"Then come! Come--quick with me!" He almost dragged the younger man away, hurrying him toward the sled and its broad-backed old horses. "We must go to the cabin, _oui_--yes! Hurry--" Houston saw that he was trembling. "Eet is the thing I look for--the thing I look for!" "Ba'tiste! What do you mean?" "My Julienne," came hoarsely. "Eet is my Julienne's!" Already they were in the sled, the wolf-dog perched between them, and hurrying along the mushy road, which followed the lesser raises of snow, taking advantage of every windbreak and avoiding the greater drifts of the highway itself. Two miles they went, the horses urged to their greatest speed. Then, with a leap, Ba'tiste cleared the runners and motioned to the man behind him. "Come with me! Golemar! You shall stay behind. You shall fall in the drift--" The old man was talking excitedly, almost childishly. "No? Then come--Eet is your own self that must be careful. Ba'teese, he cannot watch you. Come!" At a run, he went forward, to thread his way through the pines, to flounder where the snow had not melted, to go waist-deep at times, but still to rush onward at a speed which taxed even Houston's younger strength to keep him in sight. The wolf-dog buried itself in the snow, Houston pulling it forth time after time, and lugging it at long intervals. Then at last came the little clearing,--and the cabin. Ba'tiste already was within. Houston avoided the figure on the bed as he entered and dropped beside the older man, already dragging forth the drawers of the bureau and pawing excitedly among the trinkets there. He gasped and pulled forth a string of beads, holding them trembling to the light, and veering from his jumbled English to a stream of French. Then a watch, a ring, and a locket with a curly strand of baby hair. The giant sobbed. "My Pierre--eet was my Pierre!" "What's that?" Houston had raised suddenly, was staring in the direction of an old commode in the corner. At the door the wolf-dog sniffed and snarled. Ba'tiste, bending among the lost trinkets that once had been his wife's, did not hear. Houston grasped him by the shoulder and shook him excitedly. "Ba'tiste! Ba'tiste! There's some one hiding--over there in the corner. I heard sounds--look at Golemar!" "Hiding? No. There is no one here--no one but Ba'tiste and his memories. No one--" "I tell you I heard some one. The commode moved. I know!" He rose, only to suddenly veer and flatten himself against the wall. The yellow blaze of aimless revolver fire had spurted from the corner; then the plunging form of a gnarled, gangling, limping man, who rushed past Houston to the door, swerved there, and once more raised the revolver. But he did not fire.