ghts; but such as we are, we are at the service
of Mademoiselle."

She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap.
Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her
face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night
had brought,--fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight;
but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not
forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be
free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the
hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian
shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without
talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that
now and then reached above the huts.

"How strange their song is, M'sieu."

"Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see
that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing,
another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting,
and do not recover for hours."

"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas--there were but a few of
them--had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement."

"They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when
there is no hunt to occupy them."

Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away,
leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with
bowed head.

"The Father is sad, M'sieu."

"Yes. But it is not for himself."

"Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?"

"I think he will come."

The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,--the
firelight was dancing on her face and hair,--and again the danger
seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some
mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this
deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.

"You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle."

She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes
dropped again.

"See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should be
here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought--"

"You thought, M'sieu?"

Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you what
I think now, and that would--be--"

He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.

"I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not l