Sam, tied hand and foot, was confined in the bunk-house at Gagnon's. All the heavy hours of his imprisonment were charged up against Bela, and by morning the score was a heavy one.

Big Jack, or one of the other men, was always in the room or at the door, and Bela had no opportunity to approach the prisoner.

Bela slept in the main house with the Gagnon girls. Before the general turning in that night Big Jack and Black Shand each contrived to separate her from the others long enough to make a proposal similar to Joe's. In each case Bela returned the same answer.

Next morning they were all early astir. The Gagnon boys put on clean blue-gingham shirts and red woollen sashes, and the girls tied their sable locks with orange and cerise ribbons. The cheeks of both boys and girls bore a high polish.

Squaw Gagnon tacked up lace window curtains for a final touch and brought out a square of carpet for the bishop to rest his reverend feet upon. To this household it was the greatest day in the year, and the sun was shining like the shiniest-cheeked Gagnon of them all. The younger children kept careful watch on Sam. He was an attraction fortuitously added to the big show.

Johnny Gagnon himself was the most excited of the family.

"You come jus' right!" he was continually exclaiming to Jack. "They stop all day now. Have trial in my house. Maybe stay to-night, too. I wish we had a fiddle. We could dance. But we can slap and sing any'ow."

The girls giggled delightedly at this suggestion.

Each one of the white men thought: "Dance at my wedding, maybe!" and glanced covertly at Bela. Bela looked out of the window.

"What! dance with the bishop here?" said Jack, affecting to be scandalized.

"Sure!" cried Johnny. "Bishop Lajeunesse no long-chin religieux. Bishop say let yo'ng folks have a good time. Laugh and mak' fun wherever he go. He is a man!"

Early as they were they no sooner finished breakfast than they heard a shrill hail from down river. Every soul about the place excepting Sam dropped what he was about and scampered down to the water's edge.

Presently around the bend below appeared the tracking crew, slipping in the ooze, scrambling over fallen trunks, plunging through willows. Behind them trailed the long, thin line that must be kept taut, whatever the obstruction. Finally the York boat poked its nose lazily into view like a gigantic duck.

The other four of the crew stood upon the cargo with long poles to fend her off the shore, and the steersman was mounted on a little platform astern wielding an immense sweep. In the waist stood the passengers. As the celebrities were recognized a shout went up from the shore.

There was the bishop with red buttons, and the ordinary priests with black. There were the police in their gay, scarlet tunics; the Indian agent with his bag of money, and the doctor with his bag of tools. Finally there was the blue hat with ostrich feathers that was already famous in the country.

Before the summer was out, news of that hat travelled all the way to the Arctic Ocean. Any one of these passengers would have made a gala day for Johnny Gagnon's family. To have them all at once was almost more than they could take in.

The tracking crew was on the opposite bank. Coiling up their line and jumping aboard, all hands poled her across. The bishop, gathering his cassock around his waist, was the first to leap ashore.

He was a little man, radiating goodness and fun. He had round, ruddy cheeks, looking as if the half of an apple had been glued to each side of his face, and a spreading, crinkly brown beard.

"Bienvenue! Bienvenue!" Cried Johnny Gagnon with sweeping obeisances.

"Well, Johnny, have you got a new one for me?" asked his lordship with a twinkle.

The river bank became a scene of delightful confusion; black cassocks, red tunics, orange ribbons, and blue ostrich feathers all mingled. The two slender boy priests showed strange hirsute adornments. One had a face like a round white doily with brown fringe; the other was spotted with hair like new grass.

The agent and the doctor were ordinary looking men. They did not add to the picturesqueness of the scene, but each carried a bag which was charged with romance for the natives.

The two policemen were almost as young as the boy-priests, but bigger and redder and clean-shaven. Here the eyes of the Gagnon girls lingered longest.

The greatest sensation, naturally, was created by the blue hat. It was the last to come ashore. It lingered on the gunwale with an appealing turn manwards until a red arm was offered on one side, a black arm on the other, whereupon it hopped ashore with a coy wag to the right and to the left. It was not hard to see why the boatmen had christened her the "chicadee-woman."

Young Joe, catching a glimpse of the face beneath, muttered "School-marm!" impolitely.

The natives, however, made no such distinctions. To them she was just a white woman, only the second they had ever seen. They had no means of knowing whether they came more beautiful than this.

Miss Mackall, booted, hatted, and corseted in town, was the headliner of the show.

The experience to one all her life lost in a crowd of women was novel and a little intoxicating. The blue hat waggled and cocked alarmingly. The wearer, exulting in the consciousness that everybody was looking at her, saw nothing of this strange land she was in.

As soon as the general hand-shaking was over, Big Jack addressed himself to Sergeant Coulson. "I've got a prisoner for you, sergeant."

Coulson instantly stiffened into an arm of the law. "What charge?" he asked.

"I don't know exactly the legal name of it. He carried off a girl against her will. This girl!"—pointing to Bela. "Regularly tied her up and carried her off in a canoe, and kept her prisoner on an island in the lake."

The policeman was startled under his military air. "Is this true?" he asked Bela.

Bela, without saying anything, allowed him to suppose that it was.

"We'll have a hearing at once," said Coulson. "Gagnon, can we use your shack?"

Could he use it!

"Aristide! Michel! Maria!" shrieked Johnny. "Run, you turtles! Carry ever't'ing outside. Tak' down the stove!"

Bishop Lajeunesse went to Bela with kind eyes.

"My poor girl!" he said in her own tongue. "Have you had a bad time?"

"Wait," murmured Bela deprecatingly. "I tell everything in there."

"Mercy! Abducted!" cried Miss Mackall with an inquisitive stare. "She's bold enough about it. Not a trace of shame!"

"I'm afraid this will hardly be suitable for you to hear," murmured the doctor, who had constituted himself one of Miss Mackall's gallants. "Will you wait in the boat?"

"A trial! I wouldn't miss it for worlds," she retorted. "Which is the criminal? One of her own sort, I suppose. Fancy! carrying her off!"

Within a few minutes the Gagnon household effects were heaped out of doors, and the stage set for the "trial." It was strange how the squatty little shack with its crooked windows and doors instantly took on the look of a court.

All the seats were ranged across one end between the two doors for the policemen and the guests of honour.

Both doors were left open to give light to the proceedings, and a great bar of sunlight fell athwart the dusty floor.

Coulson sat in the middle with a table before him, and the other policeman at his left with note-book and pencil to take down the evidence. Both youngsters as the representatives of authority wore an air of gravity beyond their years.

Miss Mackall sat at the other side of Coulson, ever making play with the ostrich feathers. The doctor and the Indian agent were next her.

At the other end of the line sat Bishop Lajeunesse. He had sent the boy-priests back to the boat to repack the baggage. Whatever their feelings, they had obeyed with a cheerful air.

Of all those present only the bishop showed any compassion. Bela stood near him, and he occasionally leaned forward and patted her arm. She received it with an odd look, at once grateful and apprehensive.

The body of the room was filled with the natives, including the Gagnon family, the boatmen, and the servants, all squatting on the floor facing the table of justice. While they waited for the appearance of the prisoner they occupied themselves with Miss Mackall's gloves and parasol, and the artificial bouquet at her girdle. No such articles as these had ever been seen before on Musquasepi.

Sam was led in with his hands tied before him. He held his head high. Jack left him standing in front of the table, and Jack, Shand, and Joe took up positions by the door across the room from Bela.

Feeling their importance in the scene, all looked a little self-righteous. Occasionally they relieved their feelings by spitting outside the door. Sam did not look greatly concerned; his conscience was clear. True, he felt the degradation of the bound wrists, but must he not presently be triumphantly vindicated? He had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Mercy! Not at all what I expected!" whispered Miss Mackall to the doctor. "The handsome wretch! Fancy! Carrying her off like what do you call him. Much too good for her. It's her they should punish!"

The proceedings were opened by a formal questioning.

"Name?"

"Samuel Gladding."

"Age?"

"Twenty-four."

"Nativity?"

"American. Born in Orange, New Jersey."

"Citizen of Canada?"

"No."

"First came to Canada?"

"February 18 last."

"Arrived at Caribou Lake?"

"May 3. Travelling with Messrs. Skinner, Marr, Hagland, and Fraser in the capacity of cook."

During the course of the questioning the prisoner gradually apprehended that the sentiment of the room was against him. The suspicion crept into his mind that it might not be so easy as he had thought to clear himself.

"You are charged with having abducted this girl Bela," Coulson went on, "and keeping her a prisoner on Eagle Island. It is your right to waive examination, in which case I shall send you out to Miwasa Landing for trial. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes," said Sam.

Young Coulson's legal formula failed him here. "Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" he asked quite humanly.

As Sam was about to defend himself it suddenly rushed over him what a comic figure he would make, accusing a girl of abducting him. He closed his mouth and blushed crimson. Big Jack and his pals smiled at each other meaningly.

"Well?" demanded Coulson.

"It's not true," mumbled Sam.

"Didn't you go with her?"

"Yes—but——"

"But what?"

"I had to."

"What do you mean?"

There was no help for it.

"It was she carried me off!" Sam burst out.

There was an instant's silence in the room. The white men stared at the unexpected answer. The red people hardly understood it.

"What do you mean?" demanded Coulson, scowling.

"Just what I said!" cried Sam recklessly. "Jumped on me when I was asleep; tied me hand and foot, and bundled me in her canoe."

There was a great burst of derisive laughter. The decorum of the court was entirely destroyed. Never had such an original defence been heard. Coulson and his clerk laughed with the rest. Even the bishop had to laugh, albeit indignantly. Jack, Shand, and Joe fairly doubled up by the door. Sam stood through it, blushing and glaring around at his tormentors.

"I believe him!" cried Miss Mackall; but nobody heard her.

When order was restored, Coulson said with a shake in his throat: "You hardly expect us to believe that, do you?"

"I don't care whether you believe it or not!" returned Sam hotly. "Let me question her, and I'll show you. I guess that's my right, isn't it?"

"Certainly," said Coulson stiffly. "Stand aside for a while, and let her tell her story without interruption. You can question her when she is through."

All the white people except the white woman looked at the girl with sympathetic eyes. Bela's face was pale, and one hand was pressed to her breast to control the agitated tenant there.

To be obliged to speak out before so many white people was a terrible ordeal for the girl of the lake. She suspected, too, that there would be some difficult questions to answer—and there was no Musq'oosis to advise her. Alas, if she had taken his advice she would not have been here at all!

"Go ahead," said Coulson sympathetically.

Bela drew a steadying breath and raised her head. Pointing at Sam with unconscious dramatic effect, she said clearly: "He speak true. I carry him off."

Again there was a silence in the court, while the spectators gaped in pure astonishment. The three men by the door scowled in an ugly fashion. Sam himself was surprised by her candour. He looked at her suspiciously, wondering what she was preparing for him.

Coulson regretted his sympathy. "What do you mean?" he demanded sharply. "Is this a joke?"

Bela shook her head. "I tie him up and tak' him away lak he say."

"Then what is all this about? What did you do it for?" asked the policeman.

This was the question Bela dreaded. A stubborn look came over her face. "He is my friend," she said. "I hear those ot'er men say they hate him. Say they goin' kill him and nobody know. I t'ink if I tell Sam that, he jus' laugh. So I got tak' him away myself to save him."

The white spectators leaned forward, mystified and breathlessly attentive. Here was a brand-new story which did not fit any of the time-honoured court-room situations. The bishop looked sad. He suspected from her face that she was lying. Jack, Shand, and Joe could not contain their angry exclamations.

"It's a lie!" cried Jack. "The cook was nothing to us, neither one way or the other. Of course, after we thought he carried her off, we were sore, naturally."

"She's just trying to shield him now!" cried Joe furiously.

"Well, I can't hold him if she doesn't want him held," said Coulson.

"She told me yesterday she wanted him punished," insisted Jack.

"One moment," said Coulson. "I'll get to the bottom of this." He returned to Bela with a severe air. "Is that true?"

"Yes; I tell him that," admitted Bela.

"What did you do that for?"

"He"—pointing to Sam—"run away from me." Here the spectators smiled. "I not strong enough to catch him. So I mak' them catch him. I mak' them bring him to the police so all is known. They cannot hurt him if all is known."

The bishop, watching Bela, was sadly puzzled. Poor Bela herself, if he had known, was confused between the truths and the untruths.

"Why should they want to hurt him?" demanded Coulson.

"I don' know." Here she was evasive again.

"What were you doing in their camp in the first place?" he asked.

"I jus' travellin'," said Bela.

"But you stayed there long enough to make friends. How long were you there?"

"Three—four days."

"What did you stay for?"

"Not'ing," said Bela sullenly.

"That's no answer. You must have known the risks a girl ran in a camp of men."

"I tak' care of myself all right."

"Answer my question," he insisted. "What did you stay there for?"

"I not stay in their house," she parried.

"Never mind that. What did you stay around there for?"

Bela was cornered. True to her wild nature, her eyes turned desirously toward the open door. The bishop laid a hand on her arm.

"Tell the truth, my daughter," he said gently. "No one shall harm you."

Bela turned to him. "I am 'mos' white," she explained, as if he were the only reasonable person present. "I lak be wit' white people."

Here a titter passed over the native audience at what they considered her presumption. Bela's eyes flashed scorn on them. She forgot her terrors.

"I am not one of these!" she cried. "I am white! I want marry a white man!"

An odd start of surprised laughter escaped the white spectators. They glanced at each other to make sure they had heard aright.

"Oh!" cried Coulson. "Now we're getting down to it. The prisoner here was the one you picked out?"

"Yes!" answered Bela defiantly. "He is the best man."

"Well——" exclaimed Coulson.

Suddenly the richness of the situation broke on the spectators, and a gale of laughter swept through the room.

The bishop laughed, too, though he patted Bela's arm encouragingly. At least, she was telling the truth now. It was too extraordinary to be otherwise.

Only the three men by the door did not laugh. With eyes full of hate, they glared at the girl and at the prisoner.

Big Jack, the most astute of the three, was the first to recover himself. It occurred to him that unless the rest of the story were prevented from coming out, their humiliation would be complete and abject.

With a glance of warning at his companions, he threw back his head and laughed louder than any. Shand and Joe, comprehending, followed suit. Their laughter had a bitter ring, but in a gale of laughter the difference passed unnoticed.

The prisoner turned white to his lips. He preserved an unnatural calmness. Only his wild, pained eyes betrayed the blinding, maddening rage that was consuming him.

Bela, whose eyes were only for him, turned pale to match. "Sam," she whispered imploringly.

"Cut me loose," he said thickly.

She looked about her. One passed her a knife, with which she cut his bonds, all the time searching his face with her terrified eyes, seeking to discover what he meant to do.

"I suppose I am free to go," he said stiffly to Coulson.

"Sure!" answered the policeman. He was kindly now—grateful, indeed, for the magnificent joke which had been provided.

"Sam! Sam!" Bela murmured piteously.

The spectators eagerly watched for the final scene of the humorous and original drama. Bela, unconscious of everybody but one man, made a lovely, appealing figure.

"Sam," she whispered, "now you know I your friend. Don' go! Wait little while. Sam—here is the bishop. Marry me, and let them laugh!"

Sam flung off the timid arm. "Marry you!" he cried with a quiet bitterness that burned like lye. "I'd sooner jump into the river!"

Empty-handed and hatless, he strode out of the shack.

"Sam, wait!" she cried, despairingly flying after.