t little ship, fleeing from her, with a thoughtless face set
smiling towards a new world. She climbed on, to keep the schooner in
sight, and made for Pontiac's Lookout, reckless of what she had seen
there.

The distant canvas became one leaning sail, and then a speck, and
then nothing. There was an afterglow on the water which turned it to
a wavering pavement of yellow-pink sheen. In that clear, high
atmosphere, mainland shores and islands seemed to throw out the
evening purples from themselves, and thus to slowly reach for one
another and form darkness. Jenieve had lain on the grass, crying, "O
Mama--Francois--Toussaint--Gabriel!" But she sat up at last, with her
dejected head on her breast, submitting to the pettiness and treachery
of what she loved. Bats flew across the open place. A sudden rankness
of sweetbrier, taking her breath away by its icy puff, reminded her of
other things, and she tried to get up and run. Instead of running she
seemed to move sidewise out of herself, and saw Pontiac standing on
the edge of the cliff. His head turned from St. Ignace to the reviving
fires on Round Island, and slowly back again from Round Island to St.
Ignace. Jenieve felt as if she were choking, but again she asked out
of her heart to his,--

"Monsieur the chief Pontiac, what ails the French and Indians?"

He floated around to face her, the high ridges of his bleached
features catching light; but this time he showed only dim dead eyes.
His head sunk on his breast, and Jenieve could see the fronds of the
feathers he wore traced indistinctly against the sky. The dead eyes
searched for her and could not see her; he whispered hoarsely to
himself, "Malatat!"

The voice of the living world calling her name sounded directly
afterwards in the woods, and Jenieve leaped as if she were shot. She
had the instinct that her lover must not see this thing, for there
were reasons of race and religion against it. But she need not
have feared that Pontiac would show himself, or his long and savage
mourning for the destruction of the red man, to any descendant of
the English. As the bushes closed behind her she looked back: the
phosphoric blur was already so far in the west that she could hardly
be sure she saw it again. And the young agent of the Fur Company,
breaking his way among leaves, met her with both hands; saying gayly,
to save her the shock of talking about her mother:--

"Come home, come home, my sweetbrier maid. No wonder you s