ed her eyes slowly around from face to face and not a
woman there but read her secret plain, the open script of love,--but for
which man?

"But-they-will--be--" She did not finish the sentence, staring at
Laroux. Once she moistened her lips.

"They will--Prix,--as I am your leader, open that gate!"

With sudden reviving the daze went out of her features and the old light
came back to her eyes, the far-seeing, undaunted light that had beaconed
the long way from Grand Portage. She was every inch the leader again,
tall, straight against the logs, her brown arm pointing imperiously to
the closed gate.

"Open, I say!"

For a moment Laroux faced her squarely, the man who had tied himself to
her hand, pledged himself to forge the way to the Whispering Hills, who
followed her compelling leadership as these lesser men had turned to
follow his but now. Then he set his will to hers.

"I will not," he said quietly.

With no more words she flung herself upon the gate and tore at the
chains, her strong hands able as a man's. As the sight of her in peril
had worked for both weakness and strength in Dupre, so had McElroy's
plight affected her. That helpless moment was the one defection of her
dauntless life.

Now again she was herself, reaching for the thing of the moment, and the
roar outside the palisade, constantly rising in volume, in menace and
savagery, brushed out of her brain every cloud of shock. Laroux caught
her from behind, pinioning her arms.

"Maren," he said quietly, "hear me. Out there are five hundred warriors
wild as the heart of the Pays d'en Haut, howling over the body of their
dying chief. What would be the opening of the gate but the massacre of
all within? Could forty men take the factor from them? There would be
but as many more scalps on their belts as there are heads within the
post. See you not, Maren?"

In his iron grip the girl stood still, breathing heavily. As he ceased
speaking a great sigh came from her lips, a sigh like a sob.

"Aye," she said brokenly, "I see,--I see! Mary Mother! Let me go, Prix.
I see."

Laroux loosed her, knowing that the moment was past, and went at once
about his duties of throwing the post into a state of defence.

Once more strong and quiet, Maren went to the cabin by the gate. Here
Marie knelt at her bed with a crucifix grasped in her shaking hands, her
face white as milk and prayers on her trembling lips.

"Maren!" she gasped, with the child's appeal to the