down-stairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got in.

The groom looked at him inquiringly. "The Cote Dorion!" he said, and
they sped away through the night.




CHAPTER VIII

THE COST OF THE ORNAMENT

One, two, three, four, five, six miles. The sharp click of the iron
hoofs on the road; the strong rush of the river; the sweet smell of the
maple and the pungent balsam; the dank rich odour of the cedar swamp; the
cry of the loon from the water; the flaming crane in the fishing-boat;
the fisherman, spear in hand, staring into the dark waters tinged with
sombre red; the voice of a lonely settler keeping time to the ping of the
axe as, lengthening out his day to nightly weariness, he felled a tree;
river-drivers' camps spotted along the shore; huge cribs or rafts which
had swung down the great stream for scores of miles, the immense oars
motionless, the little houses on the timbers blinking with light; and
from cheerful raftsmen coming the old familiar song of the rivers:

"En roulant, ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule!"

Not once had Charley Steele turned his head as the horse sped on. His
face was kept straight along the line of the road; he seemed not to see
or to hear, to be unresponsive to sound or scene. The monocle at his eye