"Mam'selle, a man would give his life for your pleasure. Sleep well and
do not fear."

And sleep she did, with the slumber of youth and health. Naught came to
alarm them.

Their second day's journey was uneventful, though it was not so clear
and sunny, and again they camped for the night. Was there only one day
more? Rose's heart beat with alternate fear and joy. Indeed, they might
meet the cavalcade on the way.

She would not admit fatigue, indeed she did not feel it. Her grand hope
gave lightness to her step and color to her cheeks, which were like a
delicious opening rose, and you were fain to declare they had the same
fragrance. When she talked to Wanamee, Savignon did not listen for any
girlish secrets, but simply the music of her voice. That day some bird
astray in the forest gave his whistle, perhaps to his mate, and she
answered it with the most enchanting music. He came so near they could
hear the flutter of his wings. Cadotte started up with his gun.

"You shall not kill it!" she cried. "Do you think I would lure a bird to
such a cruel, treacherous death!"

Her face was bewitching in its indignation. What spirit, what strength
of purpose shone in it!

"He will freeze before spring, Mam'selle," Cadotte returned sullenly.

"Then let him die as the good God intends."

"Mam'selle, I never heard a human voice so like a bird's," Savignon
declared, in a tone of admiration. "Do you know other voices that range
in Quebec?"

She laughed, her present anger vanishing.

"I used to tame them when I was a child. They would come at my call. I
loved them so. And a tame deer knew my voice and followed me."

"As anything would. Mam'selle, sing or whistle, and it will make our
steps lighter. Among the Bostonnais they march to music not as sweet as
thine."

She was glad to give them pleasure.

The last day seemed long indeed, to her. Once they mistook the path and
had to pick their way back. Savignon's acute eyes told him another party
had crossed it, and he went on warily.

Presently, in the coming darkness, two scouts ran on ahead.

"Art thou tired, Mam'selle?" asked the well-modulated voice that had
lost the guttural Indian tone.

"Not tired, but impatient. Do you suppose we have missed them? What if
they should have started in some other direction?"

"I hardly think that. I have expected to meet them. M. Destournier must
have been more disabled than we supposed. But we shall soon know."

Oh, what if