"

She made her explanation simply, in all innocence, looking gravely into
the fire, and Mr. Mowbray gasped inwardly.

"I see. So Anders McElroy is your lover. A fine man, worthy of the love
of such a woman, and blessed above men in its possessing if I may make
so bold, Ma'amselle."

"Nay,--you mistake."

Maren shook her head.

"Not my lover. I but said that I love the factor He does not love me,
M'sieu."

"What? Heaven above us! What was that? Does not love you! And yet you go
into the Pays d'en Haut after the North Indians? You speak in riddles."

"Why, what plainer? Life would die in me, M'sieu, did I leave him to
death by torture. I can do no less."

Mr. Mowbray sat in silence, amazed beyond speech.

When he rose an hour later to go to his camp he laid a hand on the
beaded shoulder wet with the night dew.

"Ma'amselle," he said, "I have seen a glimpse of God through the blind
eyes of a woman. May Destiny reward you."

Thus it came that before the dawn reddened the east the camp of the
brigade broke up for the start to the south and west, and one big canoe
with six men waited at the shore for one woman, who held both the hands
of Mr. Mowbray in her own and thanked him without words.

As the lone craft shot forth upon the steel-blue waters the leader of
the Hudson's Bay brigade looked after the figure in the bow, glimmering
whitely in the mists, and an unaccustomed tightness gripped his throat.

He had two daughters of his own, sheltered safe in London,--two maids as
far from this woman of the wild as darkness from the light, soft, gentle
creatures, and yet he wondered if either were half so gentle, so truly
tender.

Ere the paddles dipped, the men in the canoes with one accord, touched
off by some quick-blooded French adventurer, set up a chanson,--a
beating rhythmic song of Love going into Battle,--and every throat took
it up.

It flowed across the lightening face of the waters, circled around the
lone canoe and the woman therein, and seemed to waft her forward with
the God-speed of the wilderness.

She lifted her hand above her without turning her head, and it shone
pale in the mist, an eerie beacon, and thus the boat passed from view in
the greyness, though as the paddles dipped for the start the song still
rung forth, beating along the shore.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Men," said Maren Le Moyne at the first stop, "this is a trail of great
haz