“Sacré-é-é!” growled Pierre, “dey goin’ shoot!” In answer to his words sounded the _crang!_ _crack!_ _crang-crang!_ _crang-crang!_ _crang-crang!_ _crack!_ of rifles. The bullets hurtled and droned, they thudded in the logs, caromed and _pi-in-inged_ shrilly in the interior. Jules stood close by the door, behind the upright timber. Dubat was flat on the bed and Crevier under it. And still the rifles spouted flame and the leaden missiles sang and _whinged_ through the hut. Then they ceased suddenly. After the furious noise all was deathlike in stillness. Everyone listened.
“Tha-la-il [Dead!]” said Annaotaha to his companions after several minutes of the intense silence. An indistinct form came and stood in the door, listening with gun ready. It heard no sound, for the three were silent and holding their breath.
“Tha-la-il! [Dead!]” he said it again, and entered the camp fearlessly. A heavy fall, that sounded but thick and muffled, and the figure sprawled in death on the ground motionless. “C’est bon!” said Etienne approaching. He came to the entrance, stumbled over the two limp figures, and sprang back, screaming in fear, then his voice died away.
Inside the hut Jules crept noiselessly to the bed.
“Go now! ve be keel ici! Dubat go nord! Crevier go sud! Ah go ouest!” he said in almost inaudible tones.
Carefully the two others followed him to the door, and they sprang through the clearing into the blackness of the forests.
“Trois mans, by diable!” screamed Annaotaha as he saw the three flit like shadows from the camp. The Indians’ rifles barked again, and the bullets _pludd-ed_ among the tree trunks. Wild cries and shouts arose, and Jules heard some one running after him. He increased his speed and went on swiftly through the deep woods, his pursuer cursing aloud and losing ground fast. Soon Jules could hear nothing of the man behind him, and he stopped. Everything was still; then far to the rear the faint _pang_ of a rifle jarred the crisp silence.
Verbaux started again and travelled steadily to the southwest. Hour after hour passed; daylight came, then broad day swept over the land, and still Jules kept on. At last the timber-land ended; he crossed out on the great barrens. The morning wind created living things of the loose drift. Round, oblong snow-clouds whirled and twisted along, their under sides blue, their tops dazzling white in the sun. Many delicate tones of gray-blue and dark gray mingled and blended into one another as the wind scud passed over the face of the sun and cast fast-changing shadows. The wind was cold; it had come for thousands of miles over chilled countries, endless barrens, black lakes and rivers frozen in fantastic shapes, and was always laden with the ice particles, that hummed and rustled monotonously, caught up by one gust, dropped, taken by another and hurried through miles of space. Verbaux covered his face with his muffler. “Ah had for leave dat _chappette_,”[8] he said sadly. He looked back. The timber fringe of the barrens was far away; only the giant trees lifted their peaked tops above the solid line of dark green. Then Verbaux slowed his pace, hesitating. “Ah lak’ go back for dat,” he thought, and the gray eyes were wistful. “Non! Ah mus’ fin’—Le Grand, oui, Le Grand!” Not the slightest admission of his heart’s wish came from his lips.