Great would have been the slaughter amongst the
metis if this had happened.
"Prisoner," said Riel, with a decided French accent, "you
are a spy." He fixed his dark grey eyes upon Pasmore
angrily, and jerked out what he had to say.
"I fail to see how one who wears the Queen's uniform can
be a spy," said Pasmore, undoing the leather tags of his
long buffalo coat and showing a serge jacket with the
regimental brass button on it.
"Ah, that is enough--one of the Mounted Police! What
are you doing in this camp?"
"It is I who should be asking you that question. What
are _you_ doing under arms? Another rebellion? Be warned
by me, Monsieur Riel, and stop this bloodshed as you
value your immortal soul."
He knew that through the fanatic's religion lay the only
way of reaching him at all.
But the only effect these words had upon Riel was to
further incense the arch rebel.
"Bind him, and search him," he cried.
Pasmore knew that resistance was hopeless, so quietly
submitted. Their mode of tying him was unique. They put
a rope round his waist, leaving his arms free, while the
two ends were held on either side by a couple of men.
His late guard, the big breed, who could not have been
such a bad fellow, discovered his pipe, tobacco, and
matches in one pocket, but withdrew his hand quickly.
"Nozing thar," he declared.
Whether or not he thought the prisoner might soon require
them on his way to the Happy Hunting Grounds is a matter
of speculation.
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