Skenedonk with a
party along the east shore.

Though searching for the lost is an experience old as the world, its
poignancy was new to me. I saw Eagle tangled in the wild oats of the
river. I saw her treacherously dealt with by Indians who called
themselves at peace. I saw her wandering out and out, mile beyond mile,
to undwelt-in places, and the tender mercy of wolves.

We crossed the ferry and took to the trail, Pierre Grignon talking
cheerfully.

"Nothing has happened to her, M's'r Williams," he insisted. "No Indian
about La Baye would hurt her, and the child is not so crazy as to hurt
herself."

It was a starless night, muffled overhead as the day had been, but
without rain or mist. He had a lantern hanging at his saddle bow, ready
to light. In the open lands we rode side by side, but through growths
along the Fox first one and then the other led the way.

We found my door unfastened. I remembered for the first time I had not
locked it. Some one had been in the house. A low fire burned in the
chimney. We stirred it and lighted the lantern. Footprints not our own
had dried white upon the smooth dark floor.

They pointed to the fireplace and out again. They had been made by a
woman's feet.

We descended the hill to the river, and tossed our light through every
bush, the lantern blinking in the wind. We explored the ravine, the
light stealing over white birches that glistened like alabaster. It was
no use to call her name. She might be hidden behind a rock laughing at
us. We had to surprise her to recover her. Skenedonk would have traced
her where we lost the trail.

When we went back to the house, dejected with physical weariness, I
unstrapped the blanket and the food which Madame Ursule had sent, and
brought them to Pierre Grignon. He threw the blanket on the settee, laid
out bread and meat on the table, and ate, both of us blaming ourselves
for sending the Indian on the other side of the river.

We traced the hard route which I had followed the day before, and
reached Green Bay about dawn. Pierre Grignon went to bed exhausted. I
had some breakfast and waited for Skenedonk. He had not returned, but
had sent one man back to say there was no clue. The meal was like a
passover eaten in haste. I could not wait, but set out again, with a
pillion which I had carried uselessly in the night strapped again upon
the horse for her seat, in case I found her; and leaving word for the
Oneida to follow.

I had forgo