unrestrainable impulse, and held out her hands toward the dim figure of
the silent girl who yet remained motionless several feet away.

"Marie!" she said, anxiously, "it may be wrong of me to urge it, but I
beg you to think again in this grave matter. Surely such horrible
massacre as you have witnessed must absolve you from your vow, and
yield you freedom to return eastward with those you love."

The other did not respond to this passionate appeal, but stood facing
us silent as a statue.

"What mean you, Mademoiselle?" I asked. "Will not this Sister Celeste
consent to leave the Indians?"

"Nay, she has made a sacred vow of religion which binds her to this
sacrifice. I implore you, John Wayland, urge her to go with us! 'T is
but waste of her life here. She is an old schoolmate of mine, and 't
will be hard to leave her alone in this wilderness. Captain de Croix,
she was far from being a stranger to you in those other days at
Montreal,--will you not add your entreaties to ours?"

I saw him step forward toward that quiet bowed figure, and she
straightened perceptibly, even in the darkness, as he drew near. His
words were in French, and spoken so low I missed their meaning; yet we
all heard plainly her calm answer, while marking the faltering accents
of her lips.

"Dear, dear friend!" and I felt her eyes, blinded by tears, were
seeking out Mademoiselle through the gloom, "it breaks my heart to
answer you nay in this hour of sore trial to us both. Yet my vow to
God is more sacred than any earthly friendship; nor could peace ever
again abide in my heart were I to break the vow so lightly. My duty is
here, be it for life or death; and here I must abide until the Master
sets me free."

Then, addressing De Croix, she continued sadly, "No, Monsieur, the
sense of duty that presses upon me and yields me such strength is
beyond your comprehension. I bid you go back to that world of light
and gaiety you have always loved so fondly, and think no more of me.
To you I am, even as you have supposed, a dead woman, yet happier far
in this sad exile than I ever was in that gilded social cage where men
laugh while they break the hearts that trust them. My Indians are
indeed cruel, but there is a deeper cruelty than that of bloodshed, and
I prefer the open savagery of the woods and plains to things I have
known in city life. So it must be good-bye, Monsieur!"

I was looking directly at her when she uttered these last words