“I cannot answer.  I do not think that you understand me yet.  If the act of saving you from drowning were to determine the place you should wear the rose, then the head, as you first chose, was the proper spot, Do you know what the word love means?”

“O, I could guess, perhaps, if I don’t know.  I have heard a good deal about it, and Violette, who is desperately fond of a handsome young Frenchman, has explained it so fully to me, that I think I know.  Yes, Monsieur, I do know.”

“Well, you little rogue, it takes one a long time to find out whether you do or not.  In fact I am not yet quite satisfied on the point.  However, let me suppose that you do know what love is; the all-consuming sort, the kind that sighs like the very furnace.  Well, that part of the statement is clear.  Then, supposing that a flower is worn over the heart only to express love, of the sort I mentioned, for the donor, where would you, with full knowledge of this fact, have pinned the flower that I plucked for you this morning?”

“Since I do not understand the meaning of the word love with very great clearness,—­I think Monsieur has expressed the doubt that I do understand it—­I would not have known where to pin the flower.  I would not have worn it at all.  I would, Monsieur, have set it in a goblet, and taking my stitching, would have gazed upon it all the day, and prayed my guardian angel to give me some hint as to where I ought to put it on.”

“You little savage, you have eluded me again.  Do you remember me telling you that some day, if you found out for me a couple of good flocks of turkeys, I would bring you some coppers?”

“I do.”

“Well, if you discovered a hundred flocks now, I would not give you one.”  And then he leaned towards her again as if his lips yearned for hers; but his love of mischief was too strong for every other desire.  For her part, she took him exactly as she should have done.  She never pouted;—­If she had done so, I fancy that there would have been soon an end of the wild, boyish, sunny raillery.

“Hallo!  Little one, we are away, away in the rear.  Set your pony going, for we must keep up with our escort.”  Away they went over the level plain, through flowers of every name and dye, the fresh, exquisite, autumn breeze bearing the scent of the myriad petals upon their faces.  After a sharp gallop over about three miles of plain, they overtook the main body of the escort.

They now reached the border, and the pavements of the little town of Pembina rang with the hoofs of their horses.  Away still to the south, they rode through the glorious autumn night, under the calm, bountiful moon.

“Now, Monsieur Riel, I think we are some distance from your foul talons,” Scott said, as turning in his saddle, he saw the steeples of Pembina, gloom-wrapped, almost sunk in the horizon.  “I fancy I can hear the curses of his willing tools in the air, after they swooped down upon your cottage, Marie, and found the inmates flown.”