He had brought back Dixon. In
the morning Melisse would know. First she would go to the Englishman,
then--then--she would come to him!
He rose and went to the rude board table in the corner of his room.
"No, Melisse must not come to me in the morning," he whispered to
himself. "She must never again look upon Jan Thoreau."
He took pencil and paper and wrote. Page after page he crumpled in his
hand and flung into the fire. At last, swiftly and despairingly, he
ended with half a dozen lines. What he said came from his heart, in
French:
"I have brought him back to you, my Melisse, and pray that the good
God may give you happiness. I leave you the old violin, and always
when you play, it will tell you of the love of Jan Thoreau."
He folded the page and sealed it in one of the company's envelopes.
Very quietly he went from his room down into the deserted store.
Without striking a light he found a new pack, a few articles of food,
and ammunition. The envelope, addressed to Melisse, he left where
Croisset or the factor would find it in the morning. His dogs were
housed in a shack behind the store, and he called out their names
softly and warningly as he went among them. As stealthily as their
master they trailed behind him to the edge of the forest, and close
under the old spruce that guarded the grave Jan stopped, and silently
he stretched out his arms to the little cabin.
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