mountain-top she gazed over the River St. Lawrence with an eye blind to
all except this terrible distortion of life. Yet through her
obfuscation, there ran admiration for Tarboe. What a man he was! He
had captured John Grier as quickly and as securely as a night fisherman
spears a sturgeon in the flare at the bow of the boat. Tarboe's ability
was as marked as John Grier's mad policy. It was strange that Tarboe
should have bewildered and bamboozled--if that word could be used--the
old millowner. It was as curious and thrilling as John Grier's
fanaticism.

Already the pinch of corruption had nipped his flesh; he was useless,
motionless in his narrow house, and yet, unseen but powerful, his
influence went on. It shamed a wife and son; it blackened the doors
of a home; it penalized a family.

Indeed he had been a bad man, and yet she could not reconcile it all
with a wonderful something in him, a boldness, a sense of humour, an
everlasting energy, an electric power. She had never seen anyone
vitalize everything round him as John Grier had done. He threw things
from him like an exasperated giant; he drew things to him like an Angel
of the Covenant. To him life was less a problem than an experiment, and
this last act, this nameless repudiation of the laws of family life, was
like the sign of a chemist's activity. As she stood on the mountain-top
her breath suddenly came fast, and she caught her bosom with angry hands.

"Carnac--poor Carnac!" she exclaimed.

What would the world say? There were those, perhaps, who thought Carnac
almost a ne'er-do-well, but they were of the commercial world where John
Grier had been supreme.