e he drew her into his arms, silent and velvet
soft, light and inimitable in his love way.

In utter astonishment Maren felt his silken curls sweep her cheek, his
lips on hers. Her tears were wet on his face. She put up her hands and
pushed him loose.

"M'sieu!" she said, "what do you do?"

"Do? Why, bow to the One Woman of my heart," he said; "my Maid of the
Red Flower, whom love has led to share my fate."

"In all pity! M'sieu, you do mistake most grievously!"

"What? Was it not confession at the post gate when this painted rabble
fell upon us? Or is it still the maiden within fearing the word of love?
In such short space, Sweetheart, there is no time for girlish fears. Be
strong in that as in the courage of the lone trail. Speak!"

"Speak?" said Maren, with her old calmness; "of a surety, M'sieu. Though
I have thrilled at your careless bravery, your laughing daring which,
as you say truly, is kin of my heart,--though I have taken your red
flowers, yet there is in me no spark of love for you, no thought beyond
the admiration of a true son of fortune. That alone, M'sieu."

De Courtenay was staring at her in the blackness of the lodge, his arm
fallen loose about her shoulders.

"Name of God!" he whispered wonderingly, "it is not love? Then what, in
the living world, has brought you over the waste to this camp of hostile
savages?"

"This," said Maren, and she reached a hand to the body of McElroy.

"Sancta Maria! This factor? This heavy-blooded man?... But he did speak
of half-requited--Oh, Saints of Heaven! What a jest of the world! The
threads of tragedy are tangled into a farce!"

De Courtenay threw up his head and took a silent laugh at the ways of
Fate.

"Three fools together! And the riddle's key too late! At least I can set
it straight for one--"

He broke his laughing whisper to listen to new sounds without, a dull
blow, muffled and heavy, the slight whisper of garments sliding against
garments, the crunch and rustle of a body eased down to earth,--nay, two
blows, coming at a little interval, and from either end the beat walked
by the two guards, and from the southern end there came a grunt, a cry
choked in the throat that uttered it. Instantly the venturer was up and
at the flap, peering outside. A figure loomed against the stars, paced
slowly by with an audible step, passed and turned and passed again.

It was Marc Dupre, an eagle feather, snatched from the quivering form of
the guard lying in