And did she flare back at me? Not at all.

"You waste time with your long speeches," she said, turning from me to
Father Holland.

Thereupon I strode off angrily to the river bank.

"Oh, Father Holland," I heard her say as I walked away, "I must go to
Pembina! I'm in such trouble! There's a Frenchman----"

Trouble, thought I; she is in trouble and I have been thinking only of
my own dignity. And I stood above the river, torn between desire to rush
back and wounded pride, that bade me stick it out. Over the plains came
the shout of returning plunderers. I could hear the throb, throb of
galloping hoofs beating nearer and nearer over the turf, and reflected
that I might make the danger from returning _Bois-Brules_ the occasion
of a reconciliation.

"Come here, lad!" called Father Holland. I needed no urging. "Ye must
rig up in tam-o'-shanter and tartan, like a Highland settler, and take
Mistress Sutherland back to Fort Douglas. She's going to Pembina to meet
her father, lad, when I go south to the Missouri. And, lad," the priest
hesitated, glancing doubtfully from Miss Sutherland to me, "I'm thinking
there's a service ye might do her."

The Little Statue was looking straight at me now, and there were
tear-marks about the heavy lashes. Now, I do not pretend to explain the
power, or witchery, a gentle slip of a girl can wield with a pair of
gray eyes; but when I met the furtive glance and saw the white, veined
forehead, the arched brows, the tremulous lips, the rounded chin, and
the whole face glorified by that wonderful mass of hair, I only know,
without weapon or design, she dealt me a wound which I bear to this day.
What a ruffian I had been! I was ashamed, and my eyes fell before hers.
If a libation of blushes could appease an offended goddess, I was livid
evidence of repentance. I felt myself flooded in a sudden heat of shame.
She must have read my confusion, for she turned away her head to hide
mantling forgiveness.

"There's a crafty Frenchman in the fort has been troubling the lassie.
I'm thinking, if ye worked off some o' your anger on him, it moight be
for the young man's edification. Be quick! I hear the breeds returning!"

"But I have a message," she said in choking tones.

"From whom?" I asked aimlessly enough.

"Eric Hamilton!" she answered.

"Eric Hamilton!" both the priest and I shouted.

"Yes--why? What--what--is it? He's wounded, and he wants a Rufus
Gillespie, who's with the Nor'-Westers.