wer?

And yet who among them all was fitted?

Not the clerks, youths from the Bay, not the traders nor the trappers.

With a daring heart the venturer from Grand Portage went in across the
sill.

To a man the men of De Seviere rallied to him and council was held.

Everywhere in the trading-room, the living-room behind, were evidences
of the factor and Ridgar. It seemed as if the two men had but just
stepped out-were not in hostile hands drifting down the river toward an
unspeakable fate.

In the midst of the grave-faced council another step sounded on the
sill and once again Maren Le Moyne stood looking in at the factory door,
though this time there was no eager interest on her face, only a drawn
tenseness which cut to the heart of her leader like a knife.

"Come in, Maren," he said in aching sympathy.

"Men," she said straightly, "is there none among you who will turn a
hand to save his factor?"

Over every face her eyes travelled slowly, hot and burning.

In every face she read the same thing,--a pitying wonder at the folly of
her words.

"Aye," spoke up Henri Corlier, grizzled and weathered by his years of
loyal service to the Great Company, "not a man among us, Ma'amselle, but
would give his life if it would serve. It would not serve."

"And you?" her gaze shifted feverishly to Laroux; "you, Prix?"

"'Tis useless, Maren. What would you have us do?"

"Do?"

She straightened by the door, and the hand on the lintel gripped until
the nails went white.

"Do? Anything save sit with closed gates in safety while savages burn
your factor at the stake! The Hudson's Bay brigade comes from York this
very month. What easier than to meet it and get help of men and guns?"

"Nay," said Laroux gently; "you do but dream, Maren."

Whereat the girl turned abruptly from the doorway and went down among
the cabins.

Here and there in the doorways groups of women stood together, their
voices hushed and trouble in their eyes.

As Maren passed, seeing nothing to right or left, they looked in pity
upon her.

The heart of this woman was drifting with the canoes,--but with which
man?

"'Tis the gay Nor'wester with his golden curls," whispered Tessa Bibye
sympathetically.

"The Nor'wester? 'Tis little you know, truly, Tessa," said the young
wife of old Corlier. "What maid in her senses would look twice at yonder
be-laced dandy when a man like Anders McElroy stood near?"

"Aye, an' may the Good God have mercy on ou