be afraid of him."

But he _was_ afraid, he told himself as they rode on. His belly felt
hollow, and his heart beat faster than his pony's trotting hooves. He
was afraid of the pale eyes and their strange ways. He felt more fear
now than he had when he walked on the bridge of stars with the White
Bear.

"There!" Pierre suddenly held out his hand. Auguste's eyes followed the
gesture, and his mouth dropped open.

What at first he thought he saw was a forest of trees covered with snow.
In their midst something rose like a great gray hill. Snow in the Moon
of Buds? Perhaps the pale eyes did have a magic of their own.

As they rode closer, the snow on the trees turned into flowers. He had
seen wild apple trees in bloom and knew that many trees flowered around
this time. But these trees were all planted in straight rows, and each
one was a mass of white blossoms.

What he had thought was a gray hill was the biggest lodge he had ever
seen. He jerked the reins of his horse to stop, so that he could sit and
wonder at what he was seeing. He felt Pierre stop beside him.

The great lodge seemed to be made of three or four lodges all joined
together with one central building higher than all the rest. Its high
peaked roof was of logs split in half with the flat sides turned
outward. The lower part of the lodge was made of stones, the upper part
of logs.

Dread filled him, seeing that these people could do so much. They could
hold so much land that a rider needed half a day to cross from edge to
center. They could make the land obey their wishes, fence it, fill it
with animals, plant huge fields with crops, enjoy a forest of flowering
trees. And in the very center of all this they could make a lodge
gigantic enough to hold a hundred families.

The pale eyes could do anything. They were magicians so mighty as to
make a shaman like Owl Carver look childish. How could he ever hope to
know all that they knew?

Despair crushed him. He wanted to see no more.

Pierre patted Auguste's pony on the neck, and the little horse started
forward again. Numbly, Auguste felt himself being led toward the great
lodge, his pony's hooves falling softly on white petals.

Pierre pointed proudly. "We call our house Victoire."

Closer and closer they came until the house blocked out part of the sky.
It was gray, the logs it was built of having weathered. Auguste saw that
there were many smaller buildings scattered around the giant
lodge--smalle