saw that the game was up and he half raised his knife, but that was only the mad rage of the instant. His revenge did not comprise so unheard-of a crime. He thought he had killed Iberville: that was enough. He sprang away towards the spot where his comrades awaited him. Escape was his sole ambition now. The new-comer ran forwards, and saw the boy and girl lying as they were dead. A swift glance at Iberville, and he slung his musket shoulderwards and fired at the retreating figure. It was a chance shot, for the light was bad and Bucklaw was already indistinct. Now the man dropped on his knee and felt Iberville’s heart. “Alive!” he said. “Alive, thank the mother of God! Mon brave! It is ever the same--the great father, the great son.” As he withdrew his hand it brushed against the slipper. He took it out, glanced at it, and turned to the cloaked figure. He undid the cloak and saw Jessica’s pale face. He shook his head. “Always the same,” he said, “always the same: for a king, for a friend, for a woman! That is the Le Moyne.” But he was busy as he spoke. With the native chivalry of the woodsman, he cared first for the girl. Between her lips he thrust his drinking-horn and held her head against his shoulder. “My little ma’m’selle-ma’m’selle!” he said. “Wake up. It is nothing--you are safe. Ah, the sweet lady! Come, let me see the colour of your eyes. Wake up--it is nothing.” Presently the girl did open her eyes. He put the drinking-horn again to her lips. She shuddered and took a sip, and then, invigorated, suddenly drew away from him. “There, there,” he said; “it is all right. Now for my poor Iberville.” He took Iberville’s head to his knee and thrust the drinking-horn between his teeth, as he had done with Jessica, calling him in much the same fashion. Iberville came to with a start. For a moment he stared blindly at his rescuer, then a glad intelligence flashed into his eyes. “Perrot! dear Nick Perrot!” he cried. “Oh, good--good,” he added softly. Then with sudden anxiety: “Where is she? Where is she?” “I am safe, monsieur,” Jessica said gently; “but you--you are wounded.” She came over and dropped on her knees beside him. “A little,” he said; “only a little. You cared for her first?” he asked of Perrot. Perrot chuckled. “These Le Moynes!” he said: under his breath. Then aloud: “The lady first, monsieur.” “So,” answered Iberville. “And Bucklaw--the devil, Bucklaw?” “If you mean the rogue who gave you these,” said Perrot, touching the wounds, which he had already begun to bind, “I think he got away--the light was bad.” Jessica would have torn her frock for a bandage, but Perrot said in his broken English: “No, pardon. Not so. The cloak la-bas.” She ran and brought it to him. As she did so Perrot glanced down at her feet, and then, with a touch of humour, said: “Pardon, but you have lost your slipper, ma’m’selle?” He foresaw the little comedy, which he could enjoy even in such painful circumstances.