cow. I had the Sioux to watch."

"What Sioux?"

"The Indian our commandant sent after me. Speak low. He may be listening
outside."

They themselves listened.

"If Indians have come on the island they will kill all the cattle."

"There are the women and children and men--even poor voyageurs--for them
to kill first."

She gasped, "Is it war?"

"Yes, it is war."

"I never have seen war. Why did you come here?"

"I did not want to, mademoiselle, and I deserted. That is why the Indian
was sent after me."

"Do not call me mademoiselle. I am Marianson Bruelle, the widow of Andre
Chenier. Our houses will be burned, and our gardens trampled, and our
boats stolen."

"Not if the fort surrenders."

Again they harkened to the outside world in suspense. The deserter had
expected to hear cannon before sunlight so slowly crept under the cave's
lip. It was as if they sat within a colossal skull, broad between the
ears but narrowing towards the top, with light coming through the parted
mouth. Accustomed to the soft twilight, the two could see each other,
and the woman covertly put her dress in order while she talked.

More than fearlessness, even a kind of maternal passion, moved her. She
searched in the back of the cave and handed her strange guest food, and
gathered him a birch cup of water from the dripping rock. The touch of
his fingers sent a new vital thrill through her. Two may talk together
under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet; and two
others at first speech are old friends. She did not know this young
voyageur, yet she began to claim him.

He was so tired that the tan of his cheek turned leaden in the cave
gloom. She rose from her bearskin and spread it for him, when he
finished eating.

"You cannot go out now," he whispered, when he saw her intention. "The
Sioux is somewhere in the woods watching for me. The Indians came on
this island for scalps. You will not be safe, even in the fort, until
the fight is over, or until night comes again."

Marianson, standing convinced by what he said, was unable to take her
eyes off him. Mass seemed always irksome to her in spite of the frequent
changes of posture and her conviction that it was good for her soul. She
was at her happiest plunging through woods or panting up cliffs which
squaws dared not scale. Yet enforced hiding with a stranger all day in
the cave was assented to by this active sylvan creature. She had not
a word to say against it,