ther! in what sad
plight!

She had told him she would wear it. She had relied upon it to help her
get to De Courtenay! Of what depth and glory must be the love that sent
her after the savages! Even in the stress of the moment the old pain
came back an hundredfold. But events went forward and he had soon no
time to think.

They drew a line upon the earth as they had done before, squabbling
over its distance from the painted post; Bois-Brules, their keen eyes
gleaming, haggling for a greater stretch, and presently Maren stood upon
that line and they had pressed into her hand a bright new hatchet, one
of those bought from McElroy himself in the first days of trading.

Then an Indian, naked and painted like a fiend, whose toes turned out,
stepped forth and spoke in good English.

"Woman Who Follows," he said distinctly, "one of these two dogs is a
murderer,--having killed the Great Chief when his people came in
peace to trade at the Fort. Therefore, one of them must die. The
Nakonkirhirinons take a skin for a skin,--not two skins for one. So did
the Great Chief teach his people. But none know which hand is red with
his blood. For two sleeps and a sun have the braves given them the
tests,--the Test of the Flying Knives, the Test of the Pine Splinters,
the Test of the Little Lines, but neither has shown Colour of the Dog's
Blood. Therefore, justice waits. Now has Wiskend-jac, the Great Spirit,
sent the White Doe from the forest to decide. Throw, White Woman, and
where the tomahawk strikes shall Death sit. Hi-a-wo!"

The renegade stepped back and a silence like death itself fell upon the
assembly.

Then did the colour drain out of the soft cheeks under the berry stain
and the girl from Grand Portage stand fingering the bright hatchet
in her hand. Her eyes went to McElroy's face and then to that of the
cavalier leaning forward between his swinging curls, and both men saw
the shine that was like light behind black marble, so mystic was it and
thrilling, beginning to flicker in them.

"Bravo!" cried De Courtenay, his brilliant face aglow with the splendid
hazard. "Bravo! We are akin, Ma'amselle,--both venturers, and my blood
leaps to your spirit! Throw, Sweetheart, throw! And may the gods of
Chance guide your hand!"

"Think not of me, Maren!" cried McElroy, in deadly earnest. "You owe me
naught! Throw for M'sieu, whose peril is my doing!"

For many moments she stood so, fingering the white handle of the weapon,
and th