Trafford had watched Pierre Duchesney at his work, a great, strong-limbed giant whose blow, intentional or not, could well work the crushing of lesser bones, and admitted that their purpose was well-nigh foolhardy. To take such a man, surrounded as he was by friends, was scarcely to be thought of, and in fact would not have been thought of, but for a chance remark that he was not going below the first rapids. When the jam was started here, he was to strike across to the head waters of the Androscoggin, which Trafford’s companion, intent in his belief that this was the man they wanted, interpreted as a purpose to bury himself in the wilds of the Canadian wilderness about Megantic. Trafford, himself, while yet in doubt as to the identity of the man, admitted that even if they lost him, it would be much gained if they could prove him, and so consented to the plan his assistant outlined, determined to take his chances in the matter of an actual capture. The men were stretched about the blazing logs, smoking, sleeping, chatting. Trafford among them watched the leap of the flames and the gradual reddening of the great logs into coals. The other stranger had left the circle some time before. Involuntarily Trafford kept his eye on Pierre’s huge form, where it was stretched in the full blaze and warmth of the logs, his eyes closed in a pleasant after-feeding doze. Suddenly out of the dark came a sharp Canadian voice, calling: “_Sacré, c’est moi, Pierre!_” Every one glanced up enquiringly, but the effect on Pierre Duchesney was startling in the extreme. His eyes stared wide from a face of ashy grey; he leaped to his feet, shaking as one with the ague. Trafford had sprung to his side at the instant of his leap from his recumbent position, and in time to catch from his blanched lips the convicting words: “_Mon dieu; Victor!_” Trafford’s hand was on his pistol, which he drew, with the sharp demand: “Quick, seize the man; he’s wanted for the murder of Victor Vignon!” At the word “murder,” the men drew back from the circle of light. They lived free and easy lives in the woods, and had little of the fear of the law before them in their fastnesses, but with murder and the murderer they had no share. All the other laws of God and man, they might violate, but to that one, “Thou shalt do no murder,” they bowed, the very defencelessness of their lives making murder doubly terrible to them. So, strong men as they were, they gazed wild-eyed on the scene, and some of the bravest trembled. On Pierre, the word acted like magic. No less pale he was than before, but it was a paleness in which the sense of self-preservation was awake, looking from his eyes, as it looks from those of hunted wild creatures brought suddenly to bay. He attempted no plea; he made no denial; but his form grew compact with the compactness of one about to spring. Trafford, wondering what course the others would take, brought his pistol to a steady aim, and said clearly and sharply: