flesh creep, imagination gave a thrilling coldness to the air. For a
moment the silence was unbroken. Then John Brown stretched out his hand
and said, in a hoarse whisper:

"It was his voice--Charley's voice, and he's been dead a year!"

Within half-an-hour, in utter collapse and fright, he was being driven to
the next parish by two young habitants whom he paid to accompany him.




CHAPTER XXVII

OUT ON THE OLD TRAIL

There was one person in the crowd surrounding the medicine-man's wagon
who had none of that superstitious thrill which had scattered the
habitants into little awe-stricken groups, and then by twos and threes to
their homes; none of that fear which had reduced the quack-doctor to such
nervous collapse that he would not spend the night in the village. Jo
Portugais had recognised the voice--that of Charley Steele the lawyer who
had saved him from hanging years ago. It was little like the voice of
M'sieu'! There was that in it which frightened him. He waited until he
had seen the quackdoctor start for the next parish, then he went slowly
down the street. There were people still about, so he walked on towards
the river. When he returned, the street was empty. Keeping in the
shadow of the trees, he went to Charley's house. There was a light in a
window. He went to the back door and tried it. It was not locked, and,
without knocking, he stepped inside the kitchen. Here was no light, and