Madockawando’s daughter was of a lighter color than most of her tribe, and finer in her proportions, though they were a well-made people.  She was the highest expression of unadulterated Abenaqui blood.  She set her sap pail down by the trough, and Saint-Castin shifted silently to watch her while she dipped the juice.  Her eyelids were lowered.  She had well-marked brows, and the high cheek-bones were lost in a general acquiline rosiness.  It was a girl’s face, modest and sweet, that he saw; reflecting the society of holier beings than the one behind the tree.  She had no blemish of sunken temples or shrunk features, or the glaring aspect of a devotee.  Saint-Castin was a good Catholic, but he did not like fanatics.  It was as if the choicest tree in the forest had been flung open, and a perfect woman had stepped out, whom no other man’s eye had seen.  Her throat was round, and at the base of it, in the little hollow where women love to nestle ornaments, hung the cross of her rosary, which she wore twisted about her neck.  The beads were large and white, and the cross was ivory.  Father Petit had furnished them, blessed for their purpose, to his incipient abbess, but Saint-Castin noticed how they set off the dark rosiness of her skin.  The collar of her fur dress was pushed back, for the day was warm, like an autumn day when there is no wind.  A luminous smoke which magnified the light hung between treetops and zenith.  The nakedness of the swelling forest let heaven come strangely close to the ground.  It was like standing on a mountain plateau in a gray dazzle of clouds.

Madockawando’s daughter dipped her pail full of the clear water.  The appreciative motion of her eyelashes and the placid lines of her face told how she enjoyed the limpid plaything.  But Saint-Castin understood well that she had not come out to boil sap entirely for the love of it.  Father Petit believed the time was ripe for her ministry to the Abenaqui women.  He had intimated to the seignior what land might be convenient for the location of a convent.  The community was now to be drawn around her.  Other girls must take vows when she did.  Some half-covered children, who stalked her wherever she went, stood like terra-cotta images at a distance and waited for her next movement.

The girl had just finished her dipping when she looked up and met the steady gaze of Saint-Castin.  He was in an anguish of dread that she would run.  But her startled eyes held his image while three changes passed over her,—­terror and recognition and disapproval.  He stepped more into view, a white-and-gold apparition, which scattered the Abenaqui children to their mothers’ camp-fires.

“I am Saint-Castin,” he said.

“Yes, I have many times seen you, sagamore.”

Her voice, shaken a little by her heart, was modulated to such softness that the liquid gutturals gave him a distinct new pleasure.

“I want to ask your pardon for my friend’s rudeness, when you warmed and fed us in your lodge.”