By the Indians and half-breeds of
the country in which he had lived, Bram was regarded as a monster
of the first order possessed of the conjuring powers of the devil
himself. By the police he was earnestly desired as the most
dangerous murderer at large in all the north, and the lucky man
who captured him, dead or alive, was sure of a sergeantcy.
Ambition and hope had run high in many valiant hearts until it was
generally conceded that Bram was dead.
Philip was not thinking of the sergeantcy as he kept steadily
along the edge of the Barren. His service would shortly be up, and
he had other plans for the future. From the moment his fingers had
touched the golden strand of hair he had been filled with a new
and curious emotion. It possessed him even more strongly to-day
than it had last night. He had not given voice to that emotion, or
to the thoughts it had roused, even to Pierre. Perhaps he was
ridiculous. But he possessed imagination, and along with that a
great deal of sympathy for animals--and some human beings.
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