Jean Bevoir demurred and was evidently seconded by some other Frenchmen within the post, but at last he consented to talk to Joseph Morris, provided the planter would come to the gate unattended. Secretly the French trader was anxious to know just what the English had in mind to do. Hope went back and delivered his message. At once Dave, Henry, and Barringford set up another protest. “There is sure to be treachery, father!” cried Henry. “Why, they may even shoot you down in cold blood. You do not know the temper of these black-hearted rascals.” “I do not think they will dare to go as far as that,” answered Joseph Morris. He was brave-hearted to the core. “If they do kill me attack them and show no mercy,” he added. The conference between Jean Bevoir and the planter took place an hour later. Joseph Morris, waving a white handkerchief, approached the front of the trading post boldly. He saw himself covered by several rifle barrels, but did not falter. As he came to a halt there was a slight noise, as a short ladder was thrown into place, and then the head of Jean Bevoir appeared over the stockade gate. “Hullo! Jean Bevoir has shown himself!” cried Dave, who was at a distance. “I must say, I didn’t think he would do it.” “He wants us to believe that he is not afraid,” answered Henry. “Probably he has been fortifying his courage with a few drinks of rum.” And in this guess Henry hit the nail on the head. “Jean Bevoir,” began James Morris. “Do you realize that you have committed a great wrong?” “I haf done no wrong,” returned the Frenchman, stubbornly. “This post ees mine; I shall keep heem.” “You killed my brother.” “It ees not so,—I did not touch heem.” “But he is dead, is not that true?” demanded the planter, with a sudden hope swaying in his heart. “Yees, he ees dead. But I did it not, no. An Indian shot heem down—who, I know not. He vas badly wounded, an’ I, yes, I hees enemy, took care of heem, _oui_, until he died. Zen I gif heem a good burial. Vat can I do more? He not do so much for Jean Bevoir, no! no!” “You caused his death—the attack on him and his companions was your work,—it is useless to deny it. And this post is not yours. Since my brother is dead it belongs to his son, David Morris,—and he shall have it, be the cost what it may. Jean Bevoir, you must surrender, or take the consequences.” At this plain speech the Frenchman grew slightly pale. But he quickly recovered. “Ha! Take care how you threaten Jean Bevoir!” he exclaimed. “Ve are vell armed here an’ ve can shoot! Haf I not told you zat zis post ees mine? I haf ze papers, wid ze signature of James Morris, _oui_! Ze law ees as good for me as for you, an’ I snap my fingair at you!” Jean Bevoir suited the action to the word. “Go avay, an’ nevair come here again!” “You have my brother’s signature? Impossible! It must be a forgery! He would never deal in that way with such as you.”