me,” said the Indian woman, smiling triumphantly at the sergeant. He gazed at her in amazement. Indian women of all types he had known, good and bad. But this type was unknown to him. Indian she was, but the soul looking through her dark eyes was the soul of a refined and gentle woman, and her voice and speech suggested a lady of his own race. “You need not fear,” he said gently. “Fear?” she said, still smiling. “Oh, no, I have no fear of you. You cannot hurt me. But I am glad you are here. I asked the priest to bring you. He is a good man. He will listen and you will listen. I have something to tell you. And Paul will listen too. It is for Paul I speak.” Her breath began to come in gasps. “Do not distress yourself; wait till tomorrow,” said the missionary. “No! no! Now! now! You will put it down for the police.” Her eyes carried her appeal to the missionary’s heart. “I will put it down,” he said in a quiet voice, “if you will speak quietly.” “I will speak quietly and will speak only the truth.” She fumbled at her bosom, drew forth a crucifix, kissed it, and in a voice calm and devoid of all trace of emotion told her story. “It was his fault that my man was killed,” she concluded. “I planned to kill him. It was right that he should die, but for Paul I changed my mind. That night it was not in my heart to kill. I went to his house to get back from him money he had taken from my man, for Paul. Then I would go away, with my children, back to my people. He tried to do me wrong in his house. I struck him with my knife. The Chippewayan strikes but once. Then I was afraid. I put fire to the house, that my trail might not be found, and, like the storm wind, my pony carried me home. Before we could go Paul found us and came with us. He would not let us go alone. It was folly. Now I have brought him back before the light goes out of my sky. For these long, long years we have been like the wild deer, or the fox in the forests and mountains.” She paused, exhausted. “Yes,” said the sergeant, “we could find no trace of you.”