to be sure, I had betrayed Mrs. Malbrouck into something more than
a suspicion of emotion.

"When I got back to my old camp, I could find out nothing from the other
fellows; but Jacques Pontiac told me that his old mate, Pretty Pierre,
who in recent days had fallen from grace, knew something of these people
that no one else guessed, because he had let them a part of his house
in the parish of St. Genevieve in Quebec, years before. Pierre had
testified to one fact, that a child--a girl--had been born to Mrs.
Malbrouck in his house, but all further knowledge he had withheld.
Pretty Pierre was off in the Rocky Mountains practising his profession
--chiefly poker--and was not available for information. What did I,
Gregory Thorne, want of the information anyway? That's the point, my
son. Judging from after-developments I suppose it was what the foolish
call occult sympathy. Well, where was that girl-child? Jacques Pontiac
didn't know. Nobody knew. And I couldn't get rid of Mrs. Malbrouck's
face; it haunted me; the broad brow, deep eyes, and high-bred sweetness
--all beautifully animal. Don't laugh: I find astonishing likenesses
between the perfectly human and the perfectly animal. Did you never see
how beautiful and modest the faces of deer are; how chic and sensitive is
the manner of a hound; nor the keen, warm look in the eye of a well-bred
mare? Why, I'd rather be a good horse of blood and temper than half the
fellows I know. You are not an animal lover as I am; yes, even when I
shoot them or fight them I admire them, just as I'd admire a swordsman
who, in 'quart,' would give me death by the wonderful upper thrust. It's
all a battle; all a game of love and slaughter, my son, and both go
together.

"Well, as I say, her face followed me. Watch how the thing developed.
By the prairie-track I went over to Fort Desire, near the Rockies, almost