The girl stood in a bank above a river flowing north. At her back crouched a dozen clean whitewashed buildings. Before her, in interminable journey, day after day, league on league into remoteness stretched the stern northern wilderness, untrodden save by the trappers, the Indians, and the beasts. Close about the little settlement crept the balsams and spruce, the birch and poplar, behind which lurked vast dreary musk-eggs, a chaos of boulder splits, the forest. The girl had known nothing different for many years. Once a summer the sailing-ship from England felt its frozen way through the Hudson Straits, down the Hudson Bay, to drop anchor in the mighty river of the Moose. Once a summer a six-fathom canoe manned by a dozen paddles struggled down the waters of the broken Abitibi. Once a year a little band of red-sashed voyageurs forced their exhausted sledge-dogs across the ice from some unseen wilderness trail. That was all. Before her eyes the seasons changed, all grim, but one by the very pathos of brevity sad. In the brief luxuriant summer came the Indians to trade their pelts. Came the keepers of the winter-posts to rest. Came the ship from England, bringing the articles of use or ornament she had ordered a full year before. Within a short time all were gone into the wilderness, into the great unknown world. The snow fell, the river and the bay froze. Strange men from the north glided silently to the factor's door, bearing the meat and pelts of the seal. Bitter iron cold shackled the Northland, the abode of desolation. Armies of caribou drifted by, ghostly under the aurora, moose, lordly and scornful, stocked majestically along the shore. Wolves howled invisible, or trotted dog-like in organized packs along the river-banks. Day and night the ice artillery thundered. Night and day the fireplaces roared defiance to a frost they could not subdue, while the people of desolation crouched beneath a tyranny of winter. Then the upheaval of spring with the ice-jams and terrors, the moose roaring by untameable, the torrents rising, rising, foot by foot to the very door-yard of her father's house. Strange spirits were abroad at night, howling, shrieking, cracking and groaning in voices of ice and flood. Her Indian nurse told her of them all, of Manabosho, the good, of Neenabosho, the evil, in her lisping Ojibwa dialect that sounded like the softer voices of the forest. At last the sudden subsistence of the waters, the splendid eager blossoming of the land into new leaves, lush grasses, an abandon of sweetbriar and hepatica. The air blew soft, a thousand singing birds sprang from the soil, the wild goose cried in triumph. Overhead shone the hot sun of the northern summer. From the wilderness came the brigades bearing their pelts, the hardy traders of the winter-posts, striking hot the imagineable through the mysterious and lonely allurement of their callings. For a brief season, transient as the flash of a loonswing in the shadow of a lake, the post was bright with the thronging of many people. The Indians pitched their wigwams and the broad meadows below the bend. The half-breeds sauntered about, flashing bright teeth and wicked dark eyes at whom it might concern.   Everywhere was gay color, the red sashes of the voyageurs, the beaded moccasins and leggings of the Metis, the capotes of the brigade, the variegated costumes of the Crees and Ojibwa's. Like the wild roses around the edge of the musk-eggs, this brief flowering of the year passed. Again the nights were long, again the frost crept down from the eternal snow, again the wolves howled across barren wastes. Just now the girl stood ankle-deep in green grasses, a bath of sunlight falling about her, a tingle of salt wind humming up the river from the bay's offing. She was clad in gray wool and wore no hat. Her soft hair, the color of ripe wheat, blew about her temples, shadowing eyes of fathomless black. The wind had brought to the light and delicate brown of her complexion a trace of color to match her lips, whose scarlet did not fade after the ordinary and imperceptible manner into the tinge of her skin, but continued vivid to the very edge. Her eyes were wide and unseen. One hand rested idly on the breach of an ornamented bronze field-gun. McDonald, the chief trader, passed from the house to the store where his bartering with the Indians was daily carried on. The other scotchman in the post, Galen Albrecht, her father, and the head-factor of all this region, paced back and forth across the veranda of the factory, caressing his white beard. Up by the stockade young Achilles Picard tuned his whistle to the note of the curleau. Across the meadow from the church wandered Crane, the little church of England missionary, peering from short-sighted pale blue eyes. Beyond the Cooley, Sarnir and his Indians chock-chock-chocked away at the seams of the long coast-trading bateau. The girl saw nothing, heard nothing. She was dreaming. She was trying to remember. In the lines of her slight figure, in its pose, there by the old gun over the old, old river, was the grace of gentle blood, the pride of caste. Of all this region her father was the absolute Lord, feared, loved, obeyed by all its human creatures. When he went abroad he traveled in a state almost medieval in its magnificence. When he stopped at home, men came to him from the Albany, the Canogamy, the Missinabi, the Metagamy, the Abitibi, from all the rivers of the North to receive his commands. Wei was made for him, his lightest word was attended. In his house dwelt ceremony, and of his house she was the Princess. Unconsciously she had taken the gracious habit of command. She had come to value her smile, her word, to value herself. The Lady of a Realm greater than the Countries of Europe she moved serene, pure, lofty, amid dependence. And as the Lady of this Realm she did honour to her father's guests, sitting stately behind the beautiful silver service, below the portrait of the company's greatest explorer, Sir George Simpson, dispensing crude fare in gracious manner, listening silently to the conversation, finally withdrawing at the last with a sweeping courtesy to play soft, melancholy, and world-forgotten airs on the old piano, brought over years before by the Ladyhead, while the guests made merry with the mellow port, and ripe manilla cigars which the company supplied at servants, then coffee still with her natural old world charm of the grand dame. Such guests were not many, nor came often. There was MacTavish of Rupert's House, a three-days journey to the northeast, Rand of Fort Albany, a week's travel to the northwest, Malt of Fort George, ten days beyond either, all grizzled in the company's service. With them came their clerks, mostly English and Scotch younger sons, with a vast respect for the company, and a vaster for their factor's daughter. Once in two or three years appeared the inspectors from Winnipeg, true lords of the north, with their six-fathom canoes, their luxurious furs, their red banners trailing like gonfellans in the water. Then this post of conjurers' house feasted and danced, undertook gay excursions, disgust in public or private conclave, weighty matters, grave and reverend advices, cautions and commands. They went. Desolation again crept in. The girl dreamed. She was trying to remember. Far off, half-forgotten visions of brave, courtly men, of gracious, beautiful women, peopled the clouds of her imaginings. She heard them again, as voices beneath the roar of rapids, like faraway bells tinkling faintly through a wind, pitying her, exclaiming over her. She saw them dim and changing, as wraiths of a fog, as shadow-pictures in a mist beneath the moon, leaning to her with bright, shining eyes, full of compassion for the little girl who was to go so far away into an unknown land. She felt them as the touch of a breeze when the night is still, fondling her, clasping her, tossing her aloft in farewell. One she felt plainly, a gallant youth who held her up for all to see. One she saw clearly, a dewy-eyed, lovely woman who murmured loving broken words. One she heard distinctly. A gentle voice that said, God's love be with you, little one, for you have far to go and many days to pass before you see Quebec again. And the girl's eyes suddenly swam bright, for the Northland was very dreary. She drew her palms out in a gesture of weariness. Then her arms dropped, her eyes widened, her head bent forward in the attitude of listening. Achilly, she called. Achilly, come here. The young fellow approached respectfully. Man was ill, he asked. Don't you hear, she said. Faint between intermittent silences came the singing of men's voices from the South. Grasse adieu! cried Achilly. It is so. It is that brigade! He ran shouting toward the factory. End of Chapter 1 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 2 Of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest By Stuart Edward White Chapter 2 Men, women, dogs, children sprang into action from nowhere and ran pel mel to the two cannon. Gail and Albert, reappearing from the factory, began to issue orders. Two men set about hoisting on the tall flagstaff, the blood-red banner of the company. Speculation, excited and earnest, arose among the men as to which of the branches of the moose this brigade had hunted. The Abitibi, the Metagome, or the Missenabee. The half-breed women shaded their eyes. Mrs. Cockburn, the doctor's wife, and the only other white woman in the settlement, came and stood by Virginia Albert's side. Wishkoban, the Archibwe woman from the South Country, and Virginia's devoted familiar, took her half-jealous stand on the other. It is the same every year. We always like to see them come, said Mrs. Cockburn, in her monotonous low voice of resignation. Yes, replied Virginia, moving a little impatiently, for she anticipated eagerly the picturesque coming of these men of the silent places, and wished to savor the pleasure undistracted.  A shout arose. A round the bend shot a canoe. At once every paddle in it was raised to a perpendicular salute, then altogether dashed into the water with the full strength of the voyageurs wielding them. The canoe fairly leaped through the cloud of spray. Another rounded the bend. Another double row of paddles flashed in the sunlight. Another crew broke into a tumult of rapid exertion as they raced the last quarter mile of the long journey. A third burst into view. A fourth. A fifth. The silent river was alive with motion, glittering with color. The canoes swept onward, like race-horses straining against the rider. Now the spectators could make out plainly the boatmen. It could be seen that they had decked themselves out for the occasion. Their heads were bound with bright-colored fillets, their necks with gay scarves. The paddles were adorned with gaudy woollen streamers. New leggings of holiday pattern were intermittently visible on the bowsmen and steersmen as they half rose to give added force to their efforts. At first the men sang their canoe songs. But as the swift rush of the birchbarks brought them almost to their journey's end, they burst into wild shrieks and whoops of delight. All at once they were close to hand. The steersmen rose to throw his entire weight on the paddle. The canoe swung abruptly for the shore. Those in it did not relax their exertions, but continued their vigorous strokes until within a few yards of apparent destruction. They cried, thrusting their paddle straight down into the water with a strong backward twist. The stout wood bent and cracked. The canoe stopped short and the voyageurs leaped ashore to be swallowed up in the crowd that swarmed down upon them. The races were about equally divided and each acted after its instinct. The Indian greeting his people quietly and stocking away to the privacy of his wigwam. The more volatile white catching his wife or his sweetheart or his child to his arms. A swarm of Indian women and half-grown children set about unloading the canoes. Virginia's eyes ran over the crews of the various craft. She recognized them all, of course, to the last Indian packer. For in so small a community the personality and doings of even the humblest members are well known to everyone. Long since she had identified the brigade. It was of the Missenabee, the great river whose headwaters rise a scant hundred feet from those that flow as many miles south into Lake Superior. It drains a wild and rugged country whose forests cling to Boulder Hills, whose streams issue from deep-riven gorges, where for many years the big gray wolves had gathered in unusual abundance. She knew by heart the winter posts, although she had never seen them. She could imagine the isolation of such a place and the intense loneliness of the solitary man condemned to live through the dark northern winters, seeing no one but the rare Indians who might come in to trade with him for their pelts. She could appreciate the wild joy of a return for a brief season to the company of fellow men. When her glance fell upon the last of the canoes it rested with a flash of surprise. The craft was still floating idly, its bow barely caught against the bank. The crew had deserted, but amid ships, among the packages of pelts and duffel, sat a stranger. The canoe was that of the post at Kettle Portage. She saw the stranger to be a young man with a clean-cut face, a trim athletic figure dressed in the complete costume of the voyageurs, and thin brown and muscular hands. When the canoe touched the bank he had taken no part in the scramble to shore, and so had sat forgotten and unnoticed, saved by the girl, his figure erected with something of the Indian's stoical indifference. Then, when for a moment he imagined himself free from observation, his expression abruptly changed. His hands clenched tense between his buckskin knees, his eyes glanced here and there restlessly, and an indefinable shadow of something which Virginia felt herself obtuse in labeling desperation, and yet to which she discovered it impossible to fit a name descended on his features, darkening them. Twice he glanced away to the south. Twice he ran his eye over the vociferating crowd on the narrow beach. Absorbed in the silent drama of a man's unguarded expression, Virginia leaned forward eagerly. In some vague manner it was borne in on her that, once before she had experienced the same emotion, had come into contact with someone, something that had affected her emotionally just as this man did now. But she could not place it. Over and over again she forced her mind to the very point of recollection, but always it slipped back again from the verge of attainment. Then a little movement, some thrust forward of the head, some nervous, rapid shifting of the hands or feet, some unconscious poise of the shoulders, brought the scene flashing before her. The white snow, the still forest, the little square pen trap, the wolverine, desperate but cool, thrusting its blunt nose quickly here and there in baffled hope of an orifice of escape. Somehow the man reminded her of the animal, the fierce little woods-marauder, trapped and hopeless, but scorning to cower as would the gentler creatures of the forest. Abruptly his expression changed again. His figure stiffened, the muscles of his face turned iron. Virginia saw that someone on the beach had pointed toward him. His mask was on. The first burst of greeting was over. Here and there one or another of the brigade members jerked their heads in the strangest direction, explaining low-voiced to their companions. Soon all eyes turned curiously toward the canoe. A hum of low-voiced comment took the place of louder delight. The stranger, finding himself generally observed, rose slowly to his feet, picked his way with a certain exaggerated deliberation of movement over the duffel lying in the bottom of the canoe, until he reached the bow, where he paused. One foot lifted to the gunwell just above the emblem of the painted star. Immediately a dead silence fell. Groups shifted, drew apart, and together again, like the slow agglomeration of sawdust on the surface of water, until at last they formed in a semi-circle of staring, whose center was the bow of the canoe and the stranger from kettle-portage. The men scowled, the women regarded him with a half-fearful curiosity. Virginia Albert shivered in the shock of this sudden electric polarity. The man seemed alone against a sullen, unexplained hostility. The desperation she had thought to read but a moment before had vanished utterly, leaving in its place a scornful indifference and perhaps more than a trace of recklessness. He was ripe for an outbreak. She did not in the least understand, but she knew it from the depths of her woman's instinct, and unconsciously her sympathies flowed out to this man alone without a greeting where all others came to their own. For perhaps a full sixty seconds the newcomer stood uncertain what he should do, or perhaps waiting for some word or act to tip the balance of his decision. One after another those on shore felt the insolence of his stare and shifted uneasily. Then his deliberate scrutiny rose to the group by the cannon. Virginia caught her breath sharply. In spite of herself she could not turn away. The stranger's eye crossed her own. She saw the hard look fade into pleased surprise. Instantly his hat swept the gunwool of the canoe. He stepped magnificently ashore. The crisis was over. Not a word had been spoken. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 3 Of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest By Stuart Edward White Chapter 3 Galen Albright sat in his rough-hewn arm chair at the head of the table, receiving the reports of his captains. The long, narrow room opened before him, heavy raftered, massive, white, with a cavernous fireplace at either end. Above him frowned Sir George's portrait, at his right hand and his left, stretched the row of homemade heavy chairs, finished smooth and dull by two centuries of use. His arms were laid along the arms of his seat, his shaggy head was sunk forward until his beard swept the curve of his big chest. The heavy tufts of hair above his eyes were drawn steadily together in a frown of attention. One after another the men arose and spoke. He made no movement, gave no sign. His short, powerful form blotted against the lighter silhouette of his chair, only his eyes and the white of his beard gleaming out of the dusk. Curn of Old Brunswick House, Arshar of New, Kiwani, the Indian of Flying Post. These and others told briefly of many things, each in his own language. To all Galen Albright listened in silence. Finally Louis Placide from the post at Kettle Portage got to his feet. He too reported of the trade. So many beaver of tobacco, of powder, of lead, of pork, of flour, of tea, given in exchange. So many mink, otter, beaver, ermine, martin, and fisher-pelts taken in return. Then he paused and went on at greater length in regard to the stranger, speaking evenly but with emphasis. When he had finished, Galen Albright struck a bell at his elbow. Me and Gunn, the bozemen of the Factor's canoe, entered, followed closely by the young man who had that afternoon arrived. He was dressed still in his costume of the voyageur, the loose blouse shirt, the buckskin leggings and moccasins, the long-tastled red sash. His head was as high and his glance as free, but now the steel blue of his eye had become steady and wary, and two faint lines had traced themselves between his brows. At his entrance a hush of expectation fell. Galen Albright did not stir, but the others hitched nearer the long narrow table, and two or three leaned both elbows on it the better to catch what would ensue. Me and Gunn stopped by the door, but the stranger walked steadily the length of the room until he faced the Factor. Then he paused and waited collectively for the other to speak. This the Factor did not at once begin to do, but sat impassive, apparently without thought, while the heavy breathing of the men in the room marked off the seconds of time. Finally, abruptly, Galen Albright's cavernous, voice boomed forth. Something there was strangely mysterious, cryptic, in the veral tones issuing from a bulk so massive and inert. Galen Albright did not move, did not even raise the heavy, littered dull stare of his eyes to the young man who stood before him. Hardly did his broad arched chest seem to rise and fall with the respiration of speech, and yet each separate word leaped forth alive, instinct with authority. Once at Leftfoot Lake two Indians caught you asleep, he pronounced. They took your pelts and arms, and escorted you to Sudbury. They were my Indians. Once on the upper Abidibi you were stopped by a man named Herbert, who warned you from the country after relieving you of your entire outfit. He told you on parting what you might expect if you should repeat the attempt. Severe measures. The severest. Herbert was my man. Now Louis Placide surprises you in a rapids near Kettleportage and brings you here. During the slow delivering of these accurately spaced words, the attitude of the man about the long, narrow table gradually changed. Their curiosity had been great before, but now their intellectual interest was awakened, for these were facts of which Louis Placide's statement had given no inkling. Before them, for the dealing was a problem of the sort whose solution had earned for Galen Albert a reputation in the North Country. They glanced at one another to obtain the sympathy of attention, then back toward their chief in anxious expectation of his next words. The stranger, however, remained unmoved. A faint smile had sketched the outline of his lips when first the factor began to speak. This smile he maintained to the end. As the older man paused he shrugged his shoulders. All of that is quite true, he admitted. Even the unimaginative men of the silent places started at these simple words and vouchsafe to their speaker a more sympathetic attention. For the tones in which they were delivered possessed that deep, rich throat timbre which so often means power, personal magnetism, deep from the chest, with vibrant throat tones suggesting a volume of sound which may in fact be only hinted by the loudness the man at the moment sees fit to employ.  All of that is quite true, he repeated after a second's pause. But what has it to do with me? Why am I stopped and sent out from the free forest? I am really curious to know your excuse. This, replied Galen Albert, waitily, is my domain. I tolerate no rivalry here. Your right? demanded the young man briefly. I have made the trade and I intend to keep it. In other words, the strength of your good right arm, supplemented the stranger with the faintest hint of a sneer. That is neither here nor there, rejoined Galen Albert. The point is that I intend to keep it.  Now I have to warn you in person. I shall send you out once more, but this time you must promise me not to meddle with the trade again. He paused for a response. The young man's smile merely became accentuated. I have means of making my wishes felt, warned with the factor. Quite so, replied the young man deliberately, la long traverse. At this unexpected pronouncement of that dread name, two of the men swore violently. The others thrust back their chairs and sat, their arms rigidly braced against the table's edge, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the speaker. Only Galen Albert remained unmoved. What do you mean by that? he asked calmly. It amuses you to be ignorant, replied the stranger with some contempt. Don't you think this farce is about played out? I do. If you think you're deceiving me any with this show of formality, you're amidably mistaken. Don't you suppose I knew what I was about when I came into this country?  Your methods are not quite so secret as you imagine. I know perfectly well what happens to free traders in Rupert's land. You seem very certain of your information. Your men seem equally so, pointed out the stranger. Galen Albert, at the beginning of the young man's longer speech, had sunk almost immediately into his passive calm, the calm of great elemental bodies, the calm of a force so vast as to rest motionless by the very static power of its mass. When he spoke again, it was in the tentative manner of his earlier interrogatory, committing himself not at all, seeking to plumb his opponent's knowledge. Why, if you have realized the gravity of your situation, have you persisted after having been twice warned, he inquired? Because you're not the boss of creation, replied the young man bluntly. Galen Albert merely raised his eyebrows. I've got as much business in this country as you have, continued the young man, his tone becoming more incisive. You don't seem to realize that your charter of monopoly has expired. If the government was worth a damn, it would see to you, fellows. You have no more right to order me out of here than I would have to order you out. Suppose some old husky up on Whale River should send you word that you weren't to trap in the Whale River District next winter. I'll bet you'd be there. You Hudson Bay men tried the same game out west. It didn't work. You ask your Western men if they ever heard of Ned Trent. Your success does not seem to have followed you here, suggested the Factor, ironically. The young man smiled. This long traverse, went on Albert. What is your idea there? I have heard something of it. What is your information? Ned Trent laughed outright. You don't imagine there is any secret about that, he marveled. Why, every child north of the line knows that. You will send me away without arms, and with but a handful of provisions. If the wilderness and starvation fail, your runners will not. I shall never reach that Tamiskaming is alive. The same old legend commented Galen Albert in apparent amusement. I heard it when I first came to this country. You'll find a dozen such in every Indian camp. Joe Bagnéau, Morris Proctor, John May, William Jarvis, checked off the young man on his fingers. Personal enmity, replied the Factor. He glanced up to meet the young man's steady, skeptical smile. You do not believe me? Oh, if it amuses you, conceded the stranger. The thing is not even worth discussion. Remarkable sensation among our friends here for so idle a tale. Galen Albert considered. You will remember that throughout you have forced this interview, he pointed out. Now I must ask your definite promise to get out of this country and to stay out. No, replied Ned Trent. Then a mean shall be found to make you, threatened with the Factor, his anger blazing at last. Ah! said the stranger softly. Galen Albert raised his hand and let it fall. The bronzed and godly bedecked men filed out. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 4 of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest by Stuart Edward White Chapter 4 In the open air the men separated in quest of their various families or friends. The stranger lingered undecided for a moment on the top step of the veranda and then wandered down the little street, if street it could be called where horses there were none. On the left ranged the square white-washed houses with their door-yard, the old church, the workshop. To the right was a broad grass plot and then the moose, slipping by to the distant offing. Over a little bridge the stranger idled, looking curiously about him. The great trading-house attracted his attention, with its narrow picket lane leading to the door. The store-house, surrounded by a protective log fence. The fort itself, a medley of heavy-timbered stockades and square block houses. After a moment he resumed his strolling. Everywhere he went the people looked at him, ceasing their varied occupations. No one spoke to him, no one hindered him. To all intents and purposes he was as free as the air. But all about the island flowed the barrier of the moose and beyond frowned the wilderness, strong as iron bars to an unarmed man. Brooding on his imprisonment the free trader forgot his surroundings. The post, the river, the forest, the distant bay faded from his sight and he fell into deep reflection. There remained nothing of physical consciousness but a sense of the grateful spring warmth from the declining sun. At length he became vaguely aware of something else. He glanced up. Right by him he saw a handsome French half-breed sprawled out in the sun against a building, looking him straight in the face and flashing up at him a friendly smile. Hello! said Achille Picard. You must been sleep.  The prisoner seemed to find something grateful in the greeting even from the enemy's camp. Perhaps it merely happened upon the psychological moment for a response. Hello! he returned and seated himself by the man's side, lazily stretching himself in enjoyment of the reflected heat.  I think so. You has come trade those fur. It is bad business, disconnect your house. Old man, he no like that you trade those fur. He's very hard, that old man. Yes, replied the stranger. He has got to be, I suppose. This is the country of la longue travers. I believe you, responded Achille cheerfully. What you call him, your name? Ned Trent. Me, Achille. Achille Picard. I capitane of those dogs on that winter brigade. It is a hard post. The winter travel is pretty tough. I believe you. Better to take la longue travers in summer, huh? The la longue travers. He's not matter when you take him. Right you are. Have there been men sent out since you came here? Bah oui. One, two, three, I don't remember. I think Joe Bagnon. Nobody, he don't know, but that old man, and he's coup d'oeuvre du bois. He is one very great man. Nobody is know what he will do. I'm due to hit that trail myself, I suppose, said Ned Trent. I have tink so, acknowledged Achille, still with a tone of most engaging cheerfulness. Shall I be sent out at once, do you think? I don't know. Sometimes, that old man, very quick. Sometimes, he very slow. One day, Injun make him very mad. He let him go, and shot that Injun right off.  He bring him here, make him stay in those warm room, feed him those planty grub. Pretty soon, those voyageurs get fat, his go soft. He no good for those trail. Old man, he make him go very far off, most to Whale River. It is plenty cold. That voyageur, he freeze to his inside. They tell me he fix him like that. Achille, you haven't got anything against me.  The half-breed flashed his white teeth. Bannot, he replied, carelessly.  I think you bust up bad. Vous avez la mauvaise fortune. Listen, I have nothing with me. But out at the front, I am very rich. I will give you a hundred dollars, if you will help me to get away. I can't do it, smiled Picard. Why not? Old man, he find that out. He is one devil, that old man. I like first rate help you. I like that hundred dollar. On Ojibwe country, they make his name Wagosh. That mean Fox. He know everything. I'll make it two hundred, three hundred, five hundred. What you want me do? Hesitated Achille Picard at the last figure. Get me a rifle and some cartridges. The half-breed rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled a deep breath. I can't do it, he declared. I can't do it for a thousand dollars, ten thousand. I don't think you find anyone in this settlement what can dare do it. He is one devil. He's count all the carbine and depose. And when he is miss one, he find out pretty quick who is take him. Still one from someone else, suggested Trent. He find out just same, objected the half-breed obstinately. You don't know him. He make you give yourself away when he like do that. The smile had left the man's face. This was evidently too serious a matter to be taken lightly. Well, come with me then, urged Ned Trent with some impatience. A thousand dollars I'll give you. With that you can be rich somewhere else. But the man was becoming more and more uneasy, glancing furtively from left to right and back again in an evident panic lest the conversation be overheard, although the nearest dwelling-house was a score of yards distant. Hush, he whispered, you mustn't talk like that. Dose all man find you out. You can hide away from him. Old time, long ago, Pierre Cadotte is stole fifteen skin of the otter, the sea otter, and he is sold him in Winnipeg. He is get about a thousand beaver, five hundred dollar. Then he has make those long voyage west, very far west, on De Pease River. He has make him Dose Cabin, where he has lived long time with one man of Mackenzie.  I has meet Dick Henderson on Winnipeg last year, when I make paddle on them Factor Brigade and those High Commissioner. He has told me one night, pretty late, he wake up all the quick he can when he is hear one noise in Dose Cabin, and he has seen one engine, like phantom against the moon to the door. Dick Henderson, he is sleep, so he don't know what he must do. Dose engine is very soft, and go on bunk of Pierre Cadotte. Pierre Cadotte has make the big cry. Dick Henderson say he no C. Dose engine no more, and he find a door shut. Bah, Pierre Cadotte, she's go dead. He has make one big hole in his chest. Some enemy, some robber frightened away because the Henderson man woke up, probably, suggested Ned Trent. The half-breed laid his hand impressively on the other's arm, and leaned forward until his bright black eyes were within a foot of the other's face. When Dose engine has stunned him in the moonlight, Dick Henderson he sees his face.  He has told me that engine is not Peace River engine. Dick Henderson has say Dose engine is Ojibwa engine. Ojibwa engine two thousand miles west on Peace River. That's curious. I was tell you another story, went on Achille after a moment. Never mind, interrupted the traitor, I believe you. Maybe, said Achille cheerfully, you stand somehow, not much, if he send you out pretty quick. Dose small pedre is young and Dose duck. Maybe you has catch them. Maybe you has killed them with bow and arrow. That's not big chance. You must give Dose coureur du bois to sleep when you arrive. Voila, I give you my knife. He glanced rapidly to right and left, then slipped a small object into the stranger's hand. Bah, I think does all man is know that. I think he keep you here till time when Dose pedre and ducks is all grown up big enough so he can fly. I'm not watched, said the young man in eager tones. I'll slip away tonight. That no good, objected Picard. What you do? Suppose you do that.  They is have good excuse, and you is have nothing to make to fight. You slip away, and Dose all man is sent out plenty engine. They is find you, sure. Bah, if he send you out, then he send only two engine. Maybe you fight them, I don't know. No, mon ami. If you is want get away when Dose all man he don't know it, you must have Dose carbine, then you is have one little chance. Bah, if you is not have him Dose carbine, you must need Dose little grub he give you, and not plenty engine follow you, only two. And I cannot get the rifle. And Dose all man is don't send you out till it is too late to make the grub under forest. That's what I think. That is not funny for you. Ned Trent's eyes were almost black with thought.  I'll make him send me out now, he asserted confidently. How you making him? I'll talk turkey to him till he's so mad he can't see straight. Then maybe he'll send me out right away. How you make him so mad, inquired Picard, with mild curiosity. Never you mind, I'll do it. Bah, we, ruminated Picard. He is get mad pretty quick. I think perhaps that plan he go all right. You was get him mad plenty easy. Then maybe he'll send you out too sweet.  I'll take the chances, my friend. Bah, we, shrugged Achille Picard. Eat, he's one chance. He commenced to roll another cigarette. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 5 of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest By Stuart Edward White Chapter 5 Having sat buried in thought for a full five minutes after the traders of the winter posts had left him, Galen Albright thrust back his chair and walked into a room, long, low, and heavily raftered, strikingly unlike the council room. Its floor was overlaid with dark rugs. A piano of ancient model filled one corner. Pictures and books broke the wall. The lamps and the windows were shaded. A woman's work basket and a tea set occupied a large table. Only a certain barbaric profusion of furs, the huge fireplace, and the rough rafters of the ceiling differentiated the place from the drawing-room of a well-to-do family anywhere. Galen Albright sank heavily into a chair and struck a bell. A tall, slightly stooped English servant, with correct side whiskers and incompetent watery blue eyes, answered. To him said the factor, I wish to see Miss Albright. A moment later Virginia entered the room. Let us have some tea, oh me-me, requested her father. The girl moved gently about, preparing and lighting the lamp, measuring the tea. Her fair head bowed gracefully over her task, her dark eyes pensive and but half following what she did. Finally, with a certain air of decision, she seated herself in the arm of a chair. Father, said she. Yes? A stranger came to-day with Louis Placide of Kettle Portage. Well, he was treated strangely by our people, and he treated them strangely in return. Why is that? Who can tell? What is his station? Is he a common trader? He does not look it. He is a man of intelligence and daring. Then why is he not our guest? Gail and Albright did not answer. After a moment's pause, he asked again for his tea. The girl turned away impatiently. Here was a puzzle, neither the voyagers nor Wishcobon, her nurse, nor her father, would explain to her. The first had grinned stupidly, the second had drawn her shawl across her face, the third asked for tea. She handed her father the cup, hesitated, then ventured to inquire whether she was forbidden to greet the stranger, should the occasion arise. He is a gentleman, replied her father. She sipped her tea thoughtfully, her imagination stirring. Again her recollection lingered over the clear bronze lines of the stranger's face. Something vaguely familiar seemed to touch her consciousness with ghostly fingers. She closed her eyes and tried to clutch them. At once they were withdrawn, and then again, when her attention wandered, they stole back, plucking appealingly at the hem of her recollections. The room was heavily curtained, deep-embrajured, for the house, beneath its clap boards, was of logs. Although out of doors the clear spring sunshine still flooded the valley of the moose, within the shadows had begun with velvet fingers to extinguish the brighter lights. Virginia threw herself back on a chair in the corner. Virginia! said Galen Albrecht suddenly. Yes, Father?  Would you like to go to Quebec? She did not answer. She did not answer him at once, but pondered beneath close knit brows. Do you wish me to go, Father? She asked at length. You are eighteen. It is time you saw the world, time you learned the ways of other people. But the journey is hard. I may not see you again for some years. You go among strangers. He fell silent again, motionless he had been, except for the mumbling of his lips beneath his beard. It shall be just as you wish, he added a moment later. At once a conflict arose in the girl's mind between her restless dreams and her affections. But beneath all the glitter of the question there was really nothing to take her out. Here was her father, here were the things she liked. Yonder was novelty and loneliness. Her existence at Conjurer's house was perhaps a little complex, but it was familiar. She knew the people, and she took a daily and unwarying delight in the kindness and simplicity of their bearing toward herself. Each detail of life came to her in the round of habit, wearing the garment of accustomed youth. But of the world she knew nothing except what she had been able to body forth from her reading, and that had merely given her imagination something tangible with which to feed herself distrust. Must I decide at once? she asked. If you go this year it must be with the Abitibi Brigade. You have until then. Thank you, Father, said the girl, sweetly. The shadows stole their surroundings one by one until only the bright silver of the tea-service and the glitter of polished wood and the square of the open door remained. Gail and Albert became an inert, dark mass. Virginia's gray was lost in that of the twilight. Time passed. The clock ticked on. Faintly sounds penetrated from the kitchen, and still more faintly from out of doors. Then the rectangle of the doorway was darkened by a man peering uncertainly. The man wore his hat, from which slanted a slender heron's plume. His shoulders were square, his thighs slim and graceful. Against the light one caught the outline of the sash's tassel and the fringe of his leggings. Are you there, Gail and Albert? he challenged. The spell of twilight mystery broke. It seemed as if suddenly the air had become surcharged with the vitality of opposition. What then? countered the factor's heavy, deliberate tones. True, I see you now, rejoined the visitor carelessly, as he flung himself across the arm of a chair and swung one foot. I do not doubt you are convinced by this time of my intention. My recollection does not tell me what messenger I sent to ask this interview. Correct, laughed the young man. You didn't ask it. I attended to that myself. What you want doesn't concern me in the least. What do you suppose I care what, or what not, any of this crew wants? I'm master of my own ideas, anyway. Thank God. If you don't like what I do, you can always stop me. I'm a master of my own ideas, anyway. Thank God. If you don't like what I do, you can always stop me. In the tone of his voice was a distinct challenge. Galen Albright had seemed chose to pass it by. True, he replied somberly, after a barely perceptible pause to mark his tacit displeasure. It is your hour, say on. I should like to know the date at which I take La Long Travers. You persist in that nonsense. Call my departure whatever you want to. I have the name for it. When do I leave? I have not decided. And in the meantime? Do as you please. Ah, thanks for this generosity! cried the young man, in a tone of declamatory sarcasm so artificial as fairly to his sent the elocutionary. To do as I please, here, now, there is a blessed privilege. I may walk around where I want to, talk to such as have a good word for me, punish those who have not. But do I err in concluding that the state of your game law is such that it would be useless to reclaim my rifle from the engaging placid? You have a fine instinct, approved to the factor. It is one of my valued possessions, rejoined the young man insolently. He struck a match, and by its light selected a cigarette. I do not, myself, use tobacco in this room, suggested the older speaker. I am curious to learn the limits of your forbearance, replied the younger, proceeding to smoke. He threw back his head and regarded his opponent with an open challenge, daring him to become angry. The match went out. Virginia, who had listened in growing anger and astonishment, unable longer to refrain from defending the dignity of her usually autocratic father, although he seemed little disposed to defend himself, now intervened from her dark corner on the divan. Is the journey then so long, sir? she asked, composedly, that it at once inspires such anticipations and such bitterness? In an instant the man was on his feet, had in hand, and the cigarette had described a fiery curve into the empty hearth. I beg your pardon, sincerely, he cried. I did not know you were here. You might better apologize to my father, replied Virginia. The young man stepped forward, and without asking permission, lighted one of the tall lamps. The lady of the guns, he marveled softly to himself. He moved across the room, looking down on her inscrutably, while she looked up at him in composed expectation of an apology, and Galen Albrecht sat motionless in the shadow of his great armchair. But after a moment her calm attention broke down. Something there was about this man that stirred her emotions, whether of curiosity, pity, indignation, or a slight defensive fear she was not introspective enough to care to inquire. And yet the sensation was not altogether unpleasant, and as at the guns this afternoon, a certain portion of her consciousness remained in sympathy with whatever it was of mysterious attraction he represented to her. In him she felt the dominant, as a wild creature of the woods instinctively senses the master and drops its eyes. Resentment did not leave her, but over it, spread a film of confusion that robbed it of its potency. In him, in his mood, in his words, in his manner, was something that called out in direct appeal the more primitive instincts hitherto dormant beneath her sense of maidenhood, so that even at this vexed moment of conscious opposition her heart was ranging itself on his side. Overpoweringly the feeling swept her that she was not acting in accordance with her sense of fitness. She knew she should strike, but was unable to give due force to the blow. In the confusion of such a discovery her eyelids fluttered and fell, and he saw, and, understanding his power, dropped swiftly beside her on the broad divan. You must pardon me, Mademoiselle, he begun, his voice sinking to a depth of rich music singularly caressing. To you I may seem to have small excuses, but when a man is vouch safe to glimpse of heaven only to be cast out the next instant into hell, he is not always particular in the choice of words. All the time his eyes sought hers, which avoided the challenge. And the strong masculine charm of magnetism which he possessed in such vital abundance overwhelmed her unaccustomed consciousness. Galen Albright shifted uneasily and shot a glance in their direction. The stranger, perceiving this, lowered his voice in register and tone and went on with almost exaggerated earnestness. Surely you can forgive me, a desperate man, almost anything. I do not understand, said Virginia, with a palpable effort. Ned Trent leaned forward until his eager face was almost at her shoulder. Perhaps not, he urged, I cannot ask you to try, but suppose, Mademoiselle, you were in my case. Suppose your eyes, like mine, have rested on nothing but a howling wilderness for dear heaven knows how long. You come at last in sight of real houses, real grass, real dooryard gardens just ready to blossom in the spring, real food, real beds, real books, real men with whom to exchange the sensible word, and something more, Mademoiselle. A woman such as one dreams of in the long forest nights under the stars. And you know that while others, the lucky ones, may stay to enjoy it all, you, the unfortunate, are condemned to leave it at any moment for la long traverse. Would not you too be bitter, Mademoiselle? Would not you too mock and sneer? Think, Mademoiselle, I have not even the little satisfaction of rousing men's anger. I can insult them, as I will, but they turn aside in pity, saying one to another. Let us pleasure him in this poor fellow, for he is about to take la long traverse. That is why your father accepts calmly from me what he would not from another. Virginia sat bolt upright on the divan, her hands clasped in her lap, her wonderful black eyes looking straight out before her. Trying to avoid her companion's insistent gaze. His attention was fixed on her mobile and changing countenance, but he marked with evident satisfaction Galen Albert's growing uneasiness. This was evidenced only by a shifting of the feet, a tapping of the fingers, a turning of the shaggy head. In such a man slight tokens are significant. The silence deepened with the shadows drawing about the single lamp, while Virginia attempted to maintain a breathing advantage above the flood of strange emotions which the personality of this man had swept down upon her. It does not seem, objected the girl in bewilderment, I do not know. Men are often out in this country for years at a time. Long journeys are not unknown among us, we are used to undertaking them. But not La Long Traverse, insisted the young man somberly. La Long Traverse, she repeated in sweet perplexity. Sometimes called the journey of death, he explained.  She has never heard of it, said Ned Trent to himself, and allowed. Men who undertake it leave comfort behind. They embrace hunger and weariness, cold and disease. At the last they embrace death, and are glad of his coming. Something in his tone compelled belief. Something in his face told her that he was a man by whom the inevitable hardships of winter and summer travel, fearful as they are, would be lightly endured. She shuddered. This dreadful thing is necessary, she asked. Alas, yes. I do not understand. In the north, few of us understand, agreed the young man, with a hint of bitterness seeping through his voice. The mighty order, and so we obey. But that is beside the point. I have not told you these things to harrow you. I have tried to excuse myself for my actions. Does it touch you a little? Am I forgiven? Am I forgiven? I do not understand how such things can be, she objected in some confusion. Why, such journeys must exist. My mind cannot comprehend your explanations. The stranger leaned forward abruptly, his eyes blazing with the magnetic personality of the man. But your heart, he breathed. It was the moment. My heart, she repeated as though bewildered by the intensity of his eyes. My heart, ah, yes. Immediately the blood rushed over her face and throat in a torrent. She snatched her eyes away and cowered back in the corner, going red and white by turns, now angry, now frightened, now bewildered. Until his gaze, half masterful, half pleading, again conquered hers. Galen Albright had ceased tapping his chair. In the dim light he sat, staring straight before him, massive, inert, grim. I believe you, she murmured hurriedly at last. I pity you. She rose, quick as light, he barred her passage. Don't, don't, she pleaded. I must go. You have shaken me. I do not understand myself. I must see you again, he whispered eagerly. To-night, by the guns. No, no. To-night, he insisted. She raised her eyes to his, this time naked of defense, so that the man saw down through their depths into her very soul. Oh, she begged, quivering. Let me pass. Don't you see? I'm going to cry. End of Chapter 5 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 6 Of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest By Stuart Edward White Chapter 6 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 Albert'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 lamp-light, where the bold, sneering lines of his 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 catchination succeeded. The traitor saw his opponent's eyes narrow. For a moment he thought the factor was about to spring on him.  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 bousman with such violence of gesture that the frightened servant comprehended by sheer force of terror and ran out again in search of mengane. This supreme effort seemed to clear the way for speech. Gail and Albert began to address his opponent hoarsely, in quick disjointed sentences, a gasp for breath between each. You revived an old legend, la long traverse, the myth.  By God, you shall not defy me! Ned Trent smiled. You do not deceive me, he rejoined, cooling. Silent! cried the factor. Silent! You shall speak no more. You have said enough. May Engan glide it into the room. Gail and Albert at once addressed him in the Ojibwe 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 long 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 gaily 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 upriver from the bay.  Just the same, I think she will come, said he to himself. La long 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. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 7 of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest By Stuart Edward White Chapter 7 Virginia ran quickly up the narrow stairs to her own room, where she threw herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillows. As she had said, she was very much shaken. And, too, she was afraid. She could not understand. Here, too, for she had moved among the men around her, pure, lofty, serene. Now, at one blow, all this crumbled. The stranger had outraged her finer feelings. He had insulted her father in her very presence. For this she was angry. He had insulted herself. For this she was afraid. He had demanded that she meet him again. But this, at least in the manner he had suggested, should not happen. And yet she confessed to herself a delicious wonder as to what he would do next, and a vague desire to see him again in order to find out. That she could not successfully combat this feeling made her angry at herself. And so, in mingled fear, pride, anger, and longing, she remained until Wishkoban, the Indian woman, glided in to dress her for the dinner whose formality she and her father consistently maintained. She fell to talking the soft Ojibwa dialect, and in the conversation forgot some of her emotion and regained some of her calm. Her surface thoughts, at least, were compelled for the moment to occupy themselves with other things. The Indian woman had to tell her of the silver fox brought in by Mujican, an Indian of her own tribe. Of the retort Achille Picard had made when McClain had taunted him. Of the forest fire that had declared itself far to the east, and of the theories to account for it where no campers had been. Yet, underneath the rambling chatter, Virginia was aware of something new in her consciousness. Something delicious, but as yet vague. In the gayest moment of her half-gesting, half-affectionate gossip with the Indian woman, she felt its uplift catching her breath from beneath, so that for the tiniest instant she would pause as though in readiness for some message which nevertheless delayed. A fresh delight in the present moment held her, a fresh anticipation of the immediate future, though both delight and anticipation were based on something without her knowledge. That would come later. The sound of rapid footsteps echoed across the lower hall. A whistle ran into an air, sung gaily, with spirit. J'ai perdu ma maitresse sans la voix méritée, pour un bouquet de roses que je lui refusais. L'île y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai. She fell abruptly silent and spoke no more until she descended to the council room, where the table was now spread for dinner. Two silver candlesticks lit the place. The men were waiting for her when she entered, and at once took their seats in the worn, rude chairs. White linen and glittering silver adorned the service. Galen Albright occupied one end of the table, Virginia the other. On either side were Dr. and Mrs. Cockburn, McDonald, the chief trader, Richardson the clerk, and Crane the missionary of the Church of England. Matthews served with rigid precision in the order of importance. First the factor, then Virginia, then the doctor, his wife, McDonald, the clerk, and Crane in due order. On entering a room the same precedents would have held good. Thus these people, six hundred miles as the crow flies from the nearest settlement, maintained their shadowy hold on civilization. The glass was fine, the silver, massive, the linen, dainty. Matthews waited faultlessly. But overhead hung the rough timbers of the wilderness post. Across the river faintly could be heard the howling of wolves. The fair was rice, curry, salt-port, potatoes, and beans. For at this season the game was poor, and the fish hardly yet running with regularity. Throughout the meal Virginia sat in a singular abstraction. No conscious thoughts took shape in her mind, but nevertheless she seemed to herself to be occupied in considering weighty matters. When directly addressed she answered sweetly. Much of the time she studied her father's face. She found it old. Those lines were already evident which, when first noted, bring a stab of surprised pain to the breast of a child, the droop of the mouth, the wrinkling of the temples, the patient weariness of the eyes.  The subjective passive state into which a newly born but not yet recognized love had cast her, inclined her to gentleness. She accepted facts as they came to her. For the moment she forgot the mere happenings of the day, and lived only in the resulting mood of them all. The newcomer inspired her no longer with anger nor sorrow, attraction nor fear. Her active emotions in abeyance she floated dreamily on the clouds of a new estate. This very aloofness of spirit disinclined her for the company of the others after the meal was finished. The factor closeted himself with Richardson. The doctor, lighting a charoute, took his way across to his infirmary. MacDonald, Crane and Mrs. Cockburn entered the drawing-room and seated themselves near the piano. Virginia hesitated, then threw a shawl over her head and stepped out on the broad veranda. At once the vast, splendid beauty of the northern night broke over her soul. Straight before her, gleamed and flashed and ebbed and palpitated the aurora. One moment its long arm shot beyond the zenith, the next it had broken and rippled back like a brook of light to its arch over the great bear. Never for an instant was it still. Its restlessness stole away the quiet of the evening, but left it magnificent. In comparison with this coruscating dome of the infinite, the earth had shrunken to a narrow black band of velvet, in which was nothing distinguishable until suddenly the skyline broke in calm silhouettes of spruce and furs. And always the mighty river of the moose, gleaming, jeweled, barbaric in its reflections, slipped by to the sea. So rapid and bewildering was the emotion of these two great powers, the river and the sky, that the imagination could not believe in silence. It was as though the earth were full of shoutings and of tummels, and yet in reality the night was as still as a tropical evening. The wolves and the sledge-dogs answered each other undisturbed. The beautiful songs of the white throats stole from the forest as divinely instinct as ever with the spirit of peace. Virginia leaned against the railing and looked upon it all. Her heart was big with emotions, many of which she could not name. Her eyes were full of tears, something had changed in her since yesterday, but she did not know what it was. The faint, wise stars, the pale moon just sinking, the gentle south breeze could have told her, for they are old, old in the world's affairs. Occasionally a flash more than ordinarily brilliant would glint one of the bronze guns beneath the flag-staff. Then Virginia's heart would glint two. She imagined the reflection startled her. She stretched her arms out to the night, embracing its glories, sying in sympathy with its meaning, which she did not know. She felt the desire of restlessness, yet she could not bear to go. But no thought of the stranger touched her, for you see as yet she did not understand. Then quite naturally she heard his voice in the darkness close to her knee. It seemed inevitable that he should be there, part of the restless, glorious night, part of her mood. She gave no start of surprise, but half closed her eyes and leaned her fair head against a pillar of the veranda. He sang in a sweet undertone an old chanson of voyage. Par d'arrière chez mon père, vol mon coeur, vol. Par d'arrière chez mon père, lia ton premier dos. Ah, lady, lady mine, broken the voice softly, the night too is sweet, soft as thine eyes. Will you not greet me? The girl made no sign. After a moment the song went on. Will not the princess leave her sister of dreams? whispered the voice fantastically. Will she not come? Virginia shivered and half opened her eyes, but did not stir. It seemed that the darkness sighed, then became musical again. The song broke this time without a word of pleading. The girl opened her eyes wide and stared breathlessly straight before her at the singer. The last word rolled out through its passionate throat tones and died into silence. Come! repeated the man again, this time almost in the accents of command.  When she stood face to face with him she swayed and almost fell. What do you want with me? she faltered with a little sob. The man looked at her keenly, laughed and exclaimed in an everyday matter-of-fact voice. Why, I really believe my song frightened you. It is only a boating song. Come! let us go and sit on the gun-carriages and talk. Oh! she gasped a trifle hysterically. Don't do that again. Please don't. I do not understand it. You must not. He laughed again, but with a note of tenderness in his voice, and took her hand to lead her away, humming in an undertone the last couplet of his song. No, ce n'est-ce pas le toile, qu'est clair nos amours. CHAPTER VIII Virginia went with this man passively, to an appointment which, but an hour ago, she had promised herself she would not keep. Her inmost soul was stirred, just as before. Then it had been few words, now it was a little common song. But the strange power of the man held her close, so she realized that for the moment, at least, she would do as he desired. In the amazement and consternation of this thought, she found time to offer up a little prayer. Dear God, make him kind to me! They leaned against the old bronze guns, facing the river. He pulled her shawl about her, masterfully, yet with gentleness. And then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he drew her to him until she rested against his shoulder. And she remained there, trembling, in suspense, glancing at him quickly, in bird-like pleading glances, as though praying him to be kind. He took no notice after that, so the act seemed less like a caress than a matter of course. He began to talk half humorously, and little by little, as he went on, she forgot her fears, even her feeling of strangeness, and fell completely under the spell of his power. My name is Ned Trent, he told her, and I am from Quebec. I am a woods-runner. I have journeyed far. I have been to the uttermost ends of the North, even up beyond the hills of silence. And then, in his gay, half-marking, yet musical voice, he touched lightly on vast and distant things. He talked of the Great Saskatchewan, of Peace River, and the Delta of the Mackenzie, of the winter journeys beyond Great Bear Lake, into the land of the Little Sticks, and the half-mythical lake of Yambatu. He spoke of life with the dog-ribs and yellow knives, where the snow falls in mid-summer. Before her eyes slowly spread, like a panorama, the whole extent of the Great North, with its fierce, hardy men, its dreadful journeys by canoe and sledge, its frozen barrens, its mighty forests, its solemn charm. All at once this post of conjurer's house, a month in the wilderness as it was, seemed very small and tame and civilized, for the simple reason that death did not always compass it about. It was very cold then, said Ned Trent, and very hard. La Grande fret of winter had come. At night we had no other shelter than our blankets, and we could not keep a fire because the spruce burned too fast and threw too many coals. For a long time we shivered, curled up in our snowshoes, then fell heavily asleep, so that even the dogs fighting over us did not awaken us. Two or three times in the night we boiled tea. We had to thaw our markisons each morning by thrusting them inside our shirts. Even the Indians were shivering and saying, Edsa! Yazi Edsa! It is cold, very cold. And when we came to Ray it was not much better. A roaring fire in the fireplace could not prevent the ink from freezing on the pen. This went on for five months. Thus he spoke, as one who says common things. He said little of himself, but as he went on in short, curt sentences, the picture grew more distinct, and to Virginia the man became more and more prominent in it. She saw the dying and exhausted dogs, the frost-rimmed, weary men. She heard the quick crunch-crunch-crunch of the snowshoes hurrying ahead to break the trail. She felt the cruel torture of the Maldorakhet, the shriveling bite of the frost, the pain of snow blindness, the hunger that yet could not stomach the frozen fish nor the hairy black caribou meat. One thing she could not conceive, the indomitable spirit of the men. She glanced timidly up at her companion's face. The company is a cruel master, she sighed at last, standing upright, then leaning against the carriage of the gun. He let her go without protest, almost without thought, it seemed. But not mine, said he. She explained in astonishment, are you not of the company? I am no man's man, but my own, he answered simply. Then why do you stay in this dreadful north? she asked.  I want to go where no man has set foot before me. I want to stand alone under the sky. I want to show myself that nothing is too big for me, no difficulty, no hardship, nothing. Why did you come here then? Here at least are forests so that you can keep warm. This is not so dreadful as the copper mine and the country of the yellow knives. Did you come here to try la long traverse of which you spoke today? He fell suddenly somber, biting in reflection at his lip. No, yes, why not? he said at length. I know you will come out of it safely, said she. I feel it. You are brave and used to travel. Won't you tell me about it? He did not reply. After a moment she looked up in surprise. His brows were knit in reflection. He turned to her again, his eyes glowing into hers. Once more the fascination of the man grew big, overwhelmed her. She felt her heart flutter, her consciousness swim, her old terror returning. Listen, said he. I may come to you tomorrow and ask you to choose between your divine pity and what you might think to be your duty. Then I will tell you all there is to know of la long traverse. Now it is a secret of the company.  You know what that means. He dropped his head. Ah, I am tired, tired with it all. He cried in a voice strangely unhappy. But yesterday I played the game with all my old spirit. Today the zest is gone. I no longer care. He felt the pressure of her hand. Are you just a little sorry for me? he asked. Sorry for a weakness you do not understand?  I know you are unhappy, replied Virginia, gently. I am truly sorry for that. Are you? Are you indeed? he cried. Unhappiness is worth such pity as yours. He brooded for a moment, then threw his hands out with what might have been a gesture of desperate indifference. Suddenly his mood changed in the whimsical bewildering fashion of the man. Ah, a star shoots, he exclaimed gaily. That means a kiss. Still laughing he attempted to draw her to him. Angry, mortified, outraged, she fought herself free and leaped to her feet. Oh, she cried in insulted anger. Oh, she cried in a red shame. Oh, she cried in sorrow. Her calm broke. She burst into the violent sobbing of a child and turned and ran hurriedly to the factory. Ned Trent stared after her a minute from beneath scowling brows. He stamped his moccasin foot impatiently. Like a rat in a trap, he jeered at himself. Like a rat in a trap, Ned Trent. The fates are drawing around you close. You need just one little thing, and you cannot get it. Bribery is useless. Force is useless. Craft is useless. This afternoon I thought I saw another way. What I could get no other way I might get from this little girl. She is only a child. I believe I could touch her pity.  He paced back and forth between the two bronze guns with long straight strides, like a panther in a cage. Her aid is mine for the asking, but she makes it impossible to ask. I could not do it. Better try La Long Travers than take advantage of her pity. She'd surely get into trouble. What wonderful eyes she has! She thinks I am a brute, how she sobbed as though her little heart had broken. Well, it was the only way to destroy her interest in me. I had to do it. Now she will despise me and forget me. It is better that she should think me a brute than that I should be always haunted by those pleading eyes. The door of the distant church-house opened and closed. He smiled bitterly. To be sure, I haven't tried that, he acknowledged. Their teachings are singularly apropos to my case—mercy, justice, humanity—yes, and love of man. I'll try it. I'll call for help on the love of man, since I cannot on the love of woman. The love of woman? Ah, yes. The love of woman? Ah, yes. He set his feet reflectively toward the chapel. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 9 of Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Conjurer's House A Romance of the Free Forest by Stuart Edward White Chapter 9 After a moment he pushed open the door without ceremony and entered. He bent his brows, studying the Reverend Archibald Crane, while the latter, looking up startled, turned pink. He was a pink little man anyway, the Reverend Archibald Crane, and why, in the inscrutability of its wisdom, the church had sent him out to influence strong, grim men—the church in its inscrutable wisdom only knows. He wore at the moment a Cambric English boating hat to protect his bald head from the draft, a full clerical costume as far as the trousers, which were of lavender, and a pair of beaded moccasins faced with red. His weak little face was pink, and two tufts of side whiskers were nearly so. A heavy, gold-headed cane stood at his hand. When he heard the door open he exclaimed, before raising his head, My, these first flies of the season do bother me so! And then looked startled. Good evening! greeted Ned Trent, stopping squarely in the center of the room. The clergyman spread his arms along the desk's edge in embarrassment. Good evening! he returned reluctantly. Is there anything I can do for you? The visitor puzzled him, but he was dressed as a voyageur. The Reverend Archibald immediately resolved to treat him as such. I wished to introduce myself as Ned Trent went on the free trader with composure, and I have broken in on your privacy this evening only because I need your ministrations cruelly. I am rejoiced that in your difficulties you turn to the consolations of the church, replied the other, in the cordial tones of the man who is always ready. Pray be seated. He whose soul thirsteth need offer no apology to the keeper of the spiritual fountains. Quite so, replied the stranger, drily, seating himself, as suggested. Only, in this case, my wants are temporal rather than spiritual. They, however, seem to me fully within the province of the church. The church attempts within limits to aid those who are materially in want, assured Crane, with official dignity. Our resources are small, but to the truly deserving we are always ready to give in the spirit of true giving. I am rejoiced to hear it, returned to the young man grimly. You will then have no difficulty in getting me so small a matter as a rifle and about forty or fifty rounds of ammunition. A pause of astonishment ensued. Why, really, ejaculated Crane, I fail to see how that falls within my jurisdiction in the slightest. You should see our traitor, Mr. MacDonald, in regard to all such things. Your request addressed to me becomes extraordinary. Not so much when you know who I am. I told you my name is Ned Trent, but I neglected to inform you further that I am a captured free trader, condemned to la long traverse, and that I have in vain tried to procure elsewhere the means of escape. Then the clergyman understood. The full significance of the intruder's presence flashed over his little pink face in a trouble of uneasiness. The probable consequences of such a bit of charity, as his visitor proposed, almost turned him sick with excitement. You expect to have them of me? he cried, getting his voice at last. Certainly assured his intruder crossing his legs comfortably. Don't you see the logic of events forces me to think so? What other course is open to you? I am in this country entirely within my legal rights as a citizen of the Canadian Commonwealth. Unjustly I am seized by a stronger power and condemned unjustly to death. Surely you admit the injustice. Well, of course you know, the customs of the country, it is hardly an abstract question, stammered crane, still without grasp on the logic of his argument. But as an abstract question the injustice is plain, resumed to the free trader, impoturbably. And against plain injustice it strikes me there is but one course open to an acknowledged institution of abstract and concrete morality. The church must set itself against immorality, and you, as the church's representative, must get me a rifle. You forgot one thing, rejoined crane. What is that? Such an aid would be a direct act of rebellion against authority on my part, which would be severely punished. Of course, he asserted, with conscious righteousness, I should not consider that for a moment as far as my own personal safety is concerned. But my cause would suffer. You forget, sir, that we are doing here a great and good work. We have in our weekly congregational singing over 40 regular attendants from the Aborigines. Next year I hope to build a church at Whale River, thus reaching the benighted inhabitants of that distant region. All of this is a vital matter in the service of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. You suggest that I endanger all this in order to write a single instance of injustice. Of course, we are told to love one another, but— He paused. You have to compromise, finished the stranger for him. Exactly, said the reverend crane. Thank you. It is exactly that. In order to accomplish what little good the Lord vouchsafes to our poor efforts, we are obliged to overlook many things. Otherwise we should not be allowed to stay here at all. That is most interesting, agreed Ned Trent with a rather biting calm. But is it not a little calculating? My slight familiarity with religious history and literature has always led me to believe that you are taught to embrace the right at any cost whatsoever. That if you give yourself unreservedly to justice, the Lord will sustain you through all trials. I think at a pinch I could even quote a text to that effect. My dear fellow, objected the reverend archibald in gentle protest. You evidently do not understand the situation at all. I feel I should be most untrue to my trust if I were to endanger in any way the lifelong labor of my predecessor. You must be able to see that for yourself. It would destroy utterly my usefulness here. They had sent me away. I couldn't go on with the work. I have to think what is for the best. There is some justice in what you say, admitted the stranger, if you persist in looking on this thing as a business proposition. But it seems to my confessedly untrained mind that you miss the point. Trust in the Lord, saith the Prophet. In fact, certain rivals in your own field hold the doctrine you expound, and you consider them wrong. To do evil that good may come, I seem to recognize as a tenet of the Church of the Jesuits. I protest. I really do protest. Objected the clergyman, scandalized. All right, agreed Ned Trent, with good-natured contempt. That is not the point. Do you refuse? Can't you see? begged the other. I am sure you are reasonable enough to take the case on its broader side. You refuse? insisted Ned Trent. It is not always easy to walk straightly before the Lord, and my way is not always clear before me. But you refuse? cried Ned Trent, rising impatiently. The reverend Archibald Crane looked at his catechizer with a trace of alarm. I am sorry, I am afraid I must, he apologized. The stranger advanced until he touched the desk on the other side of which the reverend Archibald was sitting, where he stood for some moments looking down on his opponent with an almost amused expression of contempt.  Here you preach every Sunday to whomever will listen to you, certain cut and dried doctrines you don't believe practically in the least. Here for the first time you have had a chance to apply them literally, and you hide behind a lot of words. And while you're about it, you may as well hear what I have to say about your kind. I've had a pretty wide experience in the North, and I know what I'm talking about. Your work here among the Indians is rot, and every sensible man knows it. You coop them up in your log-built houses, you force on them clothes to which they are unaccustomed until they die of consumption. Under your little tin-steepled imitation of civilization, for which they are not fitted, they learn to beg, to steal, to lie. I have traveled far, but I have yet to discover what your kind are allowed on earth for.  When you find you can't meddle with other people's affairs enough at home, you get sent where you can get right in the business, and earn salvation for doing it. I don't know just why I should say this to you, but it sort of does me good to tell it.  There's humanity for you. It may interest you to know that I thrashed that man then and there.  I know the breed. When there is found a real man among you, and there are such, he is so different in everything, including his religion, as to be really of another race. I came here without the slightest expectation of getting what I asked for. As I said before, I know your breed, and I know just how well your two-thousand-year-old doctrines apply to practical cases. There is another way, but I hated to use it. You'd take it quick enough, I daresay. Here is where I should receive aid. I may have to get it where I should not. You, a man of God.  He stood for a moment, looking at the confused and troubled clergyman. Then he went out. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Roger Maline


Welcome to Comet Geddon TV where all things geek culture collide. I am your guest host Greg and today We're going to review Harley Quinn Birds of Prey on Amazon Prime and when we're done We're gonna give it a rating and leave a freaky comment. Don't be scared. I won't spoil a thing Wait a second. Is that the Harley Quinn we're gonna get in this movie? You know one that looks like this or One that looks like this Nope, we get one that looks like this Now all jokes aside Harley does change her costume quite a lot in this movie about every 20 minutes or so and some of them are really cool And some of them are really bright So the movie is called Birds of Prey the fantabulous emancipation of one Harley Quinn Wow, what a mouthful and too much to put on a marquee in front of a movie theater So they had to go with just one line and they chose birds of prey Now I knew what they meant most superhero comic book geeks knew exactly what was going on But the average person did not know that this was a Harley Quinn superhero movie birds of prey That could mean anything but nowadays it definitely can mean anything. So guess what they're opening couple weeks Tickets sales were not that great and they did some polls and they figured out the people didn't know Oh birds of prey. That's a cool superhero movie with Harley Quinn I had no idea What do you do you rush back and you have to? Remarket things change the name to Harley Quinn and Start putting the word out Might be a little too late, but they did it There was another problem the movie got an R rating. Oh, that's not good. All the kiddos can't go see it I had to go watch it while they were in school to pre-screen it to find out Why did it get this rating and when I went they had already changed the name to Harley Quinn and they were giving out free buckets of Popcorn I had to get that I got the poster and I went in and I'm like, let's see what's happening here Well, one of the things that I noticed was this guy right here and his boss the black mask There's some bad guys and they're pretty brutal This movie does show some kind of gory things I mean peal somebody's face off while they're alive Kind of flap it around Yeah, that might contribute to the R rating the biggest contributing factor to that rating I believe was not this t-shirt The overuse of the F bomb And you can do that in a superhero movie like Deadpool for instance But in that movie it was used in comedic senses in this one It seemed to just be thrown out here there and everywhere So again, not a movie for a little kid. No, no, no This movie is not a dark twisted scary story or anything like that.  Well, she took off her necklace and said goodbye Joker Hello world Don't ask why I have that The police station scene is one of the coolest in the movie Harley comes in and owns the place She's got the gun. It's got glitter bombs beanbag explosion things Hey, 15 police officers one Harley Quinn Bop-bop-bop everything is going just fine flips and kicks and all that stuff. Yeah, it's exciting and then Then I didn't like this a flashback right in the middle of it all Not just any flashback Oh a 15 to 20 minute flashback to the point where you actually think You're watching a whole nother movie. It started over or something like that Then later it comes back to it and more flips and kicks and you get a bet a good night bet Hits it right out of the park But the flashback It blew my groove throughout the movie There was four or five more flashbacks What's up with that? There were some there were some little ones like Oh, here's somebody and remember them from this earlier part. Boom. Here's somebody. I Know it's sort of an origin story for a lot of people But too many flashbacks. Okay, the more flipping and kicking Home run hitting glitter bombs shooting and more of the hyena. That's right She has a pet hyena in this movie and it's cool and there he is his name is Bruce And he's a show-stealing hyena every scene with him is a great scene Oh, we need more Bruce and less of this guy the black mask. I wonder who he reminds me of Hmm, I just Oh, yeah, the Jared Leto Joker the similarities whoo, there are a lot of them first of all the way he speaks walks and talks and Then the fact that he's happens to just be a gang leader that likes to play with knives And it also was a psycho has a fascination with Harley Quinn Been there done that. I thought she was emancipated. Hey, what's up with that? The Huntress and the black canary are both keepers in the DC universe I need to see more of them in movies. I need to see more of the whole crew birds of prey part, too Hey, I'm good with it.  This is a fun movie an action movie with lots of explosion lots of cool scenes Harley's in it all the time. She's got the good night bat.  Come on the roller derby skates and just wow popping all the good stuff So don't be scared to give it a shot. Let me go ahead and think about this. I'm gonna have to rate it Hmm, let's take a quick look at Amazon. See what others have to say Look at that 13 13 1313 people have went on Amazon Prime and left their name and rating on this movie And they gave it an average of three and a half stars. Now. I've been thinking about this for a while. Hmm I'm not sure it's worth a four and I would hate to knock it down to a three and they won't let me give it a half A star rating. That's just an average so I'm gonna leave it alone three and a half is fine with me But I am gonna go on here and leave a comment and it's gonna be a freaky one So find me. My name is Greg. I will leave a comic edin in the comment And that's exactly where you are right now comic edin TV where all things geek culture collide I was your guest host and I will do another one. Just let me know down below what movie I should check out next for you Don't forget to subscribe to this channel and don't forget to find your treasure hunt. It's right there on Amazon Prime I will see you in the future Also, go ahead and check out one of these two playlists on the side for more videos just like the one you just watched I'm Shane if you're coming in TV the only place on YouTube where all geek culture collides Take care geeks


Did you know that smoke and weed causes eyelid flutters? Now it's not a perfect science, but it's for sure one of the tools cops use. More on that next. The THC in marijuana affects a smooth muscle cells throughout the human body, and that often results in the muscle spasms known as body tremors. Now body tremors are most easily detected when looking at a person's closed eyelids. These tremors are referred to as eyelid flutters, and it's known by cops be present when they smoke marijuana. Now when the cops smoke marijuana, when people smoke marijuana. Now the weird thing is that not everyone gets eyelid flutters when they smoke, and I'm not sure if it's genetic, how high the person is, or maybe it just really depends on good weed, how good the weed is. But in my 13 years as a cop, I use eyelid flutters as an investigative tool hundreds of times. I've seen some dudes whose eyes were fluttering so bad, it looked like they were wide open. Now I'm really fascinated by this topic, and as far as I know, it hasn't been really formally researched. Anyway, so how do cops use this? I personally use it across a broad array of investigations. Most of the people I interviewed, I wanted to see if they were high. If I suspected they were smoking marijuana, I would always check for eyelid flutters. Now this didn't mean I was gunning for the person or trying to arrest him, I just wanted to know what I was dealing with.  But I'm not sure that people really understand how crazy it gets. Sometimes people tell you the wildest things that you can even imagine and it's 100% true. And then other times, the same wild story is someone's drug induced illusion. Eyelid flutters were a tool to help me weed that out. More importantly, for this video, I use eyelid flutters often times to lead to arrest. Let's say I find weed in the car, nobody wants to fess it up to it. I'd have everybody tilt their head back, close their eyes, and if only one person had eyelid flutters, that's where I was direct to my attention to. Not to mention eyelid flutters led to many a DUI arrest. Time for a funny story where I use eyelid tremors. Late in my police career, I had the opportunity to serve as a hostage negotiator. Now we didn't get called out too much, I'd say eight to ten times per year. But in one of our call outs, it was to a home invasion robbery. Two guys and a girl were in the garage smoking weed mixed with a little bit of K2. The owner who was in the house thought he heard someone breaking into the house and went to go check on it. He ran upstairs, got his nine millimeter sig and proceeded to get into a shootout with his shadow. The two friends that were still downstairs freaked out. The girl hid in the bedroom closet and the other guy went upstairs. So this prompted a full scale high risk incident command call out. SWAT, the hostage team and bomb team, we all responded to set up a staging area, big time stuff. Well while we're getting called out, this girl that's in the closet called 911 and she was patched through to the hostage negotiation truck. So our hostage negotiator gets her and convinces her to run out of the house to the safety of the waiting SWAT officers. Now I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but there's a large percentage of home invasion robberies that are drug related. So our baseline work and assumption up to this point was that the guy living in the house had just picked up or offloaded a lot of dope or a lot of cash and these were his competitors trying to take the money or the dope. Anyway, once the female hostage had escaped the safety of SWAT, they brought her back to the command post. There's one of my jobs to interview her. I was on the interview team or the intel team. So during this interview, something stopped making sense and I started asking questions and I asked her to close her eyes and her eyelids were fluttering pretty bad and it was at that point that the clues all started unraveled. So enough war stories. What does this mean for you? If you're a weed smoker, I suggest that you check yourself for eyelid flutters while you're straight and while you're high. You can do this by having a friend look at you or you can see it for yourself by recording it with yourself under the mirror. To check for this, tilt your head back, close your eyes and look for the muscles, the eyelid muscles to twitch or the eyelids to twitch. Now if you record this, record it for about 10 to 15 seconds and I'd love to see the videos. Add a link to the comments so I can check it out. So here's what you say if the cop asked you to tilt your head back and close your eyes. Officer, I really need to leave. I'm not sure what you're trying to do here, but I don't want to cooperate with anything that's going to delay me from being released. If you like this video, give it a thumbs up. If you have a legal problem in Florida, give me a call. I'd love to give you a consultation.


Sonority is a phonetic property that classifies speech sounds in terms of a hierarchy or scale. Articulatorily, speech sounds are defined as sonorant if the pressure of air behind the constriction is approximately equal to the ambient air pressure. This of course applies to vowels. Non-sonorant speech sounds are plosive and fricative consonants. Since here, the air pressure behind the constriction is much higher than the ambient air pressure. Acoustically, sonorant speech sounds are much louder. That is, they produce a higher amplitude than non-sonorant sounds. According to their amount of sonority, all speech sounds can be ranked where vowels involve a high degree of sonority, that is, the highest amplitude and equal air pressure, whereas plosives are lowest on the sonority scale. They involve the lowest amplitude and the biggest air pressure differences. In between, we have approximants, nasals, fricatives and affricates. Using distinctive features, we define vowels, approximants and nasals as plus sonorant and fricatives, affricates and plosives as minus sonorant. Furthermore, sonorant is a major class feature. The sonority scale is especially important in analyzing syllable structure and rules about what sound segments may appear in on-sets or codars.