With a great sighing breath that
was almost a sob, he bowed his head upon his arms.
"Jan Thoreau," whispered Jean softly, "have you forgotten that it was
I who killed the missioner for you, and that through all of these
years Jean de Gravois has never questioned you about the fight on the
mountain top?" There was in his voice, as gentle as a woman's, the
vibrant note of a comradeship which is next to love--the comradeship
of man for man in a world where friendship is neither bought nor sold.
"Have you forgotten, Jan Thoreau? If there is anything Jean de Gravois
can do?"
He sat down opposite Jan, his thin, eager face propped in his hands,
and watched silently until the other lifted his head. Their eyes met,
steady, unflinching, and in that look there were the oath and the seal
of all that the honor of the big snows held for those two.
Still without words, Jan reached within his breast and drew forth the
little roll which he had taken from his violin. One by one he handed
the pages over to Jean de Gravois.
"Mon Dieu!" said Jean, when he had finished reading. He spoke no other
words. White-faced, the two men stared, Jan's throat twitching,
Gravois' brown fingers crushing the rolls he held.
"That was why I tried to kill the missioner," said Jan at last.
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