The voice went on imperturbably: 

  “Avec son grand fusil d’argent,
  En roulant ma boule,
  Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
  Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant.”

“Sacre!” shrieked the habitant.

“Hello, Johnny Frenchman!” called Ned Trent, in his acid tones.  “That you?  Be more polite, or I’ll stand here and sing you the whole of it.”

The window slammed shut.

Ned Trent took up his walk again toward some designated sleeping-place of his own, his song dying into the distance.

  “Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
  En roulant ma boule,
  O fils du roi, tu es mechant! 
  Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant.”

“And he can sing!” cried the girl bitterly to herself.  “At such a time!  Oh, my dear God, help me, help me!  I am the unhappiest girl alive!”

Chapter Eleven

Virginia did not sleep at all that night.  She was reaching toward her new self.  Heretofore she had ruled those about her proudly, secure in her power and influence.  Now she saw that all along her influence had in not one jot exceeded that of the winsome girl.  She had no real power at all.  They went mercilessly on in the grim way of their fathers, dealing justice even-handed according to their own crude conceptions of it, without thought of God or man.  She turned hot all over as she saw herself in this new light—­as she saw those about her indulgently smiling at her airs of the mistress of it.  It angered her—­though the smile might be good-humored, even affectionate.

And she shrank into herself with utter loathing when she remembered Ned Trent.  There indeed her woman’s pride was hard stricken.  She recalled with burning cheeks how his intense voice had stirred her; how his wishes had compelled her; she shivered pitifully as she remembered the warmth of his shoulder touching carelessly her own.  If he had come to her honestly and asked her aid, she would have given it; but this underhand pretence at love!  It was unworthy of him; and it was certainly most unworthy of her.  What must he think of her?  How he must be laughing at her—­and hoping that his spell was working, so that he could get the coveted rifle and the forty cartridges.

“I hate him!” she cried to herself, the backs of her long, slender hands pressed against her eyes.  She meant that she loved him, but for the purposes in hand one would do as well as the other.

At earliest daylight she was up.  Bathing her face and throat in cold water, and hastily catching her beautiful light hair under a cap, she slipped down stairs and out past the stockade to the point.  There she seated herself, a heavy shawl about her, and gave herself up to reflection.  She had approached silently, her moccasins giving no sound.  Presently she became aware that someone was there before her.  Looking toward the river she saw on the next level below her a man, seated on a bowlder, and gazing to the south.