shoulder gleaming against
the brown stain of throat and face where the doeskin garment was pulled
awry, she came into the central space before the great fire.

Every inch an Indian woman she looked, with the no-wak-wa berries
darkening her bright cheeks, her moccasins and beaded garment belted
with wampum got from the Indians by Henri, save for one thing, no Indian
woman in all the wilderness wrapped her braids around her head and
pinned them with whittled pegs. There alone had she blundered.

As the renegades loosed her and dropped away, leaving her alone in the
appalling light, for one instant she flung her hands over her face.

The quick disaster stunned her.

There was no longer hope within her for the moment. But, with the rise
of the roar of triumph, that part of her nature which joyed in the
facing of odds snatched down her hands, lifted her head, and set the old
fires sparkling in her eyes.

"White! White! White!" was the cry lifting on all sides. "A white woman
of the Settlements! Wis-kend-jac has sent the White Doe! A sign! A sign!
The Great Spirit would know the slayer of Negansahima!"

"The White Doe shall choose!"

CHAPTER XXIII THE PAINTED POST

When McElroy's eyes fell upon the woman he loved the breath was stopped
in his throat. For a moment it seemed he would suffocate with the surge
of emotions that choked him. Then a great sigh filled his lungs and a
cry was forced from him which pierced the uproar like an arrow.

"Maren!" he cried, in anguish; "Maren!"

It drew her eyes as the pole the faithful needle, and across the fire
they stared wide-eyed at each other.

Then De Courtenay's silver voice cut them apart.

"Again, Ma'amselle!" he cried, with the old magic of his smile. "Do
you bring by any chance a red flower to the council of the
Nakonkirhirinons?"

But the Indians closed in around her, pulling and plucking at her with
eager fingers, and they saw her fighting among them like a man.

McElroy for the first time loosed his tongue in blasphemy and cursed
like a madman, tugging at the bonds which held him.

"'Tis all in a day's march, M'sieu," said De Courtenay, "and the sweet
spirit of Ma'amselle is like to cross the Styx with us."

But for the first time, also, there was in his tone a note of weariness,
a breath of sadness that sang under the light words with infinite
pathos.

The new attraction drew the crowd, and the old ones were left in
solitude, while the Nakonkirhirino