For a moment Ned Trent stared through the darkness into which
Virginia had disappeared. Then he turned a troubled face to the
task he had set himself, for the unexpectedly pathetic results of
his fantastic attempt had shaken him. Twice he half turned as
though to follow her. Then shaking his shoulders he bent his
attention to the old man in the shadow of the chair.
He was given no opportunity for further speech, however, for at the
sound of the closing door Galen Albret's impassivity had fallen
from him. He sprang to his feet. The whole aspect of the man
suddenly became electric, terrible. His eyes blazed; his heavy
brows drew spasmodically toward each other; his jaws worked,
twisting his beard into strange contortions; his massive frame
straightened formidably; and his voice rumbled from the arch of his
deep chest in a torrent of passionate sound.
"By God, young man!" he thundered, "you go too far! Take heed! I
will not stand this! Do not you presume to make love to my
daughter before my eyes!"
And Ned Trent, just within the dusky circle of lamplight, where the
bold, sneering lines of Ins face stood out in relief against the
twilight of the room, threw back his head and laughed. It was a
clear laugh, but low, and in it were all the devils of triumph, and
of insolence. Where the studied insult of words had failed, this
single cachinnation succeeded. The Trade saw his opponent's eyes
narrow. For a moment he thought the Factor was about to spring on
him.
Then, with an effort that blackened his face with blood, Galen
Albret controlled himself, and fell to striking the call-bell
violently and repeatedly with the palm of his hand. After a moment
Matthews, the English servant, came running in. To him the Factor
was at first physically unable to utter a syllable. Then finally
he managed to ejaculate the name of his bowsman with such violence
of gesture that the frightened servant comprehended by sheer force
of terror and ran out again in search of Me-en-gan.
This supreme effort seemed to clear the way for speech. Galen
Albret began to address his opponent hoarsely in quick, disjointed
sentences, a gasp for breath between each.
"You revived an old legend--_la Longue Traverse_--the myth. It
shall be real--to--you--I will make it so. By God, you shall not
defy me----"
Ned Trent smiled. "You do not deceive me," he rejoined, coolly.
"Silence!" cried the Factor. "Silence!--You shall speak no
more!--You have said enough----"
Me-en-gan glided into the room. Galen Albret at once addressed him
in the Ojibway language, gaining control of himself as he went on.
"Listen to me well," he commanded. "You shall make a count of all
rifles in this place--at once. Let no one furnish this man with
food or arms. You know the story of _la Longue Traverse_. This
man shall take it. So inform my people, I, the Factor, decree it
so. Prepare all things at once--understand, at once!"
Ned Trent waited to hear no more, but sauntered from the room
whistling gayly a boatman's song. His point was gained.
Outside, the long Northern twilight with its beautiful shadows of
crimson was descending from the upper regions of the east A light
wind breathed up-river from the bay. The Free Trader drew his
lungs full of the evening air.
"Just the same, I think she will come," said he to himself. "_La
Longue Traverse_, even at once, is a pretty slim chance. But this
second string to my bow is better. I believe I'll get the
rifle--if she comes!"