It was not in the surrender of the box that he had felt David's triumph, but in the voluntary sacrifice of what that box contained.

He wanted to rid himself of the picture, and quickly.

He was filled with apprehension lest David should weaken again, and ask for its return.

The locket meant nothing.
It was a bauble--cold, emotionless, easily forgotten; but the other--the picture of the woman who had almost destroyed him--was a deadly menace, a poison to David's soul and body as long as it remained in his possession, and the Little Missioner's fingers itched to tear it from the velvet casket and destroy it.
He watched his opportunity.

As Thoreau tossed three fish over the high wire netting of the first pen the Frenchman was explaining to David why there were two female foxes and one male in each of his nine pens, and why warm houses partly covered with earth were necessary for their comfort and health, while the sledge dogs required nothing more than a bed of snow.