It was worse than madness. To Pelletier death had come
at last as a friend. And Bram had been like that--dead to human
comradeship for years. And yet--
Under it all, in Philip's mind, ran the thought of the woman's
hair. In Pierre Breault's cabin he had not given voice to the
suspicion that had flashed upon him. He had kept it to himself,
and Pierre, afraid to speak because of the horror of it, had
remained as silent as he. The thought oppressed him now. He knew
that human hair retained its life and its gloss indefinitely, and
that Bram might have had the golden snare for years. It was quite
reasonable to suppose that he had bartered for it with some white
man in the years before he had become an outlaw, and that some
curious fancy or superstition had inspired him in its possession.
But Philip had ceased to be influenced by reason alone. Sharply
opposed to reason was that consciousness within him which told him
that the hair had been freshly cut from a woman's head. He had no
argument with which to drive home the logic of this belief even
with himself, and yet he found it impossible not to accept that
belief fully and unequivocally.
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