--hurt you?"

The smile on her lips was gone as swiftly as it had come. "A little,
m'sieu. I am glad you are better. You have been very sick."

He raised a hand to his face. The bandage was there, and also a stubble
of beard on his cheeks. He was puzzled. This morning he had fastened
his steel mirror to the side of a tree and shaved.

"It was three days ago you were hurt," she said quietly. "This is the
afternoon of the third day. You have been in a great fever. Nepapinas,
my Indian doctor, saved your life. You must lie quietly now. You have
been talking a great deal."

"About--Black Roger?" he said.

She nodded.

"And--Golden--Hair?"

"Yes, of Golden--Hair."

"And--some one else--with dark hair--and dark eyes--"

"It may be, m'sieu."

"And of little devils with bows and arrows, and of polar bears, and
white wolves, and of a great lord of the north who calls himself St.
Pierre Boulain?"

"Yes, of all those."

"Then I haven't anything more to tell you," grunted David. "I guess
I've told you all I know. You shot me, back there. And here I am. What
are you going to do next?"

"Call Bateese," she answered promptly, and she rose swiftly from beside
him and moved toward the door.

He made no effort to call her back. His wits were working slowly,
readjusting themselves after a carnival in chaos, and he scarcely
sensed that she was gone until the cabin door closed behind her. Then
again he raised a hand to his face and felt his beard. Three days! He
turned his head so that he could take in the length of the cabin. It
was filled with subdued sunlight now, a western sun that glowed softly,
giving depth and richness to the colors on the floor and walls,
lighting up the piano keys, suffusing the pictures with a warmth of
life. David's eyes traveled slowly to his own feet. The divan had been
opened and transformed into a bed. He was undressed. He had on
somebody's white nightgown. And there was a big bunch of wild roses on
the table where three days ago the cat had been sleeping in the
work-basket. His head cleared swiftly, and he raised himself a little
on one elbow, with extreme caution, and listened. The big bateau was
not moving. It was still tied up, but he could hear no voices out where
the tar-sands were.

He dropped back on his pillow, and his eyes rested on the black pennon.
His blood stirred again as he looked at the white bear and the fighting
wolves. Wherever men rode the waters of the Three Rivers t