give you back the basket, and the riding-whip, and the other things, and
I will never forgive you--never--no, never!"

Stroke Laforce had given himself up, had himself ridden to Winnipeg, a
thousand miles, and told his story. Then the sergeant's stripes had been
stripped from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own statement had
got twelve years' imprisonment. Ten years had passed since then--since
Marcey was put away in his grave, since Pierre left Fort Ste. Anne, and
he had not seen it or Lucille in all that time. But he knew that Gyng was
dead, and that his widow and her child had gone south or east somewhere;
of Laforce after his sentence he had never heard.

He stood looking at the house from the shade of the solitary pine-tree
near it, recalling every incident of that fatal night. He had the gift of
looking at a thing in its true proportions, perhaps because he had little
emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early in life his emotions
were rationalised. Presently he heard the voice again:

"He waits at the threshold stone--
(Why should the key-hole rust?)
The eagle broods at his side,
(Why should the blind be drawn?)
Long has he watched, and far has he called
The lonely sentinel of the North:
"Who goes there?" to the wandering soul:
Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol
(Why should the key-hole rust?)
The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home,
(Why should the blind be drawn?)"