; "Ma'amselle, I love you.
Though my heart is full of dread, I am at your feet. By the voice of
my own soul I hear the cry of yours. We are both past help, it seems,
Ma'amselle,-yet am I that stone to your foot which we pledged yonder by
the stockade wall. You will let me go the long trail with you? You will
give me to be your stay in this? You will let me do all a man can do to
help you take the factor from the Nakonkirhirinons?"

The infinite sadness in Dupre's voice was as a wind across a harp of
gold, and it struck to Maren's heart with unbearable pain.

Her eyes, looking straight into his, filled slowly with tears, and his
white face danced grotesquely before her vision.

"M'sieu," she said quite simply, "I would to God it had been given me
to love you. We have ever seen eye to eye save in that wherein we should
have. And I know of nothing dearer than this love you have given me. If
you would risk your life and more, M'sieu, I shall count your going one
of the gifts of God."

"I cannot ask you to return, Ma'amselle,--too well do I know you,--nor
to consider all you must risk for, this,--life and death and the certain
slander of the settlement,--though by all the standards of manhood I
should do so. The heart in me is faithful echo of your own. This
trail must be travelled,--therefore we travel it together. And, oh,
Ma'amselle! Think not of my love as that of a man! Rather do I adore the
ground beneath your foot, worship at the shrine of your pure and gentle
spirit! See!"

With all the prodigal fire of his wild French blood, the youth dropped
on his knee and, catching the fringe on the buckskin garment, pressed it
to his lips.

For once Maren, unused to tears, could speak no word.

She only drew him up, her grip like a man's upon his wrists, and turned
to the making of the fire.

Dupre drew up his canoe and took a snared wild hen from the bow.

* * * * * * * * *

"I think, Ma'amselle," said the youth when Maren awaked some hours later
from a heavy sleep, during which Dupre had killed the little smoke of
the fire and kept silent watch from the shore, "that we had best leave
your canoe here and take mine. It is much the better craft."

"So I see. Mine was but the first I could put my hands upon in the
darkness."

"'Tis that of old Corlier, and sadly lacking in repair. If you will
steer, Ma'amselle?"

Thus set forth as forlorn a hope as ever lost itself i