he could not refuse, when his life had been saved!

Rose leaned back in a half-faint. Oh, surely God would take her before
that time. But she had promised in good faith. Matters might look
different to her when she was strong once more.

Savignon meant to be armed at all points. He went up to the St. Charles
and laid his case before one of the fathers. His fine bearing and
intelligence won him much favor.

"Men often married Indian women, who made good wives. In this case if
the woman desired to take him for her husband, there could be no real
objection; it was between the two parties. No over-persuasion was to be
used. And if her friends or parents consented, it would be right enough.
Only they must truly love each other."

He knew now she did not truly love him. You might beat an Indian woman
into obedience--he had never struck one since he had come to manhood.
But this beautiful being, who was like a bit of flame, would be blown
out by harshness or force, and one would have only the cold body left.
If he could not make her love him at the end of the three months----

Then he sought Destournier, and laid the tale before him. He had won
Mademoiselle honorably. She had given her promise. At the end of the
three months he would come for her. Now he had resolved to go to the
islands, since it would be wretched to stay here and not see Mam'selle.

"Yes, the best thing," Destournier said, but he was stunned by the
bargain. Was his life to cost that sacrifice? There must be some way of
preventing it.

As the days went on he considered various plans. This was why Rose was
so languid and unlike herself. Perhaps the hard winter and poor food had
something to do with it. She had bought his life at too great a
sacrifice. And then came the sweet, sad knowledge that he loved her,
also.

The spring was quite early. Men began to work in their gardens and mend
the damages of the winter, but with a certain fear of what was to come.
And one day Destournier found Rose sitting in the old gallery, where she
had run about as a child. But she was a child no longer. The
indescribable change had come. There were womanly lines in her figure,
although it was thinner than of yore, and the light in her eyes deeper.

He had given up the house to her and the two Indian women, with Pani for
attendant. M. Pontgrave had been a great invalid through the winter, and
besought the younger man's company. The Sieur often came in and they
talked ove