yield have been proclaimed? Nothing. Proclaimed yesterday, today at
Court. No, no. I hate Iberville, but he is a great man."

In the veins of the renegade is still latent the pride of race. He is a
villain but he knows the height from which he fell. "He will find you,
monsieur," he repeats. "When Le Moyne is the hunter he never will kennel
till the end. Besides, there is the lady!"

"Silence!"

Radisson knows that he has said too much. His manner changes. "You will
let me go with you?" The Englishman remembers that this scoundrel was
with Bucklaw, although he does not know that Radisson was one of the
abductors.

"Never!" he says, and turns upon his heel.

A moment after and the two have disappeared from the lonely pageant of
ice and sun. Man has disappeared, but his works--houses and ships and
walls and snow-topped cannon--lie there in the hard grasp of the North,
while the White Weaver, at the summit of the world, is shuttling these
lives into the woof of battle, murder, and sudden death.

On the shore of the La Planta River a man lies looking into the sunset.
So sweet, so beautiful is the landscape, the deep foliage, the scent of
flowers, the flutter of bright-winged birds, the fern-grown walls of a
ruined town, the wallowing eloquence of the river, the sonorous din of
the locust, that none could think this a couch of death. A Spanish
priest is making ready for that last long voyage, when the soul of man
sloughs the dross of earth. Beside him kneels another priest--a