to search for
them. They halted, for indeed it seemed as if they could go no further.
Weak and hungry, some of the men sat down and cried, for very joy.

"I have hardly been worth all the trouble," Destournier said, in a
broken voice.

"It was not altogether you," replied one of the men. "And to have
rescued some of our men from those fiendish Hurons was worth while.
Savignon must have had some wonderful power to make them give up their
prey."

The relief party were provided with food, dried meat that had come down
from some friendly Indians. After they had eaten, they resolved to push
on, and started with good courage. The storm had ceased and the stars
were pricking through the blue. The moon would rise later on. But it was
midnight when they came in sight of the fort. The warm welcome made
amends for all.

Wanamee took Rose under her protection. She was nearly exhausted. M. de
Champlain insisted upon caring for Destournier, and examining the leg,
which was much swollen, but had been very well set. The story of the
wonderful escape was told over, to interested listeners.

"We owe Savignon a great debt, and are too poor to pay it," said the
Governor sorrowfully.

Poor indeed they were. It was the hardest winter the colony had known.
The dearth of news was most trying, and the fear of the English descent
upon them racked the brave heart of the Commandant, who saw his dream of
a great city vanishing. Jealousy had done some cruel work, and the
misgovernment of the mother country stifled the best efforts.

Rose lay listless in bed for many days. How could she meet Savignon, who
haunted the place hourly, to inquire, and begged to see her? One day she
told Wanamee to send him in, and braced herself for the interview.

Semi-famine had not told on him, unless it had added an air of
refinement. That he was superior to most of his race, was evident.

He was not prepared for the white wraith-like being who did not rise
from her chair, but nodded and motioned him to a seat at a distance.

"Oh, Mam'selle, you have been truly ill," he said, and there was a
tender sort of pity in his tone. "I have been wild to see you, to hear
you speak. Mam'selle, you must not die. I cannot give you up. I have
been starved, I have been half-crazy with impatience. Oh, can you not
have a little pity on me, when I love you so? And you have no one who
has a right to protest. You will keep your promise? For I swear to you
that I will kill an