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"After the trail the rest is good, and yet I will be eager long before the year has passed to follow Maren, may Mary give her grace! into that wilderness which so draws at her heartstrings." "Oh, Micene!" cried Marie, a trifle vexed, "if only she might forget her dreams!
"Verily, Marie, it is good to be here," sighed Micene Bordoux, sitting on her sill with her capable arms folded on her knees, and her eyes, cool and sane and tolerant, roving over the settlement lolling so quietly in the sun.
"Adventurers," he read, "from Grand Portage on Lake Superior, bound for the west, agreed to stop for the length of one year at Fort de Seviere on the Assiniboine River, Prix Laroux and wife Ninette, Pierre and Cif Bordoux and their wives Anon and Micene, Franz LeClede and wife Mora, Henri Baptiste and wife Marie, and Maren Le Moyne, an unmarried woman and sister to Marie Baptiste."
It is that undaunted faith, that steadfast purpose, that white fire in her face which holds at her heels the whole of us, that turns to her the faces of our men, as those legions of France turned to the Holy Maid. Love? She would turn not for it if she could not take it with her." Micene looked off across the cabins, and there was a warm light in her eyes.
"Nay, Micene," smiled Maren, "these latest Indians come from the south." "And all is well with the plans?" The vague uneasiness was not stilled in Micene. "All is well with the plans. There is not a year now." The girl looked straight in her friend's eyes without a trace of the dazed misery which Marc Dupre had surprised in her own.
"Can they not see, these fool men, that the woman is a venturess, playing with all?" "You lie, Tessa Bibye!" Micene Bordoux had passed unnoticed. Now she turned her accusing glance on the loose-tongued girl. "Because you are so small of soul yourself, are your eyes blinded to the greater heights? Ma'amselle is lost in the clouds above you."
They hung, gazing, on the outskirts, calling farewell to Marie, who wept a little at sight of her deserted cabin, to Anon and Mora and Ninette, but there was no reflection of the feeling of their masters for this girl with her weary beauty, her steady, half-tragic eyes. Nor was there great regret over Micene. Too sharp had been her tongue, too keen her perception of their faults.
None knew what might happen, for these Indians were not to be judged by any standard they knew. Henri Baptiste held the trembling Marie in his arm, while Mora and Anon and Ninette clung together in a white-faced group. A little way aside Micene Bordoux comforted a frightened woman and held a child by the hand.
What is it like, the heart of a maid, that turns from thought of love to that of these wild lands, to the mystery of the Whispering Hills that lie, the good God knows where, in that dim and untracked West! I would that Maren might love! Then would we have peace and stop forever at this pleasant place." Good Micene, with her brave heart and her whole-souled sense, smiled at Marie.
While he stood so, there was a rustle of women behind him and voices that bespoke more eager eyes for the Indians, and he glanced over his shoulder. Micene Bordoux and Mora LeClede approached, and between them walked Maren Le Moyne. McElroy's heart pounded hard with a quick excitement as he saw the listless droop of the face under the black braids and stopped with a prescience of disaster.
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