Isn't it in your mind?"

French and Cree were mixed half and half in Pierre's blood. The
pupils of his eyes dilated as he met Philip's steady gaze.

"It makes one think," he replied uneasily, "of the chasse-galere
and the loup-garou, and--and--almost makes one believe. I am not
superstitious, M'sieu--non--non--I am not superstitious," he cried
still more uneasily. "But many strange things are told about Bram
and his wolves;--that he has sold his soul to the devil, and can
travel through the air, and that he can change himself into the
form of a wolf at will. There are those who have heard him singing
the Chanson de Voyageur to the howling of his wolves away up in
the sky. I have seen them, and talked with them, and over on the
McLeod I saw a whole tribe making incantation because they had
seen Bram and his wolves building themselves a conjuror's house in
the heart of a thunder-cloud. So--is it strange that he should
snare rabbits with, a woman's hair?"

"And change black into the color of the sun?" added Philip,
falling purposely into the other's humor.

"If the rest is true--"

Pierre did not finish. He caught himself, swallowing hard, as
though a lump had risen in his throat, and for a moment or two
Philip saw him fighting with himself, struggling with the age-old
superstitions which had flared up for an instant like a powder-
flash. His jaws tightened, and he threw back his head.