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So the long nights took toll of the little Francette and a purpose grew in her chastened heart, a purpose far too big for it.
There was no little head in all the post like that save one, and it belonged to little Francette, the pretty maid who had run by the factor's side that day of the meeting of Bois DesCaut by the river. With the drop of that head from the sill there passed over Maren a strange feeling, a prescience of evil, a thrill of fear in a heart that had never known fear.
January dragged slowly by, with dances for the young couples in the cabins at nights, and little Francette, for the first time in her life, refused to share in the merry-making of which she had always been the heart and soul. Instead, she lay awake in the attic of the Moline cabin and cried in her hands, listening to the whirl of the nights without.
There was a shot, ringing down the Assiniboine and echoing in the woods, and little Francette by the stockade wall screamed. With the first flash of metal Maren Le Moyne had gripped her hands until the nails cut raw, standing where she had sprung at the stranger's kiss. She could no more move than the bastioned wall behind her. For a moment there was deathly silence after that shot.
Maren on the step stared dry-eyed into the night, uncomprehending, unrebelling, and McElroy strode ahead, blind with sudden anguish, scarce knowing which way his steps tended. And, like a ghoul behind a stone, a small dark face peeped keenly from a corner. Francette was watching her leaven work. In the week that followed the waters of the Assiniboine grew black with myriads of canoes.
It was the little Francette. At her heels the great dog, Loup, halted and glowered at the strangers.
Clad in a red skirt, brilliant in its adornment of stained quills of the porcupine got from the Indians, Francette paced daintily here and there in the clean-swept yard, now snapping her small fingers, now coaxing with soft noises in her round throat, her sparkling eyes fixed on the gaunt grey skeleton that stood on its four feet braced wide apart, wavering dizzily.
For hours McElroy lay staring into the night sky with its frosting of great northern stars, and passed again over every week, every day, nay, almost every hour, since that morning in early spring when she had stepped off the factory-sill to accompany little Francette to the river bank where Bois DesCaut stood facing a tall young woman against the stockade wall.
They drew back and looked on with wonder, and then smiles of amusement, but Maren, gazing into the tragic little face, saw deeper. "Why, little one," she said gently, unconsciously falling into McElroy's words after a trick she had, "I I understand. You need not give up the dog, I know what you would say." "No!" cried Francette fiercely. "No! Take him! Take him! I will make you take him! I will!"
Whereat there was a stirring at the gate, and the peeping fringe drew back while the factor turned on his heel and strode away toward the factory, leaving the tall girl alone at the portal, holding her gift. There was a devilish light in the dancing eyes of Francette as she flirted away. But Maren Le Moyne walked slowly back to the cabin, wondering.
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