ard. There is in it neither gift nor gain, only a mighty risk. Yet
I have asked you forth upon it as men of the H. B. C. because the man I
would save is a factor of the Great Company."

"Ma'amselle," said Bitte Alloybeau, a splendid black-browed fellow, "it
is enough."

"Aye,--and more." So was bound their simple allegiance.

CHAPTER XX THE WOLF AND THE CARIBOU

Northward along Nelson River went the concourse of the Nakonkirhirinons,
turning westward into the chain of little lakes above Winnipeg of which
Dupre had spoken, sweeping forward over portage and dalle, and after
them came the lone canoe, leaping the leagues like a loup-garou, for it
never rested.

Day and night it shot forward, pulled by sturdy arms, half its people
sleeping curled between thwarts, the other half manning the paddles,
stopping for snatched rations, reading the signs of passing. So it crept
forward upon the thing it sought, untiring, eager, absurd in its daring
and its hope.

Like an embodiment of that very absurdity of courage so dear to the
hearts of these men, the girl sat in the prow, taking a hand in the
work with the best of them, beaconing the way as she had done before her
venturers of Grand Portage, firing them with her calm certainty, binding
them to her more firmly with each day.

To each bit of courtesy done eagerly to her there was her grave "I thank
you,"--at each portage and line her hand to the rope, her shoulder to
the pack, and all in the simple unconsciousness of her womanhood that
made her what she was,--a leader.

Before forty-eight hours had passed they would have followed her to the
brink of death,--to the Pays d'en Haut, to the heart of an hostile camp.

They fixed their eyes on her shining braids, bare to the sun, and
anticipated her commands, obeyed her few words implicitly, and who shall
say that many a dream did not weave itself around her in the summer
days, for every man in the boat was young.

Who knew?

Perhaps the Nakonkirhirinons had already yielded to the savage wrath
that takes a "skin for a skin,"--perhaps they had passed somewhere
in the forest, hidden from view from the water, the too well-known
blackened stake, the trodden circle. Perhaps there was no factor of Fort
de Seviere.

Only Marc Dupre, nearest Maren in every change and arrangement, had no
such thoughts. Dreams enough he wove in all surety, but they had to
do with the blinding heights of sacrifice, the wistful valleys of
renunc