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Maren went on. "And lastly, M'sieu, far at the end of the trail, at the outer, rim of the circle traced by his traps, he comes eagerly, to peep and peer for what might have happened at the head of the little dip leading down to the stream where the firs bend heavily under their weight of snow.
Day's march of the savages and night's rest on the green shores, mummying fires in the big tepee and the captives lying in the sleep of exhaustion with one guard pacing the lodge opening, day's pursuit of the lone canoe, brief landings for tea made at a micmac fire, scanning of lake and river and forest, night's unceasing forging ahead with Maren asleep in the prow, her head on Dupre's blanket.
It did happen that such were found in a poor man's cradle, and they were always supposed to bring joy to their parents. Herrings and potatoes, flounders and potatoes and a little bacon in between this was no fare for what one might call a young lady. Maren made little delicacies for her, and when Sören saw it, he spat as if he had something nasty in his mouth and went his way.
She rested her hands on the kettle's rim, and bent forward her head, wrapped round and round with its heavy braids, and with fingers deft as a woman's Alfred de Courtenay placed the flower in a shining fold. Somewhat lengthy was the process, for the braid was tight and the green stem very fragile, but at last it was accomplished, and Maren lifted her face flushed and laughing.
And it was not rambling nonsense that he talked, but all true enough; people older than he who came from the hamlet to visit him confirmed it, and wondered at hearing him speak of events that must have happened when he was but two or three years old. Sören forgot the latter years of his life, indeed he might never have lived them so completely had they faded from his mind. This saddened Maren.
With measured tread Dupre came up to them, walked with them as they moved silently back, and was on the turn when Maren touched his arm. "This way," she whispered; "straight ahead." One more step, two, the youth took beside her. It seemed that the heart within him was breaking in his agony. The shadows of the wood were drawing very near, the chances of escape multiplying with every step.
There was no good in store for them; his face was red with anger and he started abusing them almost before he got inside the door. Maren had her head well wrapped up against the cold, and pretended to hear nothing. "Well, well, you're a sight for sore eyes," said she, smilingly inviting him in.
To their minds there was nothing worse than the workhouse; in all their existence, it had been as a sword over their heads, and when brought forth by Maren, Ditte would come out from her hiding-place, crying and begging for pardon. The old woman would cry too, and the one would soothe the other, until both were comforted. "Ay, ay, 'tis hard to live," old Maren would say.
On that fateful morning when the rising sun saw the slim canoes of the Nakonkirhirinons trailing around the lower bend, Maren Le Moyne stood by the little window in the small room to the east of the Baptiste cabin and covered her face with her hands.
No, the young woman came from Falster; her voice grew tender as she spoke of her birthplace. "Is't far from here?" said Maren, glancing at her. "Yes, it takes a whole day by train and by coach, and from the town too!" "Has it come to that, that the men of the Sand farm must travel by train to find wives for themselves? But the hamlet is good enough for sweethearts."
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