His long arms were stretched high, his head thrown
back, his upturned face aflame with a passion that was almost that
of prayer.
"M'seur, I thank the great God in Heaven that it was given to Jean
Croisset to meet one of those whom we had pledged our lives to find--and
I slew him!"
He stood silent, eyes partly closed, still as if in prayer. When he sank
into his chair again the look of hatred had gone from his face.
"It was the father, and I killed him, M'seur--killed him slowly, telling
him of what he had done as I choked the life from him; and then, a
little at a time, I let the life back into him, forcing him to tell me
where I would find his son, the slayer of Meleese's father. And after
that I closed on his throat until he was dead, and my dogs dragged his
body through three hundred miles of snow that the others might look on
him and know that he was dead. That was six years ago, M'seur."
Howland was scarcely breathing.
"And the other--the son--" he whispered densely. "You found him,
Croisset? You killed him?"
"What would you have done, M'seur?"
Howland's hands gripped those that guarded the little parcel.
"I would have killed him, Jean."
He spoke slowly, deliberately.
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