The air was soft and fragrant. Some sea gulls started from a sandy nook with disturbed cries, then returned as if they knew the girl. A fishhawk darted swiftly down, having seen his prey in the clear water and captured it. There were farms stretching down the river now, with rough log huts quite distinct from the whitewashed or vine-covered cottages of the French. But the fields betrayed a more thrifty cultivation. There were young orchards nodding in the sunshine, great stretches of waving maize fields, and patches of different grains. Little streams danced out here and there and gurgled into the river, as if they were glad to be part of it.

"Pani, do you suppose we could go ever so far down and build a tent or a hut and live there all the rest of the summer?"

"But I thought you liked the woods!"

"I like being far away. I am tired of Detroit."

"Mam'selle, it would hardly be safe. There are still unfriendly Indians. And—the loneliness of it! For there are some evil spirits about, though Holy Church has banished them from the town."

Occasionally her old beliefs and fears rushed over the Indian woman and shook her in a clutch of terror. She felt safest in her own little nest, under the shadow of the Citadel, with the high, sharp palisades about her, when night came on.

"Art thou afraid of Madame De Ber?" she asked, hesitatingly. "For of a truth she did not want you for her son's wife."

"I know it. Pierre made them all agree to it. I am sorry for Pierre, and yet he has the blindness of a mole. I am not the kind of wife he wants. For though there is so much kissing and caressing at first, there are dinners and suppers, and the man is cross sometimes because other things go wrong. And he smells of the skins and oils and paints, and the dirt, too," laughing. "Faugh! I could not endure it. I would rather dwell in the woods all my life. Why, I should come to hate such a man! I should run away or kill myself. And that would be a bitter self-punishment, for I love so to live if I can have my own life. Pani, why do men want one particular woman? Susette is blithe and merry, and Angelique is pretty as a flower, and when she spins she makes a picture like one the schoolmaster told me about. Oh, yes, there are plenty of girls who would be proud and glad to keep Pierre's house. Why does not the good God give men the right sense of things?"

Pani turned her head mournfully from side to side, and the shrunken lips made no reply.

Then they glided on and on. The blue, sunlit arch overhead, the waving trees that sent dancing shadows like troops of elfin sprites over the water, the fret in one place where a rock broke the murmurous lapping, the swish somewhere else, where grasses and weeds and water blooms rooted in the sedge rocked back and forth with the slow tide—how peaceful it all was!

Yet Jeanne Angelot was not at peace. Why, when the woods or the river always soothed her? And it was not Pierre who disturbed the current, who lay at the bottom like some evil spirit, reaching up long, cruel arms to grasp her. Last summer she had put Louis Marsac out of her life with an exultant thrill. He would forget all about her. He would or had married some one up North, and she was glad.

He had come back. She knew now what this look in a man's eyes meant. She had seen it in a girl's eyes, too, but the girl had the right, and was offering incense to her betrothed. Oh, perhaps—perhaps some other one might attract him, for he was very handsome, much finer and more manly than when he went away.

Why did not Pani say something about him? Why did she sit there half asleep?

"Wasn't it queer, Pani, that we should go so near the wharf, when we were trying to run away—"

She ended with a short laugh, in which there was neither pleasure nor mirth.

Pani glanced up with distressful eyes.

"Eh, child!" she cried, with a sort of anguish, "it is a pity thou wert made so beautiful."

"But there are many pretty girls, and great ladies are lovely to look at. Why should I not have some of the charm? It gives one satisfaction."

"There is danger for thee in it. Perhaps, after all, the Recollet house would be best for thee."

"No, no;" with a passionate protest. "And, Pani, no man can make me marry him. I would scream and cry until the priest would feel afraid to say a word."

Pani put her thin, brown hand over the plump, dimpled one; and her eyes were large and weird.

"Thou art afraid of Louis Marsac," she said.

"Oh, Pani, I am, I am!" The voice was tremulous, entreating. "Did you see something in his face, a curious resolve, and shall I call it admiration? I hope he has a wife. Oh, I know he has not! Pani, you must help me, guard me."

"There is M. Loisel, who would not have thee marry against thy will. I wish Father Rameau were home—he comes in the autumn."

"I do not want to marry anyone. I am a strange girl. Marie Beeson said some girls were born old maids, and surely I am one. I like the older men who give you fatherly looks, and call you child, and do not press your hand so tight. Yet the young men who can talk are pleasant to meet. Pani, did you love your husband?"

"Indian girls are different. My father brought a brave to the wigwam and we had a feast and a dance. The next morning I went away with him. He was not cruel, but you see squaws are beasts of burthens. I was only a child as you consider it. Then there came a great war between two tribes and the victors sold their prisoners. It is so long ago that it seems like a story I have heard."

The young wives Jeanne knew were always extolling their husbands, but she thought in spite of their many virtues she would not care to have them. What made her so strange, so obstinate!

"Pani," in a low tone scarce above the ripple of the water, "M. Marsac is very handsome. The Indian blood does not show much in him."

"Yes, child. He is improved. There is—what do you call it?—the grand air about him, like a gentleman, only he was impertinent to thee."

"You will not be persuaded to like him? It was different with Pierre."

Jeanne made this concession with a slight hesitation.

"Oh, little one, I will never take pity on anyone again if you do not care for him! The Holy Mother of God hears me promise that. I was sorry for Pierre and he is a good lad. He has not learned to drink rum and is reverent to his father. It is a thousand pities that he should love you so."

Pani kissed the hand she held; Jeanne suddenly felt light of heart again.

Down the river they floated and up again when the silver light was flooding everything with a softened glory. Jeanne drew her canoe in gently, there was no one down this end, and they took a longer way around to avoid the drinking shops. The little house was quiet and dark with no one to waylay them.

"You will never leave me alone, Pani," and she laid her head on the woman's shoulder. "Then when M. St. Armand comes next year—"

She prayed to God to keep him safely, she even uttered a little prayer to the Virgin. But could the Divine Mother know anything of girls' troubles?



CHAPTER XIII.

AN UNWELCOME LOVER.

Louis Marsac stood a little dazed as the slim, proudly carried figure turned away from him. He was not much used to such behavior from women. He was both angry and amused.

"She was ever an uncertain little witch, but—to an old friend! I dare say lovers have turned her head. Perhaps I have waited too long."

There was too much pressing business for him to speculate on a girl's waywardness; orders to give, and then important matters to discuss at the warehouse before he made himself presentable at the dinner. The three years had added much to Marsac's store of knowledge, as well as to his conscious self-importance. He had been in grand houses, a favored guest, in spite of the admixture of Indian blood. His father's position was high, and Louis held more than one fortunate chance in his hand. Developing the country was a new and attractive watchword. He had no prejudices as to who should rule, except that he understood that the French narrowness and bigotry had served them ill. Religion was, no doubt, an excellent thing; the priests helped to keep order and were in many respects serviceable. As for the new rulers, one need to be a little wary of too profound a faith in them. The Indians had not been wholly conquered, the English dreamed of re-conquest.

Detroit was not much changed under the new regime. Louis liked the great expanse at the North better. The town was only for business.

He had a certain polish and graceful manner that had come from the French side, and an intelligence that was practical and appealed to men. He had the suavity and deference that pleased women, if he knew little about poets and writers, then coming to be the fashion. His French was melodious, the Indian voice scarcely perceptible.

In these three years there had been months that he had never thought of Jeanne Angelot, and he might have let her slip from his memory but for a slender thread that interested him, and of which he at last held the clew. If he found her unmarried—well, a marriage with him would advance her interests, if not—was it worth while to take trouble that could be of no benefit to one's self?

Was it an omen of success that she should cross his path almost the first thing, grown into a slim, handsome girl, with glorious eyes and a rose red mouth that he would have liked to kiss there in the public street? How proud and dignified she had been, how piquant and daring and indifferent to flattery! The saints forfend! It was not flattery at all, but the living truth.

The next day he was very busy, but he stole away once to the great oak. Some children were playing about it, but she was not there. And there was a dance that evening, given really for his entertainment, so he must participate in it.

The second day he sauntered with an indifferent air to the well known spot. A few American soldiers were busy about the barracks. How odd not to see a bit of prancing scarlet!

The door was closed top and bottom. The tailor's wife sat on her doorstep, her husband on his bench within.

"They have gone away, M'sieu," she said. "They went early this morning."

He nodded. Monsieur De Ber had met him most cordially and invited him to drop in and see Madame. They were in the lane that led to St. Anne's street; he need not go out of his way.

He was welcomed with true French hospitality. Rose greeted him with a delighted surprise, coquettish and demure, being under her mother's sharp eye. Yes, here was a pretty girl!

"My husband was telling about the wonderful copper mines," Madame began with great interest. "There was where the Indians brought it from, I suppose, but in the old years they kept very close about it. No doubt there are fortunes and fortunes in them;" glancing up with interest.

"My father is getting a fortune out of them. He has a large tract of land thereabout. If there should be peace for years there will be great prosperity, and Detroit will have her share. It has not changed much except about the river front. Do you like the Americans for neighbors as well as the English?"

Madame gave a little shrug. "They do not spend their money so readily, my husband says."

"They have less to spend," with a short laugh. "Some of the best English families are gone. I met them at Quebec. Ah, Madame, there is a town for you!" and his eyes sparkled.

"It is very gay, I suppose," subjoined Rose.

"Gay and prosperous. Mam'selle, you should be taken there once to show them how Detroit maids bloom. There is much driving about, while here—"

"The town spreads outside. There are some American farmers, but their methods are wild and queer."

"You have a fine son, Madame, and a daughter married, I hear. Mam'selle, are many of the neighborhood girls mated?"

"Oh, a dozen or so," laughed Rose. "But—let me see, the wild little thing, Jeanne Angelot, that used to amuse the children by her pranks, still roams the woods with her Pani woman."

"Then she has not found a lover?" carelessly.

"She plays too much with them, Monsieur. It is every little while a new one. She settles to nothing, and I think the schooling and the money did her harm. But there was no one in authority, and it is not even as if M. Loisel had a wife, you see;" explained Madame, with emphasis.

"The money?" raising his brows, curiously.

"Oh, it was a little M. Bellestre left," and a fine bit of scorn crossed Madame's face. "There was some gossip over it. She has too much liberty, but there is no one to say a word, and she goes to the heretic chapel since Father Rameau has been up North. He comes back this autumn. Father Gilbert is very good, but he is more for the new people and the home for the sisters. There are some to come from the Ursuline convent at Montreal, I hear."

Marsac was not interested in the nuns. After a modicum of judicious praise to Madame, he departed, promising to come in again.

When a week had elapsed and he had not seen Jeanne he was more than piqued, he was angry. Then he bethought himself of the Protestant chapel. Pani could not bring herself to enter it, but Jeanne had found a pleasing and devoted American woman who came in every Sunday and they met at a point convenient to both. Pani walked to this trysting spot for her darling.

And now she was fairly caught. Louis Marsac bowed in the politest fashion and wished her good day in a friendly tone, ranging himself beside her. Jeanne's color came and went, and she put her hands in a clasp instead of letting them hang down at her side as they had a moment before. Her answers were brief, a simple "yes" or "no," or "I do not know, Monsieur."

And Pani was not there! Jeanne bade her friend a gentle good day and then holding her head very straight walked on.

"Mam'selle," he began in his softest voice, though his heart was raging, "are we no longer friends, when we used to have such merry times under the old oak? I have remembered you; I have said times without number, 'When I go back to La Belle Detroit, my first duty will be to hunt up little Jeanne Angelot. If she is married I shall return with a heavy heart.' But she is not—"

"Monsieur, if thy light-heartedness depends on that alone, thou mayst go back cheerily enough," she replied formally. "I think I am one of St. Catharine's maids and in the other world will spend my time combing her hair. Thou mayst come and go many times, perhaps, and find me Jeanne Angelot still."

"Have you forsworn marriage? For a handsome girl hardly misses a lover."

He was trying to keep his temper in the face of such a plain denial.

"I am not for marriage," she returned briefly.

"You are young to be so resolute."

"Let us not discuss the matter;" and now her tone was haughty, forbidding.

"A father would have authority to change your mind, or a guardian."

"But I have no father, you know."

He nodded doubtfully. She felt rather than saw the incredulous half smile. Had he some plot in hand? Why should she distrust him so?

"Jeanne, we were such friends in that old time. I have carried you in my arms when you were a light, soft burthen. I have held you up to catch some branch where you could swing like a cat. I have hunted the woods with you for flowers and berries and nuts, and been obedient to your pretty whims because I loved you. I love you still. I want you for my wife. Jeanne, you shall have silks and laces, and golden gauds and servants to wait on you—"

"I told you, Monsieur, I was not for marriage," she interrupted in the coldest of tones.

"Every woman is, if you woo her long enough and strong enough."

He tried very earnestly to keep the sneer out of his voice, but hardly succeeded. His face flushed, his eyes shone with a fierce light. Have this girl he would. She should see who was master.

"Monsieur, that is ungentlemanly."

"Monsieur! In the old time, it was Louis."

"We have outgrown the old times," carelessly.

"I have not. Nor my love."

"Then I am sorry for you. But it cannot change my mind."

The way was very narrow now. She made a quick motion and passed him. But she might better have sent him on ahead, instead of giving him this study of her pliant grace. The exquisite curves of her figure in its thin, close gown, the fair neck gleaming through the soft curls, the beautiful shoulders, the slim waist with a ribbon for belt, the light, gliding step that scarcely moved her, held an enthralling charm. He had a passionate longing to clasp his arms about her. All the hot blood within him was roused, and he was not used to being denied.

There was one little turn. Pani was not sitting before the door. Oh, where was she? A terror seized Jeanne, yet she commanded her voice and moved just a trifle, though she did not look at him. He saw that she had paled; she was afraid, and a cruel exultation filled him.

"Monsieur, I am at home," she said. "Your escort was not needed," and she summoned a vague smile. "There is little harm in our streets, except when the traders are in, and Pani is generally my guard. Then for us the soldiers are within call. Good day, Monsieur Marsac."

"Nay, my pretty one, you must be gentler and not so severe to make it a good day for me. And I am resolved that it shall be. See, Jeanne, I have always loved you, and though there have been years between I have not forgotten. You shall be my wife yet. I will not give you up. I shall stay here in Detroit until I have won you. No other demoiselle would be so obdurate."

"Because I do not love you, Monsieur," and she gave the appellation its most formal sound. "And soon I shall begin to hate you!"

Oh, how handsome she looked as she stood there in a kind of noble indignation, her heart swelling above her girdle, the child's sweetness still in the lines of her face and figure, as the bud when it is just about to burst into bloom. He longed to crush her in one eager embrace, and kiss the nectar of her lovely lips, even if he received a blow for it as before. That would pile up a double revenge.

Pani burst from the adjoining cottage.

"Oh," she cried, studying one and the other. "Ma fille, the poor tailor, Philippe! He had a fit come on, and his poor wife screamed for help, so I hurried in. And now the doctor says he is dying. O Monsieur Marsac, would you kindly find some one in the street to run for a priest?"

"I will go," with a most obliging smile and inclination of the head.

Jeanne clasped her arms about Pani's neck, and, laying her head on the shrunken bosom, gave way to a flood of tears.

"Ma petite, has he dared—"

"He loves me, Pani, with a fierce, wicked passion. I can see it in his eyes. Afterward, when things went wrong, he would remember and beat me. He kissed me once on the mouth and I struck him. He will never forget. But then, rather than be his wife, I would kill myself. I will not, will not do it."

"No, mon ange, no, no. Pierre would be a hundred times better. And he would take thee away."

"But I want no one. Keep me from him, Pani. Oh, if we could go away—"

"Dear—the good sisters would give us shelter."

Jeanne shook her head. "If Father Rameau were but here. Father Gilbert is sharp and called me a heretic. Perhaps I am. I cannot count beads any more. And when they brought two finger bones of some one long dead to St. Anne's, and all knelt down and prayed to them, and Father Gilbert blessed them, and said a touch would cure any disease and help a dying soul through purgatory, I could not believe it. Why did it not cure little Marie Faus when her hip was broken, and the great running sore never stopped and she died? And he said it was a judgment against Marie's mother because she would not live with her drunken brute of a husband. No, I do not think Pere Gilbert would take me in unless I recanted."

"Oh, come, come," cried Pani. "Poor Margot is most crazed. And I cannot leave you here alone."

They entered the adjoining cottage. There were but two rooms and overhead a great loft with a peaked roof where the children slept. Philippe lay on the floor, his face ghastly and contorted. There were some hemlock cushions under him, and his poor wife knelt chafing his hands.

"It is of no use," said the doctor. "Did some one summon the priest?"

"Immediately," returned Pani.

"And there is poor Antoine on the Badeau farm, knowing nothing of this," cried the weeping mother.

The baby wailed a sorrowful cry as if in sympathy. It had been a puny little thing. Three other small ones stood around with frightened faces.

Jeanne took up the baby and bore it out into the small garden, where she walked up and down and crooned to it so sweetly it soon fell asleep. The next younger child stole thither and caught her gown, keeping pace with tiny steps. How long the moments seemed! The hot sun beat down, but it was cool here under the tree. How many times in the stifling afternoons Philippe had brought his work out here! He had grown paler and thinner, but no one had seemed to think much of it. What a strange thing death was! What was the other world like—and purgatory? The mother of little Marie Faus was starving herself to pay for the salvation of her darling's soul.

"Oh, I should not like to die!" and Jeanne shuddered.

The priest came, but it was not Father Gilbert. The last rites were performed over the man who might be dead already. The baby and the little girl were brought in and the priest blessed them. There were several neighbors ready to perform the last offices, and now Jeanne took all the children out under the tree.

Louis Marsac returned, presently, and offered his help in any matter, crowding some money into the poor, widowed hand. Jeanne he could see nowhere. Pani was busy.

The next day he paid M. Loisel a visit, and stated his wishes.

"You see, Monsieur, Jeanne Angelot is in some sort a foundling, and many families would not care to take her in. That I love her will be sufficient for my father, and her beauty and sweetness will do the rest. She will live like a queen and have servants to wait on her. There are many rich people up North, and, though the winters are long, no one suffers except the improvident. And I think I have loved Mam'selle from a little child. Then, too," with an easy smile, "there is a suspicion that some Indian blood runs in Mam'selle's veins. On that ground we are even."

Yes, M. Loisel had heard that. Mixed marriages were not approved of by the better class French, but a small share of Indian blood was not contemned. When it came to that, Louis Marsac was not a person to be lightly treated. His father had much influence with the Indian tribes and was a rich man.

So the notary laid the matter before Pani and his ward, when the funeral was over, though he would rather have pleaded for his nephew. It was a most excellent proffer.

But he was not long in learning that Jeanne Angelot had not only dislike but a sort of fear and hatred for the young man; and that nothing was farther from her thoughts. Yet he wondered a little that the fortune and adoration did not tempt her.

"Well, well, my child, we shall not be sorry to have you left in old Detroit. Some of our pretty girls have been in haste to get away to Quebec or to the more eastern cities. Boston, they say, is a fine place. And at New York they have gay doings. But we like our own town and have all the pleasure that is good for one. So I am glad to have thee stay."

"If I loved him it would be different. But I think this kind of love has been left out of me," and she colored daintily. "All other loves and gratitude have been put in, and oh, M'sieu, such an adoration for the beautiful world God has made. Sometimes I go down on my knees in the forest, everything speaks to me so,—the birds and the wind among the trees, the mosses with dainty blooms like a pin's head, the velvet lichens with rings of gray and brown and pink. And the little lizards that run about will come to my hand, and the deer never spring away, while the squirrels chatter and laugh and I talk back to them. Then I have grown so fond of books. Some of them have strange melodies in them that I sing to myself. Oh, no, I do not want to be a wife and have a house to keep, neither do I want to go away."

"Thou art a strange child."

M. Loisel leaned over and kissed her on the crown of her head where the parting shone white as the moon at its full. Lips and rosy mouths were left for lovers in those days.

"And you will make him understand?"

"I will do my best. No one can force a damsel into marriage nowadays."

Opposition heightened Louis Marsac's desires. Then he generally had his way with women. He did not need to work hard to win their hearts. Even here in spite of Indian blood, maids smiled on the handsome, jaunty fellow who went arrayed in the latest fashion, and carried it off with the air of a prince. There was another sort of secret dimly guessed at that would be of immense advantage to him, but he had the wariness of the mother's side as well as the astuteness of the father.

A fortnight went by with no advantage. Pani never left her charge alone. The rambles in the woods were given up, and the girl's heart almost died within her for longing. She helped poor Margot nurse her children, and if Marsac came on a generous errand they surrounded her and swarmed over her. He could have killed them with a good will. She would not go out on the river nor join the girls in swimming matches nor take part in dances. Sometimes with Pani she spent mornings in the minister's study, and read aloud or listened to him while his wife sat sewing.

"You are not easily tempted," said the good wife one day. "It is no secret that this young trader, M. Marsac, is wild for love of you."

"But I do not like him, how then could I give him love?" and she glanced out of proud, sincere eyes, while a soft color fluttered in her face.

"No, that could not be," assentingly.

The demon within him that Louis Marsac called love raged and rose to white heat. If he could even carry her off! But that would be a foolish thing. She might be rescued, and he would lose the good opinion of many who gave him a flattering sympathy now.

So the weeks went on. The boats were loaded with provision, some of them started on their journey. He came one evening and found Jeanne and her protector sitting in their doorway. Jeanne was light-hearted. She had heard he was to sail to-morrow.

"I have come to bid my old playmate and friend good-by," and there was a sweet pathos in his voice that woke a sort of tenderness in the girl's heart, for it brought back a touch of the old pleasant days before he had really grown to manhood, when they sat under her oak and listened to Pani's legendary stories.

"I wish you bon voyage, Monsieur."

"Say Louis just once. It will be a bit of music to which I shall sail up the river."

"Monsieur Louis."

The tone was clear and no warmth penetrated it. He could see her face distinctly in the moonlight and it was passive in its beauty.

"Thou hast not forgiven me. If I knelt—"

"Nay!" she sprang up and stood at Pani's back. "There is nothing to kneel for. When you are away I shall strive to forget your insistence—"

"And remember that it sprang from love," he interrupted. "Jeanne, is your heart of marble that nothing moves it? There are curious stories of women who have little human warmth in them—who are born of strange parents."

"Monsieur, that is wrong. Jeanne hath ever been loving and fond from the time she put her little arms around my neck. She is kindly and tender—the poor tailor's lonely woman will tell you. And she spent hours with poor Madame Campeau when her own daughter left her and went away to a convent, comforting her and reading prayers. No, she is not cold hearted."

"Then you have taken all her love," complainingly.

"It is not that, either," returned the woman.

"Jeanne, I shall love thee always, cruel as thou hast been. And if thou art so generous as to pray for others, say a little prayer that will help me bear my loneliness through the cold northern winter that I had hoped might be made warm and bright by thy presence. Have a little pity if thou hast no love."

He was mournfully handsome as he stood there in the silvery light. Almost her heart was moved. She said a special prayer for only one person, but Louis Marsac might slip into the other class that was "all the world."

"Monsieur, I will remember," bowing a little.

"Oh, lovely icicle, you are enough to freeze a man's soul, and yet you rouse it to white heat! I can make no impression I see. Adieu, adieu."

He gave a sudden movement and would have kissed her mouth but she put her hand across it, and Pani, divining the endeavor, rose at the same instant.

"Mam'selle Jeanne Angelot, you will repent this some day!" and his tone was bitter with revenge.

Then he plunged down the street with an unsteady gait and was lost in the darkness.

"Pani, come in, bar the door. And the shutter must be fastened;" pulling the woman hastily within.

"But the night will be hot."

"It is cooler now. There has been a fresh breeze from the river. And—I am sore afraid."

It was true that the night dews and the river gave a coolness to the city at night, and on the other side was the great sweep of woods and hills.

Nothing came to disturb them. Jeanne was restless and had bad dreams, then slept soundly until after sunrise.

"Antoine," she said to the tailor's little lad, "go down to the wharf and watch until the 'Flying Star' sails up the river. The tide is early. I will reward you well."

"O Mam'selle, I will do it for love;" and he set off on a trot.

"There are many kinds of love," mused Jeanne. "Strange there should be a kind that makes one afraid."

At ten the "Flying Star" went up the river.

"Thou hast been a foolish girl, Jeanne Angelot!" declared one of the neighbors. "Think how thou mightst have gone up the river on a wedding journey, and a handsome young husband such as falls to the lot of few maids, with money in plenty and furs fit for a queen. And there is, no doubt, some Indian blood in thy veins! Thou hast always been wild as a deer and longing to live out of doors."

Jeanne only laughed. She was so glad to feel at liberty once more. For a month she had virtually been a prisoner.

Madame De Ber, though secretly glad, joined the general disapproval. She had half hoped he might fancy Rose, who sympathized warmly with him. She could have forgiven the alien blood if she had seen Rose go up the river, in state, to such a future.

And though Jeanne was not so much beyond childhood, it was settled that she would be an old maid. She did not care.

"Let us go out under the oak, Pani," she exclaimed. "I want to look at something different from the Citadel and the little old houses, something wide and free, where the wind can blow about, and where there are waves of sweetness bathing one's face like a delightful sea. And to-morrow we will take to the woods. Do you suppose the birds and the squirrels have wondered?"

She laughed gayly and danced about joyously.

Wenonah sat at her hut door making a cape of gull's feathers for an officer's wife.

"You did not go north, little one," and she glanced up with a smile of approval.

For to her Jeanne would always be the wild, eager, joyous child who had whistled and sung with the birds, and could never outgrow childhood. She looked not more than a dozen years old to-day.

"No, no, no. Wenonah, why do you cease to care for people, when you have once liked them? Yet I am sorry for Louis. I wish he had loved some one else. I hope he will."

"No doubt there are those up there who have shared his heart and his wigwam until he tired of them. And he will console himself again. You need not give him so much pity."

"Wenonah!" Jeanne's face was a study in surprise.

"I am glad, Mam'selle, that his honeyed tongue did not win you. I wanted to warn, but the careful Pani said there was no danger. My brave has told some wild stories about him when he has had too much brandy. And sometimes an Indian girl who is deserted takes a cruel revenge, not on the selfish man, but on the innocent girl who has trusted him, and is not to blame. He is handsome and double of tongue and treacherous. See—he would have given me money to coax you to go out in the canoe with me some day to gather reeds. Then he could snatch you away. It was a good deal of money, too!"

"O Wenonah!" She fell on the woman's neck and kissed the soft, brown cheek.

"He knew you trusted me, that was the evil of him. And I said to Pani, 'Do not let her go out on the river, lest the god of the Strait put forth his hand and pull her down to the depths and take her to his cave.' And Pani understood."

"Yes, I trust you," said the girl proudly.

"And I have no white blood in my veins."

She went down to the great oak with Pani and they sat shaded from the afternoon sunshine with the lovely river stretching out before them. She did not care for the old story any more, but she leaned against Pani's bosom and patted her hand and said: "No matter what comes, Pani, we shall never part. And I will grow old with you like a good daughter and wait on you and care for you, and cook your meals when you are ill."

Pani looked into the love-lit, shining eyes.

"But I shall be so very, very old," she replied with a soft laugh.



CHAPTER XIV.

A HIDDEN FOE.

Ah, what a day it was to Jeanne Angelot! They had gone early in the morning and taken some food with them in a pretty basket made of birch bark. How good it was to be alive, to be free! The sunshine had never been so golden, she thought, nor danced so among the branches nor shook out such dainty sprites. How they skipped over the turf, now hold of hands, now singly, now running away and disappearing, others coming in their places!

"The very woods are alive," she declared in glee.

Alive they were with the song of birds, the chirp of insects, the murmuring wind. Back of her was a rivulet fretting its way over pebbles down a hillside, making an irregular music. She kept time to it, then she changed to the bird song, and the rustle among the pines.

"It is so lovely, Pani. I seem to be drinking in a strange draught that goes to my very finger tips. Oh, I wonder how anyone can bear to die!"

"When they are old it is like falling asleep. And sometimes they are so tired it makes them glad."

"I should only be tired of staying in the house. But I suppose one cannot help death. One can refuse to go into a little cell and shut out the sunlight and all the beauty that God has made. It is wicked I think. For one can pray out of doors and sing hymns. I am sure God will hear."

They ate their lunch with a relish; Jeanne had found some berries and some ripe wild plums. There was a hollow tree full of honey, she could tell by the odorous, pungent smell. She would tell Wenonah and have some of the boys go at night and—oh, how hard to rob the poor bees, to murder and rob them! No, she would keep their secret.

She laid her head down in Pani's lap and went fast asleep; and the Indian woman's eyes were touched with the same poppy juice. Once Pani started, she thought she heard a step. In an instant her eyes were bent inquiringly around. There was no one in sight.

"It was the patter of squirrels," she thought.

The movement roused Jeanne. She opened her eyes and smiled with infantine joy.

"We have both been asleep," said the woman. "And now is it not time to go home?"

"Oh, look at the long shadows. They are purple now, and soft dark green. The spirits of the wood have trooped home, tired of their dancing."

She rose and gave herself a little shake.

"Pani," she exclaimed, "I saw some beautiful flowers before noon, over on the other side of the stream. I think they were something strange. I can easily jump across. I will not be gone long, and you may stay here. Poor Pani! I tired you out."

"No, Mam'selle, you were asleep first."

"Was I? It was such a lovely sleep. Oh, you dear woods;" and she clasped her hands in adoration.

Long, flute-like notes quivered through the branches—birds calling to their mates. Pani watched the child skipping, leaping, pulling down a branch and letting it fly up again. Then she jumped across the brook with a merry shout, and a tree hid her.

Pani studied the turf, the ants and beetles running to and fro, the strange creatures with heavy loads. A woodpecker ran up a tree and pulled out a white grub. "Tinkle, tinkle, bu-r-r-r," said the little stream. Was that another shout?

Presently Pani rose and went toward the stream. "Jeanne! Jeanne!" she called. The forest echoes made reply. She walked up, Jeanne had gone in that direction. Once it seemed as if the voice answered.

Yes, over yonder was a great thicket of bloom. Surely the child would not need to go any farther. Presently there was a tangle of underbrush and wild grapevines. Pani retraced her steps and going farther down crossed and came up on the other side, calling as she went. The woods grew more dense. There was a chill in the air as if the sun never penetrated it. There was no real path and she wandered on in a thrill of terror, still calling but not losing sight of the stream.

And now the sun dropped down. Terrified, Pani made the best of her way back. What had happened? She had seen no sign of a wild animal, and surely the child could not be lost in that brief while!

She must give an alarm. She ran now until she was out of breath, then she had to pause until she could run again. She reached the farms. They were mostly all long strips of land with the houses in reach of the stockade for safety.

"Andre Helmuth," she cried, "I have lost the child, Jeanne. Give an alarm." Then she sank down half senseless.

Dame Helmuth ran out from the fish she was cooking for supper. "What is it?" she cried. "And who is this?" pointing to the prostrate figure.

"Jeanne Angelot's Pani. And Jeanne, she says, is lost. It must be in the woods. But she knows them so well."

"She was ever a wild thing," declared the dame. "But a night in the woods alone is not such a pleasant pastime, with panthers, and bears have been seen. And there may be savages prowling about. Yes, Andre, give the alarm and I will look after the poor creature. She has always been faithful to the child."

By the time the dame had restored her, the news had spread. It reached Wenonah presently, who hastened to the Helmuths'. Pani sat bewildered, and the Indian woman, by skillful questioning, finally drew the story from her.

"I think it is a band of roving Indians," she said. "I am glad now that Paspah is at home. He is a good guide. But we must send in town and get a company."

"Yes, yes, that is the thing to do. A few soldiers with arms. One cannot tell how many of the Indians there may be. I will go at once," and Andre Helmuth set off on a clumsy trot.

"And the savory fish that he is so fond of, getting spoiled. But what is that to the child's danger? Children, come and have your suppers."

They wanted to linger about Pani, but the throng kept increasing. Wenonah warded off troublesome questions and detailed the story to newcomers. The dame brought her a cup of tea with a little brandy in it, and then waited what seemed an interminable while.

The alarm spread through the garrison, and a searching party was ordered out equipped with lanterns and well armed. At its head was Jeanne's admirer, the young lieutenant.

Tony Helmuth had finished his supper.

"Let me go with them," he pleaded. "I know every inch of the way. I have been up and down the creek a hundred times."

Pani rose. "I must go, too," she said, weakly, but she dropped back on the seat.

"Thou wilt come home with me," began Wenonah, with gentle persuasiveness. "Thou hast not the strength."

She yielded passively and clung piteously to the younger woman, her feet lagging.

"She was so glad and joyous all day. I should not have let her go out of my sight," the foster mother moaned. "And it was only such a little while. Heaven and the blessed Mother send her back safely."

"I think they will find her. Paspah is good on a trail. If they stop for the night and build a fire that will surely betray them."

She led Pani carefully along, though quite a procession followed.

"Let her be quiet now," said the younger squaw. "You can hear nothing more from her, and she needs rest. Go your ways."

Pani was too much exhausted and too dazed to oppose anything. Once or twice she started feebly and said she must go home, but dropped back again on the pine needle couch covered with a blanket. Between waking and sleep strange dreams came to her that made her start and cry out, and Wenonah soothed her as one would a child.

All the next day they waited. The town was stirred with the event, and the sympathy was universal. The pretty Jeanne Angelot, who had been left so mysteriously, had awakened romantic interest anew. A few years ago this would have been a common incident, but why one should want to carry off a girl of no special value,—though a ransom would be raised readily enough if such a thing could save her.

On the second day the company returned home. No trace of any marauding party had been found. There had been no fires kindled, no signs of any struggle, and no Indian trails in the circuit they had made. The party might have had a canoe on Little river and paddled out to Lake St. Clair; if so, they were beyond reach.

The tidings utterly crushed Pani. For a fortnight she lay in Wenonah's cabin, paying no attention to anything and would have refused sustenance if Wenonah had not fed her as a child. Then one day she seemed to wake as out of a trance.

"They have not found her—my little one?" she said.

Wenonah shook her head.

"Some evil spirit of the woods has taken her."

"Can you listen and think, Pani?" and she chafed the cold hand she held. "I have had many strange thoughts and Touchas, you know, has seen visions. The white man has changed everything and driven away the children of the air who used to run to and fro in the times of our fathers. In her youth she called them, but the Church has it they are demons, and to look at the future is a wicked thing. It is said in some places they have put people to death for doing it."

Pani's dark eyes gave a glance of mute inquiry.

"But I asked Touchas. At first she said the great Manitou had taken the power from her. But the night the moon described the full circle and one could discern strange shapes in it, she came to me, and we went and sat under the oak tree where the child first came to thee. There was great disturbance in Touchas' mind, and her eyes seemed to traverse space beyond the stars. Presently, like one in a dream, she said:—

"'The child is alive. She was taken by Indians to the petite lake, her head covered, and in strong arms. Then they journeyed by water, stopping, and going on until they met a big ship sailing up North. She is in great danger, but the stars watch over her; a prisoner where the window is barred and the door locked. There is a man between two women, an Indian maiden, whose heart hungers for him. She comes down to meet him and follows a trail and finds something that rouses her to fierce anger. She creeps and creeps, and finds the key and unlocks the door. The white maiden is afraid at first and cowers, for she reads passion in the other's eyes. O great Manitou, save her!' Then Touchas screamed and woke, shivering all over, and could see no further into the strange future. 'Wait until the next moon,' she keeps saying. But the child will be saved, she declares."

"Oh, my darling, my little one!" moaned the woman, rocking herself to and fro. "The saints protect thee. Oh, I should have watched thee better! But she felt so safe. She had been afraid, but the fear had departed. Oh, my little one! I shall die if I do not see thee again."

"I feel that the great God will care for her. She has done no evil; and the priests declare that he will protect the good. And I thought and thought, until a knowledge seemed to come out of the clear sky. So I did not wait for the next moon. I said, 'I have little need for Paspah, since I earn bread for the little ones. Why should he sit in the wigwam all winter, now and then killing a deer or helping on the dock for a drink of brandy?' So I sent him North again to join the hunters and to find Jeanne. For I know that handsome, evil-eyed Louis Marsac is at the bottom of it."

"Oh, Wenonah!" Pani fell on her shoulder and cried, she was so weak and overcome.

"We will not speak of this. Paspah has a grudge against Marsac; he struck him a blow last summer. My father would have killed him for the blow, but the red men who hang around the towns have no spirit. They creep about like panthers, and only show their teeth to an enemy. The forest is the place for them, but this life is easier for a woman."

Wenonah sighed. Civilization had charms for her, yet she saw that it was weakening her race. They were driven farther and farther back and to the northward. Women might accept labor, they were accustomed to it in the savage state but a brave could not so demean himself.

Pani's mind was not very active yet. For some moments she studied Wenonah in silence.

"She was afraid of him. She would not go out to the forest nor on the river while he was here. But he went away—"

"He could have planned it all. He would find enough to do his bidding. But if she has been taken up North, Paspah will find her."

That gave some present comfort to Pani. But she began to be restless and wanted to return to her own cottage.

"You must not live alone," said Wenonah.

"But I want to be there. If my darling comes it is there she will search for me."

When Wenonah found she could no longer keep her by persuasion or entreaty, she went home with her one day. The tailor's widow had taken some little charge of the place. It was clean and tidy.

Pani drew a long, delighted breath, like a child.

"Yes, this is home," she exclaimed. "Wenonah, the good Mother of God will reward you for your kindness. There is something"—touching her forehead in piteous appeal—"that keeps me from thinking as I ought. But you are sure my little one will come back, like a bird to its nest?"

"She will come back," replied Wenonah, hardly knowing whether she believed it herself or not.

"Then I shall stay here."

She was deaf to all entreaties. She went about talking to herself, with a sentence here and there addressed to Jeanne.

"Yes, leave her," said Margot. "She was good to me in my sorrow, and petite Jeanne was an angel. The children loved her so. She would not go away of her own accord. And I will watch and see that no harm happens to Pani, and that she has food. The boys will bring her fagots for fire. I will send you word every day, so you will know how it fares with her."

Pani grew more cheerful day by day and gained not only physical strength, but made some mental improvement. In the short twilight she would sit in the doorway listening to every step and tone, sometimes rising as if she would go to meet Jeanne, then dropping back with a sigh.

The soldiers were very kind to her and often stopped to give her good day. Neighbors, too, paused, some in sympathy, some in curiosity.

There were many explanations of the sudden disappearance. That Jeanne Angelot had been carried off by Indians seemed most likely. Such things were still done.

But many of the superstitious shook their heads. She had come queerly as if she had dropped from the clouds, she had gone in the same manner. Perhaps she was not a human child. All wild things had come at her call,—she had talked to them in the woods. Once a doe had run to her from some hunters and she had so covered it with her girlish arms and figure that they had not dared to shoot. If there were bears or panthers or wolves in the woods, they never molested her.

They recalled old legends, Indian and French, some gruesome enough, but they did not seem meet for pretty, laughing Jeanne, who was all kindliness and sweetness and truth. If she was part spirit, surely it was a good spirit and not an evil one.

Then Pani thought she would go to Father Gilbert, though she had never felt at home with him as she did with good Pere Rameau. There might be prayers that would hasten her return. Or, if relics helped, if she could once hold them in her hand and wish—

The old missionaries who had gone a century or two before to plant the cross along with the lilies of France had the souls of the heathen savages at heart. Since then times had changed and the Indians were not looked upon as such promising subjects. Father Gilbert worked for the good and the glory of the Church. One English convert was worth a dozen Indians. So the church had been improved and made more beautiful. There were singers who caught the ear of the casual listener, and he or she came again. The school, too, was improved, the sisters' house enlarged, and a retreat built where women could spend days of sorrow and go away refreshed. Sometimes they preferred to stay altogether.

Father Gilbert listened rather impatiently to the prolix story. He might have heard it before, he did not remember. There were several Indian waifs in school.

"And this child was baptized, you say? Why did you not bring her to church?" he asked sharply.

"Good Pere, I did at first. But M. Bellestre would not have her forced. And then she only came sometimes. She liked the new school because they taught about countries and many things. She was always honest and truth speaking and hated cruel deeds—"

"But she belonged to the Church, you see. Woman, you have done her a great wrong and this is sent upon you for punishment. She should have been trained to love her Church. Yes, you must come every day and pray that she may be returned to the true fold, and that the good God will forgive your sin. You have been very wicked and careless and I do not wonder God has sent this upon you. When she comes back she must be given to the Church."

Pani turned away without asking about the relics. Her savage heart rose up in revolt. The child was hers, the Church had not all the right. And Jeanne had come to believe like the chapel father, who had been very friendly toward her. Perhaps it was all wrong and wicked, but Jeanne was an angel. Ah, if she could hold her in her old arms once more!

Father Gilbert went to see M. Loisel. What was it about the money the Indian woman and the child had? Could not the Church take better care of it? And if the girl was dead, what then?

M. Loisel explained the wording of the bequest. If both died it went back to the Bellestre estate. Only in case of Jeanne's marriage did it take the form of a dowry. In June and December it came to him, and he sent back an account of the two beneficiaries.

Really then it was not worth looking after, Father Gilbert decided, when there was so much other work on hand.

Madame De Ber and her coterie, for already there were little cliques in Detroit, shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows when Jeanne Angelot was mentioned.

She was such a coquette! And though she flouted Louis Marsac to his face, when he had really taken her at her word and gone, she might have repented and run after him. It was hardly likely a band of roving Indians would burthen themselves with a girl. Then she was fleet of foot and had a quick brain, she could have eluded them and returned by this time.

Rose De Ber had succeeded in captivating her fine lover and sent Martin about with a bit of haughtiness that would have become a queen. It was a fine wedding and Jeanne was lost sight of in the newer excitement.

Pani rambled to and fro, a grave, silent woman. When she grew strong enough she went to the forest and haunted the little creek with her plaints. The weather grew colder. Furs and rugs were brought out, and warm hangings for winter. Martin Lavosse came in and arranged some comforts for Pani, looked to see that the shutters would swing easily and brought fresh cedar and pine boughs for pallets. Crops were being gathered in, and there were merrymakings and church festivals, but the poor woman sat alone in her room that fronted the street, now and then casting her eyes up and down in mute questioning. The light of her life had gone. If Jeanne came not back all would be gone, even faith in the good God. For why should he, if he was so great and could manage the whole world, let this thing happen? Why should he deliver Jeanne into the hands of the man she hated, or perhaps let her be torn to pieces by some wild beast of the forest, when, by raising a finger, he could have helped it? Could he be angry because she had not sent the child to be shut up in the Recollet house and made a nun of?

Slavery and servitude had not extinguished the love of liberty that had been born in Pani's soul. She had succumbed to force, then to a certain fondness for a kind mistress. But it seemed as if she alone had understood the child's wild flights, her hatred of bondage. She had done no harm to any living creature; she had been full of gratitude to the great Manitou for every flower, every bird, for the golden sun that set her pulses in a glow, for the moon and stars, and the winds that sang to her. Oh, surely God could not be angry with her!



CHAPTER XV.

A PRISONER.

Jeanne Angelot climbed a slight ascent where great jagged stones had probably been swept down in some fierce storm and found lodgment. Tufts of pink flowers, the like of which she had not seen before, hung over one ledge. They were not wild roses, yet had a spicy fragrance. Here the little stream formed a sort of basin, and the overflow made the cascade down the winding way strewn with pebbles and stones worn smooth by the force of the early spring floods. How wonderfully beautiful it was! To the north, after a space of wild land, there was a prairie stretching out as far as one could see, golden green in the sunlight; to the east the lake, that seemed to gather all sorts of changeful, magical tints on its bosom.

She had never heard of the vale of Enna nor her prototype who stooped to pluck

"The fateful flower beside the rill, The daffodil! The daffodil!"

as she sprang down to gather the blossoms. The stir in the woods did not alarm her. Her eyes were still over to the eastward drinking in that fine draught of celestial wine, the true nectar of life. A bird piped overhead. She laughed and answered him. Then a sudden darkness fell upon her, close, smothering. Her cry was lost in it. She was picked up, slung over some one's shoulder and borne onward by a swift trot. Her arms were fast, she could only struggle feebly.

When at length she was placed on her feet and the blanket partly unrolled, she gave a cry.

"Hush, hush!" said a rough voice in Chippewa. "If you make a noise we shall kill you and throw you into the lake. Be silent and nothing shall harm you."

"Oh, let me go!" she pleaded. "Why do you want me?"

The blanket was drawn over her head again. Another stalwart Indian seized her and ran on with such strides that it nearly jolted the breath out of her body, and the close smell of the blanket made her faint. When the second Indian released her she fell to the ground in a heap.

"White Rose lost her breath, eh?"

"You have covered her too close. We are to deliver her alive. The white brave will have us murdered if she dies."

One of them brought some water from a stream near by, and it revived her.

"Give me a drink!" she cried, piteously. Then she glanced at her abductors. Four fierce looking Indians, two unusually tall and powerful. To resist would be useless.

"Whither are you going to take me?"

A grunt was the only reply, and they prepared to envelop her again.

"Oh, let me walk a little," she besought. "I am stiff and tired."

"You will not give any alarm?"

Who could hear in this wild, solitary place?

"I will be quiet. Nay, do not put the blanket about me, it is so warm," she entreated.

One of the Indians threw it over his shoulder. Two others took an arm with a tight grasp and commenced a quick trot. They lifted her almost off her feet, and she found this more wearying than being carried.

"Do not go so fast," she pleaded.

The Indian caught her up and ran again. Her slim figure was as nothing to him. But it was better not to have her head covered.

There seemed a narrow path through these woods, a trail the Indians knew. Now and then they emerged from the woods to a more open space, but the sunlight was mostly shut out. Once more they changed and now they reached a stream and put down their burthen.

"We go now in a canoe," began the chief spokesman. "If the White Rose will keep quiet and orderly no harm will come to her. Otherwise her hands and feet must be tied."

Jeanne drew a long breath and looked from one to the other. Their faces were stolid. Questioning would be useless.

"I will be quiet," she made answer.

They spread the blanket about and seated her in the middle. One man took his place behind her, one in front, and each had two ends of the blanket to frustrate any desperate move. Then another stood up to the paddle and steered the canoe swiftly along the stream, which was an arm of a greater river emptying into the lake.

What could they want of her? Jeanne mused. Perhaps a ransom, she had heard such tales, though it was oftener after a battle that a prisoner was released by a ransom. She did not know in what direction they were taking her, everything was strange though she had been on many of the small streams about Detroit. Now the way was narrow, overhung with gloomy trees, here and there a white beech shining out in a ghostly fashion. The sun dropped down and darkness gathered, broken by the shrill cry of a wild cat or the prolonged howl of a wolf. Here they started a nest of waterfowl that made a great clatter, but they glided swiftly by. It grew darker and darker but they went silently with only a low grunt from one of the Indians now and then.

Presently they reached the main stream. This was much larger, with the shores farther off and clearer, though weird enough in the darkness. Stars were coming out. Jeanne watched them in the deep magnificent blue, golden, white, greenish and with crimson tints. Was the world beyond the stars as beautiful as this? But she knew no one there. She wondered a little about her mother—was she in that bright sphere? There was another Mother—

"O Mother of God," she cried in her soul, "have pity upon me! I put myself in thy care. Guard me from evil! Restore me to my home!"

For it seemed, amid these rough savages, she sorely needed a mother's tender care. And she thought now there had been no loving woman in her life save Pani. Madame Bellestre had petted her, but she had lost her out of her life so soon. There had been the schoolmaster, that she could still think of with affection for all his queer fatherly interest and kindness; there was M. Loisel; and oh, Monsieur St. Armand, who was coming back in the early summer, and had some plans to lay before her. Even M. De Ber had been kindly and friendly, but Madame had never approved her. Poor Madame Campeau had come to love her, but often in her wandering moments she called her Berthe.

The quiet, the lapping of the waves, and perhaps a little fatigue overcame her at length. She dropped back against the Indian's knee, and her soft breath rose and fell peacefully. He drew the blanket up over her.

"Ugh! ugh!" he ejaculated, but she heard it not. "The tide is good, we shall make the Point before dawn."

The others nodded. They lighted their pipes, and presently the Indian at the paddle changed with one of his comrades and they stole on and on, both wind and tide in their favor. Several times their charge stirred but did not wake. Youth and health had overcome even anxiety.

There was dawn in the eastern sky. Jeanne roused.

"Oh, where am I?" she cried in piercing accents; and endeavored to spring up.

"Thou art safe enough and naught has harmed thee," was the reply. "Keep quiet, that is all."

"Oh, where do you mean to take me? I am stiff and cold. Oh, let me change a little!"

She straightened herself and pulled the blanket over her. The same stolid faces that had refused any satisfaction last night met her gaze again in blankness.

There was a broad, open space of water, no longer the river. She glanced about. A sudden arrow of gold gleamed swiftly across it—then another, and it was a sea of flame with dancing crimson lights.

"It is the lake," she said. "Lake Huron." She had been up the picturesque shores of the St. Clair river.

The Indian nodded.

"You are going north?" A great terror overwhelmed her like a sudden revelation.

The answer was a solemn nod.

"Some one has hired you to do this."

Not a muscle in any stolid face moved.

"If I guess rightly will you tell me?"

There was a refusal in the shake of the head.

Jeanne Angelot at that moment could have leaped from the boat. Yet she knew it would be of no avail. A chill went through every pulse and turned it to the ice of apprehension.

The canoe made a turn and ran up an inlet. A great clump of trees hid a wigwam until they were in sight of it There was a smoke issuing from the rude chimney, and a savory smell permeated the air. Two squaws had been squatted before the blaze of the stone-built fireplace. They both rose and came down the narrow strip of beach. They were short, the older one had a squat, ungainly figure of great breadth for the height, and a most forbidding face. The other was much younger.

Jeanne did not understand the language, but from a few words she guessed it was Huron. It seemed at first as if there was fierce upbraiding from some cause, but it settled satisfactorily it would seem. She was helped out of the canoe. Oh, how good it was to stand free on the ground again!

The Indian who appeared to be the leader of the party took her arm and led her up to the inclosure, the back of which seemed rocks, one piled upon another. The wigwam was set against them. The rude shelter outside was the kitchen department, evidently. A huge kettle had been lifted from the coals and was still steaming. A bark platter was piled high with deliciously browned fish, and in spite of her terror and distrust she felt that she was hungry.

"If I might have some water," she asked hesitatingly,—"a drink and some to bathe my face and hands?"

The drink was offered her in a gourd cup. Then the younger woman led her within the wigwam. There was a rough earthen bowl filled with water, a bit of looking-glass framed in birch bark, a bed, and some rounds of logs for seats. Around hung articles of clothing, both native made and bought from the traders.

"I understand Chippewa," announced Jeanne looking inquiringly at the woman.

She put her finger on her lip. Then she said, almost breathlessly, "We are not to talk to the French demoiselle."

"But tell me, am I to stay here?"

She gave a negative shake of the head.

"Am I to go—farther north?"

An affirmative nod this time.

"Wanee! Wanee!" was called sharply from without.

Jeanne sank on her knees.

"O Holy Mother of Christ, have pity on me and save me!" she cried. For the vague suspicion that had haunted her since waking, crystallized into a certainty. Part of a rosary came to her:—

"Heart of Jesus, refuge of sinners; Heart of Jesus, fortitude of the just; Heart of Jesus, comfort the afflicted."

Then she rose and made a brief toilet. She shook out her long hair, passing her damp hands over it, and it fell in curls again. She straightened her dress, but she still felt chill in the cool morning air. There was a cape of gull's feathers, hanging by the flap of the wigwam, and she reached it down making a sign to the woman asking permission.

She nodded assentingly.

It felt good and warm. Jeanne's breakfast was spread on a board resting on two stones. The squaw had made coffee out of some parched and ground grains, and it had a comforting flavor. The plate of fish was set before her and cakes of honey bread, and her coffee poured in a gourd bowl. The birds were singing overhead, and she could hear the lap of the tide in the lake, a soft tone of monotony. The beauty of it all penetrated her very soul. Even the group around the great kettle, dipping in their wooden spoons and gravely chatting, the younger woman smiling and one might almost imagine teasing them, had a picturesque aspect, and softened the thought of what might happen to-morrow.

They lolled on the turf and smoked pipes afterward. Jeanne paced up and down within sight of their glances that she knew were fixed upon her in spite of the half-closed lids. It was so good to be free in the fragrant air, to stretch her cramped limbs and feel the soft short grass under her feet. Dozens of wild plans flashed through her brain. But she knew escape was impossible, and she wondered what was to be the next move. Were they awaiting the trader, Louis Marsac?

Plainly they were not. When they were rested and had eaten again and had drunk a thick liquid made of roots and barks and honey, they rose and went toward the canoe, as if discussing some matter. They parleyed with the elder woman, who brought out two blankets and a pine needle cushion, which they threw in the boat, then a bottle of water from the spring, a gourd cup and some provisions.

"Come," the leader said, not unkindly. "Thou hast had a rest. We must be on our journey."

Pleading would be in vain, she recognized that. The women could not befriend her even if they would. So she allowed herself to be helped into the canoe, and the men pushed off amid the rather vociferous jargon of the women. She was made much more comfortable than before, though so seated that either brave could reach out his long arm and snatch her from any untoward resolve.

She looked down into the shining waters. Did she really care to try them? The hope of youth is unbounded and its trust in the future sublime. She did not want to die. Life was a glad, sweet thing to her, even if full of vague dreams, and she hoped somehow to be delivered from this danger, to find a friend raised up for her. Stories of miracles and wonderful rescues floated through her mind. Surely God would not let her fall a prey to this man she both feared and hated. She could feel his one hot, vicious kiss upon her lips even yet.

The woods calmed and soothed her with their grays and greens, and the infrequent birches, tall and slim, with circles of white still about them. Great tree boles stood up like hosts of silent Indian warriors, ready to pounce down on one. They hugged the shore closely, sometimes it was translucent green, and one could almost catch the darting fishes with one's hand. Then the dense shade rendered it black, and it seemed bottomless.

So gliding along, keeping well out of the reach of other craft, the hours growing more tiresome to Jeanne, they passed the Point Aux Barques and steered across Saginaw bay. Once they had stopped for a little rest and a tramp along the shore. Then another evening dropped down upon them, another night, and Jeanne slept from a sort of exhaustion.

The next forenoon they landed at one of the islands, where a trading vessel of considerable size and fair equipment lay at anchor. A man on deck with a glass had been sighting them. She had not noted him particularly, in fact she was weary and disheartened with her journey and her fears. But they made a sudden turn and came up to the vessel, poled around to the shore side, when she was suddenly lifted up by strong arms and caught by other arms with a motion so rapid she could not have struggled if she had wished. And now she was set down almost roughly.

"Welcome, my fair demoiselle," said a voice whose triumph was in no degree disguised. "How shall I ever thank you for this journey you have taken to meet me? I could have made it pleasanter for you if you would have consented a little earlier. But a willful girl takes her own way, and her way is sweet to the man who loves her, no matter how briery the path may be."

Jeanne Angelot was stunned. Then her worst fears were realized. She was in the power of Louis Marsac. Oh, why had she not thrown herself into the river; why had she not seized the knife with which they had been cutting venison steak yester morn and ended it all? She tried to speak—her lips were dry, and her tongue numb as well as dumb.

He took her arm. As if deprived of resistance she suffered herself to be led forward and then down a few steps. He opened a door.

"See," he said, "I have arranged a pretty bower for you, and a servant to wait upon you. And now, Mam'selle Angelot, further refusal is useless. To-morrow or next day at the latest the priest will make us man and wife."

"I will never be your wife alive," she said. Every pulse within her shrank from the desecration.

"Oh, yes, you will," and he smiled with a blandness that was maddening. "When we are once married I shall be very sweet and gentle. I shall wait with such patience that you will learn to pity me at first. My devotion will be so great that even a heart of marble could not resist. Mam'selle, the sun and the rain will wear away the stoutest rocks in time, and in the split crevices there grows some tiny flower. That is the way it is with the most resolute woman's heart. And you are not much more than a child. Then—you have no lover."

Jeanne stood spellbound. Was it possible that she should ever come to love this man? Yet in her childhood she had been very fond of him. She was a great puzzle to herself at this moment. All the old charms and fascinations that had been part of the lore of her childhood, weird stories that Touchas had told, but which were forbidden by the Church, rushed over her. She was full of terror at herself as well as of Louis Marsac.

He read the changes in her countenance, but he did not understand her shrinking from an abhorred suitor, nor the many fine and delicate lines of restraint that had come to hedge her about, to impress a peculiar responsibility of her own soul that would be degraded by the bondage. She had seen some of it in other girls mated to coarse natures.

"My beautiful bird shall have everything. We will go up to the head of the great lake where my father has a lodge that is second only to that of the White Chief. I am his only son. He wishes for my marriage. Jeanne, he will give thee such a welcome as no woman ever had. The costliest furs shall be thine, jewels from abroad, servants to come at the bidding of thy finger—"

"I do not want them!" she interrupted, vehemently. "I have told you I do not want to be the wife of any man. Give me the freedom you have stolen from me. Send me back to Detroit. Oh, there must be women ready to marry you. Let me go."

Her voice had a piercing sweetness. Even anger could not have made it harsh. She dropped on her knees; she raised her beautiful eyes in passionate entreaty.

There was much of the savage Indian in him. He would enjoy her subjugation. It would begin gently, then he would tighten the cord until she had paid back to the uttermost, even to the blow she had given him. But he was too astute to begin here.

"Thou shalt go back in state as my wife. Ere long my father will be as big a magnate as the White Chief. Detroit will be proud to honor us both, when we shall be chiefs of the great copper country. Rise, Star of the Morning. Then, whatever thou shalt ask as my wife shall be granted to thee."

She rose only to throw herself on the pile of hemlock cushions, face downward to shut him out of her sight. Was he some strange, evil spirit in a man's shape?

Noko, an old woman, waited on her. If she knew Chippewa or French she would not use them. She cooked savory messes. At night she slept on the mat of skins at the door; during the day she was outside mostly. The door was bolted and locked beside, but both bolt and lock were outside. The window with its small panes of greenish glass was securely fastened.

Jeanne could tie a band about her neck and choke herself to death. It would be horrible to strangle, and she shuddered. She had no weapon of any kind. The woman watched her while she ate and took away all the dishes when she was through.

The cabin was not large, but arranged with much taste. The sides were covered with bark and long strips of Indian embroidery, and curious plates or tiles of polished stone secured by the corners. On one side a roomy couch raised above the floor, fragrant with newly gathered balsam of fir and sweet grass, and covered with blankets of fine weaves, and skins cured to marvelous softness. Two chairs that were also hung with embroidery done on silk, and a great square wooden seat covered with mottled fawn skin. Bunches of dried, sweet herbs were suspended in the corners, with curious imitation flowers made of dainty feathers, bits of bark, and various colored leaves.

Sometimes she raged like a wild creature in her cage. She would not speak when Louis entered the room. She had a horrible fear of his blandishments. There were days and nights,—how many she did not know for there was the torture of hundreds comprised in them. Then she wept and prayed. There was the great Manitou Touchas and many of the Indian women believed in; there was the good God the schoolmaster had talked about, and the minister at the chapel, who had sent his Son to save all who called upon him, and why not be saved in this world as well as the next? In heaven all would be safe—yes, it was here that people needed to be saved from a thousand dangers. And there was the good God of the Church and the Holy Mother and all the blessed saints. Oh, would they not listen to one poor little girl? She did not want to die. All her visions of life and love were bounded by dear Detroit, La Belle Detroit.

"O Holy Father, hear me! O Blessed Mother of God, hear me! O Precious Son of Mary, hear me!"

she cried on her knees, until a strange peace came to her soul. She believed there would be some miracle for her. There had been for others.

At noon, one day, they came to a landing. There was some noise and confusion, much tramping and swearing. She heard Marsac at the door talking to Noko in French and the woman answering him. Her heart beat so that it well-nigh strangled her. But he did not come in. Presently the rumbling and unloading were over, and there was no sound but the oscillation of the vessel as it floundered in the tide with short beats, until the turning, and then the motion grew more endurable. If she could only see! But from her window there was nothing save an expanse of water, dotted with canoes and some distant islands. The cabin was always in semi-twilight.

There was a fumbling at the door presently. The bolt was drawn, the lock snapped; and the door was opened cautiously. It was neither Noko nor Marsac, but some one in a soft, gray blanket, with white borders. The corner was thrown over her head. She turned stealthily, took out the key, and locked the door again on the inside. Then she faced Jeanne who had half risen, and her blanket fell to the floor.

A handsome Indian girl, arrayed in a beautiful costume that bespoke rank in the wearer. Across her brow was a fillet made of polished stones that sparkled like jewels. Her long, black hair nearly reached her knees. Her skin was fine and clear, of a light bronze tint, through which the pink in her cheeks glowed. Her eyes were larger and softer than most of her race, of a liquid blackness, her nose was straight and slim, with fine nostrils, and her mouth like an opening rose, the under petal falling apart.

She came close to the white girl who shrank back terrified at the eyes fixed so resolutely on her.

"You are the French girl who wants to marry Louis Marsac," she hissed, between her white teeth.

"I am a French girl, Jeanne Angelot, and he stole me from Detroit. I do not want to marry him. Oh, no! a thousand times no! I have told him that I shall kill myself if he forces me to marry him!"

The Indian girl looked amazed. Her hands dropped at her side. Her eyes flickered in wavering lights, and her breath came in gasps.

"You do not want to marry him?"

Her voice was hoarse, guttural. "Ah, you lie! You make believe! It cannot be! Why, then, did you come up here? And why has he gone to L'Arbre Croche for the priest he expected?"

"I told you. He hired some Indians to take me from Detroit, after his boat had left. I would not go. I did not want to marry him and said 'no' dozens of times. They took me out in a canoe. I think they were Hurons; I did not understand their language. Somewhere—I do not know where we are now, and I cannot remember the days that passed, but they met the trader's boat and put me on it, and then I knew it was Louis Marsac who had stolen me. Has he gone for a priest? Is that what you said? Oh, save me! Help me to escape. I might throw myself into the bay, but I can swim. I should not like to die when life is so sweet and beautiful, and I am afraid I should try to save myself or some one might rescue me. Oh, believe it is no lie! I do not want to marry him."

"You have another lover?" The eyes seemed to pierce her through, as if sure of an affirmative.

"I have no lover, not even in Detroit. I do not like love. It is foolish and full of hot kisses, and I do not want to marry. Oh, save me if you have any pity! Help me to escape!"

She slipped down at the Indian girl's feet and caught at the garment of feathers so smooth and soft it seemed like satin.

"See here." The visitor put her hand in her bosom and drew forth a small dagger with a pearl hilt in which was set jewels. Jeanne shuddered, but remained on her knees, glancing up piteously.

"See here. I came to kill you. I said no French girl, be she beautiful as moonlight on the lake, shall marry Louis Marsac. He belongs to me. No woman shall be folded in his arms or lie on his breast or rejoice in the kisses of his mouth and live! I cannot understand. When one has tasted the sweetness—and he is so handsome, not so different from his mother's race but that I am a fit mate for him. My father was a chief, and there was a quarrel between him and a relative who claimed the right, and he was killed. Ah, you can never know how good and tender Louis was to me, so different from most of the clumsy Canadian traders; next, I think, to the great White Chief of the island; yes, handsomer, though not as large. All the winter and spring he loved me. And this cabin was mine. I came here many times. He loves me unless you have stolen his heart with some evil charm. Stand up; see. I am as tall as you. My skin is fine and clear, if not as pale as the white faces; and yours—pouf! you have no rose in your cheeks. Is not my mouth made for kisses? I like those that burn as fire running through your veins. And my hand—" she caught Jeanne's hand and compared them. "It is as slim and soft, and the pink is under the nails. And my hair is like a veil, reaching to my knees. Yes, I am a fitter mate than you, who are naught but a child, with no shape that fills a man with admiration. Is it that you have worked some evil charm?"

Jeanne's eyes were distended with horror. Now that death and escape were near she shrank with the fear of all young things who have known naught of life but its joy. She could not even beg, her tongue seemed paralyzed.

They would have made a statue worthy of a sculptor as they stood there, the Indian girl in her splendid attire and the utmost beauty of her race, with the dagger in one hand; and the girl, pale now as a snow wreath, at her feet.

"Would you go away, escape?" Some curious thoughts had flashed into Owaissa's brain.

"Oh, help me, help me! I will beg my way back to Detroit. I will pray that all his love may be given to you; morning and night I will pray on my knees. Oh, believe, believe!"

The Indian girl could not doubt her sincerity. But with the injustice of a passionate, jealous love she did not so much blame her recreant lover. Some charm, some art, must have been used, perhaps by a third person, and the girl be guiltless. And if she could send her away and remain in her stead—

She gave a soft, musical ripple of laughter. So pretty Minnehaha must have laughed when Longfellow caught the sound in his charmed brain. She put up her dagger. She raised Jeanne, wondering, but no longer afraid. This was the miracle she had prayed for and it had come to pass.

"Listen. You shall go. The night comes on and it is a long sail; but you will not be afraid. The White Chief will take you in, but when you tell your story say it was Indians who stole you. For if you bring any harm to Louis Marsac I will follow you and kill you even if it were leagues beyond sunset, in the wild land that no one has penetrated. Remember. Promise by the great Manitou. Kiss my hand;" and she held it out.

Jeanne obeyed. Could escape be so near? Her heart beats almost strangled her.

"Wanita is my faithful slave. He will do my bidding and you need not be afraid. My canoe lies down below there," and she indicated the southern end with a motion of her head. "You will take this ring to him and he will know that the message comes from me. Oh, you will not hesitate?"

Jeanne raised her head proudly. "I will obey you to the letter. But—how will I find him?"

"You will go off the boat and walk down below the dock. There is a clump of scrub pines blown awry; then a little cove; the boat lies there; you will say 'Wanita,' twice; he will come and you will give him the ring; then he will believe you."

"But how shall I get off the boat? And how did you get the key? And Noko—"

"I had a key. It was mine all the early spring. I used to come and we sailed around, but I would not be a wife until a French priest could marry us, and he said 'wait, wait,' and an Indian girl is proud to obey the man she loves. And when it was time for him to return I came down from the Strait and heard—this—that his heart had been stolen from me and that when Father Hugon did not come he was very angry and has gone up to the island. They have much illness there it seems."

"Then I give you back all I ever had, oh, so gladly."

"Your father, perhaps, wanted him and saw some woman who dealt in charms?"

"I have no father or mother. A poor old Indian woman cares for me. She was my nurse, everything. Oh, her heart will be broken! And this White Chief will surely let me go to Detroit?"

"He is good and gracious to all, and just. That is why you must not mention Marsac's name, for he might not understand about the wicked go-between. There are shil loups, spirits of wretched people who wander about making mischief. But I must believe thee. Thine eyes are truthful."

She brushed Jeanne's hair from her forehead and looked keenly, questioningly into them. They met the glance with the shine of innocence and truth that never wavered in their heavenly blue.

"The White Chief has boats that go up and down continually. You will get safely to Detroit."

"And you?" inquired Jeanne.



CHAPTER XVI.

RESCUED.

"And you?" repeated Jeanne Angelot when Owaissa seemed lost in thought.

"I shall remain here. When Louis Marsac comes I will break the fatal spell that bound him, and the priest will marry us. I shall make him very happy, for we are kindred blood; happier than any cool-blooded, pale-face girl could dream. And now you must set out. The sun is going down. You will not be faint of heart?"

"I shall be so glad! And I shall be praying to the good Christ and his Mother to make you happy and give you all of Louis Marsac's heart. No, I shall not be afraid. And you are quite sure the White Chief will befriend me?"

"Oh, yes. And his wife is of Indian blood, a great Princess from Hudson Bay, and the handsomest woman of the North, the kindest and most generous to those in sorrow or trouble. The White Queen she is called. Oh, yes, if I had a sister that needed protection, I should send her to the White Queen. Oh, do not be afraid." Then she took both of Jeanne's hands in hers and kissed her on the forehead. "I am glad I did not have to kill you," she added with the naive innocence of perfect truth. "I think you are the kind of girl out of whom they make nuns, who care for no men but the fathers, and yet they must adore some one. In thy convent cell pray for me that I may have brave sons."

Jeanne made no protest against the misconstruction. Her heart was filled with gratitude and wonder, yet she could hardly believe.

"You must take my blanket," and Owaissa began draping it about her.

"But—Noko?" said the French girl.

"Noko is soundly asleep. And the sailors are throwing dice or drinking rum. Their master cannot be back until dark. Go your way proudly, as if you had the blood of a hundred braves in your veins. They are often a cowardly set, challenging those who are weak and fearful. Do not mind."

"Oh, the good Father bless you forevermore." Jeanne caught the hands and covered them with kisses. "And you will not be afraid of—of his anger?"

"I am not afraid. I am glad I came, though it was with such a desperate purpose. Here is my ring," and she slipped it on Jeanne's finger. "Give it to Wanita when you are landed. He is faithful to me and this is our seal."

She unlocked the door. Noko was in a little heap on the mat, snoring.

"Go straight over. Never mind the men. You will see the plank, and then go round the little point. Adieu. I wish thee a safe voyage home."

Jeanne pressed the hands again. She was like one in a dream. She felt afraid the men would question her, perhaps order her back. Two of them were asleep. She tripped down the plank, turned the corner of the dock and saw the clump of trees. Still she hardly dared breathe until she had passed it and found the canoe beached, and a slim young Indian pacing up and down.

"Wanita, Wanita!" she exclaimed, timorously.

He studied her in surprise. Yes, that was her blanket. "Mistress—" going closer, and then hesitating.

"Here is her ring, Owaissa's ring. And she bade me—she stays on the boat. Louis Marsac comes with a priest."

"Then it was a lie, an awful black lie they told my mistress about his marrying a French girl! By all the moons in a twelvemonth she is his wife. And you—" studying her with severe scrutiny.

"I am the French girl. It was a mistake. But I must get away, and she sends me to the White Chief. She said one could trust you to the death."

"I would go to the death for my beautiful mistress. The White Chief—yes."

Then he helped her into the canoe and made her comfortable with the blankets.

"I wish it were earlier," he exclaimed. "The purple spirits of the night are stretching out their hands. You will not be afraid? It is a long pull."

"Oh, no, no!" She drew a relieved breath, but every pulse had been so weighted with anxiety for days that she could not realize her freedom. Oh, how good the blessed air felt! All the wide expanse about her brought a thrill of delight, still not unmixed with fear. A boat came bearing down upon them and she held her breath, but the canoe moved aside adroitly.

"They were drunken fellows, no doubt," said Wanita. "It is told of the Sieur Cadillac that he weakened the rum and would allow a man only so much. It is a pity there is no such strictness now. The White Chief tries."

"Is he chief of the Indians?" she asked, vaguely.

"Oh, no. He is in the great council of the fur traders, but he has ever been fair to the Indians; strict, too, and they honor him, believe in him, and do his bidding. That is, most of them do. He settles many quarrels. It is not now as it used to be. Since the coming of the white men tribes have been split in parts and chiefs of the same nation fight for power. He tries to keep peace between them and the whites. There would be many wars without him."

"But he is not an Indian?"

"Oh, no. He came from Canada to the fur country. He had known great sorrow. His wife and child had been massacred by the red men. And then he married a beautiful Indian princess somewhere about Hudson Bay. He had so many men under him that they called him the White Chief, and partly, I think, because he was so noble and large and grand. Then he built his house on the island where one side is perpendicular rocks, and fortified it and made of it a most lovely home for his beautiful wife. She has everything from all countries, it is said, and the house is grand as the palaces at Montreal. They have two sons. They come over to Fort St. Ignace and Michilimackinac, and he has taken her to Quebec, where, it is said, she was entertained like a queen. He is very proud of her and adores her. Ah, if you could see him you would know at once that he was a grand man. But courageous and high spirited as he is, he is always counseling peace. There is much bitter feeling still between the French and English, and now, since the Americans have conquered, the English are stirring up strife with the Indians, it is said. He advises them to make homes and settle peaceably, and hunt at the north where there is still plenty of game. He has bought tracts of land for them, but my nation are not like the white men. They despise work." Jeanne knew that well.

Then Wanita asked her about Detroit. He had been up North; his mistress had lived at Mackinaw and St. Ignace. All the spring she had been about Lake Superior, which was grand, and the big lake on the other side, Lake Michigan. Sometimes he had cared for M. Marsac's boat.

"M. Marsac was your lady's lover."

"Oh, Mam'selle, he was devoted before he went to Detroit. He is rich and handsome, you see, and there are many women smiling on him. There were at Mackinaw. The white ladies do not mind a little Indian blood when there is money. But Owaissa is for him, and she will be as grand a lady as the White Queen."

Wanita wished in his secret soul Louis Marsac was as grand as the White Chief. But few men were.

And now the twilight was gone and the broad sheet of water was weird, moving blackness. The canoe seemed so frail, that used as she was to it Jeanne drew in fear with every breath. If there were only a moon! It was cold, too. She drew the blanket closer round her.

"Are we almost there?" she inquired.

"Oh, no, Mam'selle. Are you tired? If you could sing to pass away the time."

Jeanne essayed some French songs, but her heart was not light enough. Then they lapsed into silence. On and on—there was no wind and they were out of the strongest current, so there was no danger.

What was Owaissa doing, thinking? Had Louis Marsac returned with the priest? Was it true she had come to kill her, Jeanne? How strange one should love a man so deeply, strongly! She shuddered. She had only cared for quiet and pleasant wanderings and Pani. Perhaps it was all some horrid dream. Or was it true one could be bewitched?

Sometimes she drowsed. She recalled the night she had slept against the Huron's knee. Would the hours or the journey ever come to an end? She said over the rosary and all the prayers she could remember, interspersing them with thanksgivings to the good God and to Owaissa.

Something black and awful loomed up before her. She uttered a cry.

"We are here. It is nothing to be afraid of. We go around to this side, so. There is a little basin here, and a sort of wharf. It is almost a fort;" and he laughed lightly as he helped her out on to dry ground, stony though it was.

"I will find the gate. The White Chief has this side well picketed, and there are enough within to defend it against odds, if the odds ever come. Now, here is the gate and I must ring. Do not be frightened, it is always closed at dusk."

The clang made Jeanne jump, and cling to her guide.

There was a step after a long while. A plate was pushed partly aside and a voice said through the grating:—

"What is it?"

"It is I, Wanita, Loudac. I have some one who has been in danger, a little maid from Detroit, stolen away by Indians. My mistress Owaissa begs shelter for her until she can be returned. It was late when she was rescued from her enemies and we stole away by night."

"How many of you?"

"The maid and myself, and—our canoe," with a light laugh. "The canoe is fastened to a stake. And I must go back, so there is but one to throw upon your kindness."

"Wait," said the gate keeper. There were great bolts to be withdrawn and chains rattled. Presently the creaking gate opened a little way and the light of a lantern flared out. Jeanne was dazed for an instant.

"I will not come in, good Loudac. It is a long way back and my mistress may need me. Here is the maid," and he gave Jeanne a gentle push.

"From Detroit?" The interlocutor was a stout Canadian and seemed gigantic to Jeanne. "And 'scaped from the Indians. Lucky they did not spell, it with another letter and leave no top to thy head. Wanita, lad, thou hadst better come in and have a sup of wine. Or remain all night."

But Wanita refused with cordial thanks.

"Here is the ring;" and Jeanne pressed it in his hand. "And a thousand thanks, tell your brave mistress."

With a quick adieu he was gone.

"I must find shelter for you to-night, for our lady cannot be disturbed," he said. "Come this way."

The bolts and chains were put in place again. Jeanne followed her guide up some steps and through another gate. There was a lodge and a light within. A woman in a short gown of blue and a striped petticoat looked out of the doorway and made a sharp inquiry.

"A maid who must tell her own story, good dame, for my wits seem scattered. She hath been sent by Owaissa the Indian maiden and brought by her servitor in a canoe. Tell thy story, child."

"She is shivering with the cold and looks blue as a midwinter icicle. She must have some tea to warm her up. Stir a fire, Loudac."

Jeanne sat trembling and the tears ran down her cheeks. In a moment there was a fragrant blaze of pine boughs, and a kettle swung over them.

"A little brandy would be better," said the man.

Now that the strain was over Jeanne felt as if all her strength had given way. Was she really safe? The hearty French accent sounded like home; and the dark, round face, with the almost laughing black eyes, albeit there were wrinkles around them, cheered her inmost heart. The tea was soon made and the brandy added a piquant flavor.

"Thou wert late starting on thy journey," said the woman, a tint of suspicion in her voice.

"It was only this afternoon that the Indian maid Owaissa found me and heard my story. For safety she sent me away at once. Perhaps in the daytime I might have been pursued."

"True, true. An Indian knows best about Indian ways. Most of them are a treacherous, bad lot, made much worse by drink, but there are a few. The maiden Owaissa comes from the Strait."

"To meet her lover it was said. He is that handsome half or quarter breed, Louis Marsac, a shrewd trader for one so young, and who, with his father, is delving in the copper mines of Lake Superior. Yes. What went before, child?"

She was glad to leave Marsac. Could she tell her story without incriminating him? The first part went smoothly enough. Then she hesitated and felt her color rising. "It was at Bois Blanc," she said. "They had left me alone. The beautiful Indian girl was there, and I begged her to save me. I told her my story and she wrapped me in her blanket. We were much the same size, and though I trembled so that my knees bent under me, I went off the boat without any question. Wanita was waiting with the canoe and brought me over."

"Were you not afraid—and there was no moon?"

Jeanne raised her eyes to the kindly ones.

"Oh, yes," she answered with a shiver. "Lake Huron is so large, only there are islands scattered about. But when it grew very dark I simply trusted Wanita."

"And he could go in a canoe to the end of the world if it was all lakes and rivers," exclaimed Loudac. "These Indians—did you know their tribe?"

"I think two were Hurons. They could talk bad French," and she smiled. "And Chippewa, that I can understand quite well."

"Were your relatives in Detroit rich people?"

"Oh, no, I have none." Then Jeanne related her simple story.

"Strange! strange!" Loudac stroked his beard and drew his bushy eyebrows together. "There could have been no thought of ransom. I mistrust, pretty maid, that it must have been some one who watched thee and wanted thee for his squaw. Up in the wild North there would have been little chance to escape. Thou hast been fortunate in finding Owaissa. Her lover's boat came in at Bois Blanc. I suppose she went to meet him. Dame, it is late, and the child looks tired as one might well be after a long journey. Canst thou not find her a bed?"

The bed was soon improvised. Jeanne thanked her protectors with overflowing eyes and tremulous voice. For a long while she knelt in thanksgiving, her simple faith discerning a real miracle in her escape. Surely God had sent Owaissa. She forgot the fell purpose of the Indian girl, and wondered at her love for Louis Marsac.

There was much confusion and noise among the children the next morning while the dame was giving them their breakfast, but Jeanne slept soundly until they were all out at play. The sun shone as she opened her eyes, and one ray slanted across the window. Oh, where was she, in prison still? Then, by slow degrees, yesterday came back to her.