The Man from Glengarry: A Tale of the Ottawa. Ralph Connor

and down before Macdonald, working himself into a great rage, as Macdonald grew more and more controlled.

      Macdonald turned to his men with a kind of appeal—“I hev given my promise, and Macdonald will not break his word.”

      “Bah!” cried LeNoir, spitting at him.

      “Now may the Lord give me grace to withstand the enemy,” said Macdonald, gravely, “for I am greatly moved to take vengeance upon you.”

      “Bah!” cried LeNoir again, mistaking Macdonald's quietness and self-control for fear. “You no good! Your brother is no good! Beeg sheep! Beeg sheep! Bah!”

      “God help me,” said Macdonald as if to himself. “I am a man of grace! But must this dog go unpunished?”

      LeNoir continued striding up and down, now and then springing high in the air and knocking his heels together with blood-curdling yells. He seemed to feel that Macdonald would not fight, and his courage and desire for blood grew accordingly.

      “Will you not be quate?” said Macdonald, rising after a few moments from his brother's side, where he had been wiping his lips and giving him water to drink. “You will be better outside.”

      “Oui! you strike me on the head side. Bon! I strike you de same way! By Gar!” so saying he approached Macdonald lightly, and struck him a slight blow on the cheek.

      “Ay,” said Macdonald, growing white and rigid. “I struck you twice, LeNoir. Here!” he offered the other side of his face. LeNoir danced up carefully, made a slight pass, and struck the offered cheek.

      “Now, that is done, will it please you to do it again?” said Macdonald, with earnest entreaty in his voice. LeNoir must have been mad with his rage and vanity, else he had caught the glitter in the blue eyes looking through the shaggy hair. Again LeNoir approached, this time with greater confidence, and dealt Macdonald a stinging blow on the side of the head.

      “Now the Lord be praised,” he cried, joy breaking out in his face. “He has delivered my enemy into my hand. For it is the third time he has smitten me, and that is beyond the limit appointed by Himself.” With this he advanced upon LeNoir with a glad heart. His conscience was clear at last.

      LeNoir stood up against his antagonist. He well knew he was about to make the fight of his life. He had beaten men as big as Macdonald, but he knew that his hope lay in keeping out of the enemy's reach. So he danced around warily. Macdonald followed him slowly. LeNoir opened with a swift and savage reach for Macdonald's neck, but failed to break the guard and danced out again, Macdonald still pressing on him. Again and again LeNoir rushed, but the guard was impregnable, and steadily Macdonald advanced. That steady, relentless advance began to tell on the Frenchman's nerves. The sweat gathered in big drops on his forehead and ran down his face. He prepared for a supreme effort. Swiftly retreating, he lured Macdonald to a more rapid advance, then with a yell he doubled himself into a ball and delivered himself head, hands, and feet into Macdonald's stomach. It is a trick that sometimes avails to break an unsteady guard and to secure a clinch with an unwary opponent. But Macdonald had been waiting for that trick. Stopping short, he leaned over to one side, and stooping slightly, caught LeNoir low and tossed him clear over his head. LeNoir fell with a terrible thud on his back, but was on his feet again like a cat and ready for the ever-advancing Macdonald. But though he had not been struck a single blow he knew that he had met his master. That unbreakable guard, the smiling face with the gleaming, unsmiling eyes, that awful unwavering advance, were too much for him. He was pale, his breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes showed the fear of a hunted beast. He prepared for a final effort. Feigning a greater distress than he felt, he yielded weakly to Macdonald's advance, then suddenly gathering his full strength he sprang into the air and lashed out backward at that hated, smiling face. His boot found its mark, not on Macdonald's face, but fair on his neck. The effect was terrific. Macdonald staggered back two or three paces, but before LeNoir could be at him, he had recovered sufficiently to maintain his guard, and shake off his foe. At the yell that went up from Murphy's men, the big Highlander's face lost its smile and became keen and cruel, his eyes glittered with the flash of steel and he came forward once more with a quick, light tread. His great body seemed to lose both size and weight, so lightly did he step on tiptoe. There was no more pause, but lightly, swiftly, and eagerly he glided upon LeNoir. There was something terrifying in that swift, cat-like movement. In vain the Frenchman backed and dodged and tried to guard. Once, twice, Macdonald's fists fell. LeNoir's right arm hung limp by his side and he staggered back to the wall helpless. Without an instant's delay, Macdonald had him by the throat, and gripping him fiercely, began to slowly bend him backward over his knee. Then for the first time Macdonald spoke:

      “LeNoir,” he said, solemnly, “the days of your boasting are over. You will no longer glory in your strength, for now I will break your back to you.”

      LeNoir tried to speak, but his voice came in horrible gurgles. His face was a ghastly greenish hue, lined with purple and swollen veins, his eyes were standing out of his head, and his breath sobbing in raucous gasps. Slowly the head went back. The crowd stood in horror-stricken silence waiting for the sickening snap. Yankee, unable to stand it any longer, stepped up to his chief, and in a most matter of fact voice drawled out, “About an inch more that way I guess 'll do the trick, if he ain't double-jointed.”

      “Aye,” said Macdonald, holding grimly on.

      “Tonald,”—Black Hugh's voice sounded faint but clear in the awful silence—“Tonald—you will not—be killing—him. Remember that now. I will—never—forgive you—if you will—take that—from my hands.”

      The cry for vengeance smote Macdonald to the heart, and recalled him to himself. He paused, threw back his locks from his eyes, then relaxing his grip, stood up.

      “God preserve me!” he groaned, “what am I about?”

      For some time he remained standing silent, with head down as if not quite sure of himself. He was recalled by a grip of his arm. He turned and saw his nephew, Ranald, at his side. The boy's dark face was pale with passion.

      “And is that all you are going to do to him?” he demanded. Macdonald gazed at him.

      “Do you not see what he has done?” he continued, pointing to his father, who was still lying propped up on some coats. “Why did you not break his back? You said you would! The brute, beast!”

      He hurled out the words in hot hate. His voice pierced the noise of the room. Macdonald stood still, gazing at the fierce, dark face in solemn silence. Then he sadly shook his head.

      “My lad, 'Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.' It would have pleased me well, but the hand of the Lord was laid upon me and I could not kill him.”

      “Then it is myself will kill him,” he shrieked, springing like a wildcat at LeNoir. But his uncle wound his arms around him and held him fast. For a minute and more he struggled fiercely, crying to be set free, till recognizing the uselessness of his efforts he grew calm, and said quietly, “Let me loose, uncle; I will be quiet.” And his uncle set him free. The boy shook himself, and then standing up before LeNoir said, in a high, clear voice:

      “Will you hear me, LeNoir? The day will come when I will do to you what you have done to my father, and if my father will die, then by the life of God [a common oath among the shanty-men] I will have your life for it.” His voice had an unearthly shrillness in it, and LeNoir shrank back.

      “Whist, whist, lad! be quate!” said his uncle; “these are not goot words.” The lad heeded him not, but sank down beside his father on the floor. Black Hugh raised himself on his elbow with a grim smile on his face.

      “It is a goot lad whatever, but please God he will not need to keep his word.” He laid his hand in a momentary caress upon his boy's shoulder, and sank back again, saying, “Take me out of this.”

      Then Macdonald Bhain turned to Dan Murphy and gravely addressed him:

      “Dan Murphy, it is an ungodly and cowardly work you have done this day, and the curse of God will be on you if you will not