ough the thinning wood which neared the stream presently there came a
glow and then the shine of a great fire ahead, with massed figures
that leaped and sprang, fantastic as a witch's carnival, and a roar of
frightful voices.

"Stay now, Ma'amselle!" begged Dupre, at last, for he had caught a sight
that shook him through and through; "stay you here in the wood while I
go forward!"

But his protest was lost on the maid. Eagerly she was pushing on, hid by
the shadows,--nearer and nearer, until suddenly she stopped and stared
upon the scene, the fingers in his clasp gripping Dupre's hand like
steel.

"God! God! God!" breathed Maren Le Moyne at the forest's edge as she
looked once more upon the face of the factor of Fort de Seviere.

Unspeakable was that scene. All reason had fled from the North savages.

What small veneer of docility had been spread over them by their three
years' dealing with the Hudson's Bays and their intercourse with the
quiet and tractable Assiniboines, had vanished. They were themselves as
nature made them, cruel to the point of art.

The work of the day was visible upon the captives tied to their stakes
on either side the fire. Half-clothed, for they had been thrown into
a lodge to recuperate for the night's festivities, they stood in
weariness, that from time to time drooped one head or the other, only to
lift again with taunt and jeer.

De Courtenay, his thin face between the curls thinner, was still facing
the mob with the smile that would not down. McElroy was as Maren had
ever known him, patient and strong, and from time to time he tossed up
the light hair falling in his eyes.

"We are none too soon," she said tensely; "tonight it must end. Go you
around to the east, M'sieu, between the camp and the river. Look for the
lodge of the dead chief, for there will be the trader, Ridgar. Look for
him and read his face,--whether or no he will help us. I will skirt to
the north."

"I--Ma'amselle! Stay far from their sight, for love of Heaven!"

"Sh! Go, my friend;" and Maren turned into the darkness.

"Mary Mother, now do thou befriend!" she whispered, as she felt her way
forward. With touch of tree trunk and slipping moccasin, lithe bend and
sway and turning, as sure in the forest as any savage, this Maid of the
Trail took into her hands the saving of a man. It was simple. Wit must
play the greater part, wit that invades a sleeping camp, risks its life,
and laughs at its victory. So would