this far?"

I hesitated; he had furnished me with an excuse, a reason. I could
permit him to believe the boat had not approached close enough to be
signaled. It was, for an instant, a temptation, yet as I looked into
his eyes I could not tell the lie. More, I felt the uselessness of any
such attempt to deceive; he would discover the fire extinguished by
dirt thrown on it, and thus learn the truth. Far better that I confess
frankly, and justify my action.

"The canoe came here," I faltered, my voice betraying me. "It went
around the point yonder, and then returned."

"And you made no signal? You let them go, believing us dead?"

I could not look at him, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame.

"Yes, Monsieur; but listen. No, do not touch me. Perhaps it was all
wrong, yet I thought it right. I lay here, hidden from view, and
watched them; I extinguished the fire so they could not see the smoke.
They came so near I could hear their voices, and distinguish their
words, yet I let them pass."

"Who were in the canoe?"

"Besides the Indians, Cassion, Pere Allouez, and the soldier
Descartes."

"He was with me."

"So I learned from his tale; 'twas he who sought to lift me from the
water, and failed. Do you realize, Monsieur, why I chose to remain
unseen? Why I have done what must seem an unwomanly act?"

He was still gazing after the canoe, now a mere speck amid the waste
of waters, but turned and looked into my face.

"No, Madame, yet I cannot deem your reason an unworthy one--yet wait;
could it be fear for my life?"

"It was that, and that only, Monsieur. The truth came to me in a flash
when I first perceived the canoe approaching yonder. I felt that hate
rather than love urged Cassion to make search for us. He knew of your
attempt at rescue, and if he found us here together alone, he would
care for nothing save revenge. He has the power, the authority to
condemn you, and have you shot. I saw no way to preserve your life,
but to keep you out of his grip, until you were with your friends at
Fort St. Louis."

"You sacrificed yourself for me?"

"'Tis no more than you did when you leaped from the canoe."

"_Pah_, that was a man's work; but now you risk more than life; you
peril reputation--"

"No, Monsieur; no more, at least, than it was already imperiled.
Cassion need never know that I saw his searching party, and surely no
one can justly blame me for being rescued from death. One does not
ask, in such a momen