“Oh, don’t take it to heart,” said Jean Bati’ McClure’s wife, with ready interest in the person nearest at hand.  “Come and eat supper with my man and me to-night, and sleep in our house if you are afraid.”

Jenieve leaned her forehead against the hut, and made no reply to these neighborly overtures.

“Did she say nothing at all about me, madame?”

“Yes; she was afraid you would come at the last minute and take her by the arm and walk her home.  You were too strict with her, and that is the truth.  She was glad to get away to Cahokia.  They say it is fine in the Illinois Territory.  You know she is fond of seeing the world.”

The young supple creature trying to restrain her shivers and sobs of anguish against the bark house side was really a moving sight; and Jean Bati’ McClure’s wife, flattening a masculine upper lip with resolution, said promptly,—­

“I am going this moment to the Fur Company’s quarters to send young Monsieur Crooks after you.”

At that Jenieve fled along the beach and took to the bushes.  As she ran, weeping aloud like a child, she watched the lessening schooner; and it seemed a monstrous thing, out of nature, that her mother was on that little ship, fleeing from her, with a thoughtless face set smiling towards a new world.  She climbed on, to keep the schooner in sight, and made for Pontiac’s Lookout, reckless of what she had seen there.

The distant canvas became one leaning sail, and then a speck, and then nothing.  There was an afterglow on the water which turned it to a wavering pavement of yellow-pink sheen.  In that clear, high atmosphere, mainland shores and islands seemed to throw out the evening purples from themselves, and thus to slowly reach for one another and form darkness.  Jenieve had lain on the grass, crying, “O Mama—­Francois—­Toussaint—­Gabriel!” But she sat up at last, with her dejected head on her breast, submitting to the pettiness and treachery of what she loved.  Bats flew across the open place.  A sudden rankness of sweetbrier, taking her breath away by its icy puff, reminded her of other things, and she tried to get up and run.  Instead of running she seemed to move sidewise out of herself, and saw Pontiac standing on the edge of the cliff.  His head turned from St. Ignace to the reviving fires on Round Island, and slowly back again from Round Island to St. Ignace.  Jenieve felt as if she were choking, but again she asked out of her heart to his,—­

“Monsieur the chief Pontiac, what ails the French and Indians?”

He floated around to face her, the high ridges of his bleached features catching light; but this time he showed only dim dead eyes.  His head sunk on his breast, and Jenieve could see the fronds of the feathers he wore traced indistinctly against the sky.  The dead eyes searched for her and could not see her; he whispered hoarsely to himself, “Malatat!”