Here is food and water for a
week, and furs for your bed. Now I will cut those thongs about
your wrists."
"Do you mean to say you're going to leave me here alone--in this
wretched prison?" cried Howland.
"_Mon Dieu_, is it not better than a grave, M'seur? I will be back at
the end of a week."
The door was partly open and for the last time there came to Howland's
ears the mourning howl of the old dog on the mountain top. Almost
threateningly he gripped Croisset's arm.
"Jean--if you don't come back--what will happen?"
He heard the half-breed chuckling.
"You will die, M'seur, pleasantly and taking your own time at it, which
is much better than dying over a case of dynamite. But I will come back,
M'seur. Good-by!"
Again the door was closed and bolted and the sound of Croisset's
footsteps quickly died away beyond the log walls. Many minutes passed
before Howland thought of his pipe, or a fire. Then, shiveringly, he
went to seek the fuel which Jean had told him was behind the stove. The
old bay stove was soon roaring with the fire which he built, and as the
soothing fumes of his pipe impregnated the damp air of the room he
experienced a sensation of comfort which was in strange contrast to the
exciting happenings of the past few days.
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