cold. Come with me to the fire. Come. The
men are asleep by this time. Mademoiselle, your spirit is steel and
fire, but your body betrays you. You are shivering and afraid.
Yet---- Well, mademoiselle, pygmies or giants, whichever we may be, we
must not scorn counsel. You once called us partners. On that basis,
will you listen to me now?"

"But you must not"----

"Mademoiselle, on that basis will you listen to me now?"

"Yes."

"Then come." I led her to the warmth, and placed her snugly, with logs
to pillow her and her face away from the sleeping men. Then I sat
beside her. But my speech had left me. I had no reasons, no
persuasions at my tongue.

"Father Nouvel is at the islands," I said. "Mademoiselle, you must
marry me. You must."

"Why 'must,' monsieur?"

"We cannot travel in this way."

"A week ago you thought it possible."

"I had not tried it then. It will not do."

"Monsieur, what has gone wrong?"

I took out my hunting knife and tried its edge.

"My mind," I answered savagely. "Mademoiselle, I may, as you say, have
tidy, circumscribed France behind my thought, but---- Well,
mademoiselle, I was brought up to certain observances in regard to a
woman. And I cannot forget you are a woman. When the men speak
roughly to you I put my hand on my sword."

"I have seen you, monsieur."

"And so I lose much thought and time conquering my anger. It fills my
thought. When I taught you Indian verbs the other day the rain dripped
from your hair. And I sat like a clod. What could I do? I could not
shelter you for fear of rousing suspicion in the men. Mademoiselle, I
cannot stand it. I must let the men know that you are a woman. And
then I must marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."

She rose. "Monsieur, you must send me back to Montreal."

I kept my seat. "Mademoiselle, I have your word," I reminded. "You
agreed to listen."

I had meant to plead, not to rebuke, and I regretted that she flushed.
She seated herself lingeringly, but I saw that she leaned back, and did
not sit as she had done before with her muscles braced for flight.

"Why not send me back to Montreal?" she begged.

The embers of the fire fell into irregular, rectangular shapes like the
stone buildings on the Marne, where I was born. My father had beggared
us, but those buildings were left. I scorned my father's memory, but I
had strange pride in the name and place that had been his.

"I have thought over