ns surged and scrambled for a look
at the white woman fallen from a clear sky, leagues from where they had
seen her. Half-breeds, dissolute renegades, and Indians, they pushed
and peered and in many a face was already burning the excitement of her
beauty, especially those of the savage Bois-Brules.

McElroy prayed aloud to God for the heavens to fall, for some great
disaster.

But soon it became apparent that something of importance was to take
place. A hundred headmen gathered in knots and there was dissension
and brawling and once near a riot, while the girl stood in a circle of
malodorous, leering humans with her back against a tree, warding off
hands with man-like blows.

There was no order in the tribe. Negansahima, whose iron hand had ruled
with power and justice above the average, was dead. The new chief had
not yet come into power with fitting ceremony, and thus the old men of
the tribe were for the moment authority, and, as too many cooks spoil
the broth, so too many rulers breed dissension.

But finally a conclusion was reached.

A hundred hands scurried into preparation and the shouts were filled
with anticipation.

In the open space a post was set up, tall as a man's head and some
two feet thick, adzed flat on one side and painted in two sections,
perpendicularly, one half in red, the other in black. A medicine man,
hideous in adornments of buffalo horns and bearskin, approached De
Courtenay and with a feather painted on his bare breast a circle of
black with little red flames within.

McElroy was decorated in like manner, save that his circle was red and
it enclosed a death-maul, a dozen little arrows, and two knives.

Thus was foreshadowed the manner of their death.

Then arose a babble of voices.

"The White Doe! The White Doe that runs in the forest! Now shall She who
Follows decide!"

And into the midst of the vast circle once more Maren Le Moyne was
brought. She stood panting as they drew back and left her, and McElroy
looked upon her as he had never looked upon living being in all his
days.

There was the same high head, shining in the light, the same tall form
sweet in its rounded womanhood, the same strong shoulders, and from
them hung the white garment that he had carried to her door that day,
in spring. He had wondered then if he would ever see it cling to the
swelling breast, set up the round throat from its foamy fringe. And
thus he saw it again as he had dreamed, though, Holy Mo