"What good can it do to call him bad now?" Without a word, Pierre drew
from a leather wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting
sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and yet again.

"Poor soul! poor lady!" he said. "Was ever such another letter written to
any man? And it came too late; this, with the king's recall, came too
late!"

"So--so. He died out there where that wild duck flies--a Great Slave.
Years after, the Company's man brought word of all."

Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of the letter.

"How do they call that name?" asked Pierre. "It is like none I've
seen--no."

Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not answer.




THE RED PATROL

St. Augustine's, Canterbury, had given him its licentiate's hood, the
Bishop of Rupert's Land had ordained him, and the North had swallowed him
up. He had gone forth with surplice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the
prayer-book, and that other Book of all. Indian camps, trappers' huts,
and Company's posts had given him hospitality, and had heard him with
patience and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, stole, and
hood, took the eastward position, and intoned the service, and no man