oung man," said Galen Albret, not unkindly, "I give my daughter
in your charge; that is all. You must take her to Sacre Coeur.
And you must be patient. Next year I shall resign, for I am
getting old, and then we shall see. That is all I can tell you
now."

He arose abruptly.

"Come," said he, "they are waiting."

They threw wide the door and stepped out into the open. A breeze
from the north brought a draught of air like cold water in its
refreshment. The waters of the North sparkled and tossed in the
silvery sun. Ned Trent threw his arms wide in the physical delight
of a new freedom.

But his companion was already descending the steps. He followed
across the square grass plot to the two bronze guns. A noise of
peoples came down the breeze. In a moment he saw them--the varied
multitude of the Post--gathered to speed the _brigade_ on its
distant journey.

The little beach was crowded with the Company's people and with
Indians, talking eagerly, moving hither and yon in a shifting
kaleidoscope of brilliant color. Beyond the shore floated the long
canoe, with its curving ends and its emblazonment of the
five-pointed stars. Already its baggage was aboard, its crew in
place, ten men in whose caps slanted long, graceful feathers, which
proved them boatmen of a factor. The women sat amidships.

When Galen Albret reached the edge of the plateau he stopped, and
laid his hand on the young man's arm. As yet they were
unperceived. Then a single man caught sight of them. He spoke to
another; the two informed still others. In an instant the bright
colors were dotted with upturned faces.

"Listen," said Galen Albret, in his resonant chest-tones of
authority. "This is my son, and he must be obeyed. I give to him
the command of this _brigade_. See to it."

Without troubling himself further as to the crowd below, Galen
Albret turned to his companion.

"I will say good-by," said he, formally.

"Good-by," replied Ned Trent.

"All is at peace between us?"

The Free Trader looked long into the man's sad eyes. The hard,
proud spirit, bowed in knightly expiation of its one fault, for the
first time in a long life of command looked out in petition.

"All is at peace," repeated Ned Trent.

They clasped hands. And Virginia, perceiving them so, threw them a
wonderful smile.

Chapter Nineteen

Instantly the spell of inaction broke. The crowd recommenced its
babel of jests, advices, and farewells.