“What!  Your husband?”

“He is not my husband.”

“Mais—­a thousand pardons.  The child—­your pardon.”

“Pish!  ’Tis the child of an Indian woman.”

“Oh!” The blood again came to the young gallant’s forehead.

“Listen, I tell you!  I have been scarce better than a prisoner in this man’s hands.  He has abused me, threatened me, would have beaten me—­”

“Madame—­Mademoiselle!”

“’Tis true.  We have been far in the West, and I could not escape.  Good Providence has now brought my rescue—­and you, Monsieur!  Oh! tell me that it has brought me safety, and also a friend—­that it has brought me you!”

With every pulse a-tingle, every vein afire, what could the young gallant do?  What but yield, but promise, but swear, but rage?

“Hush!” said Mary Connynge, her own eyes gleaming.  “Wait!  The time will come.  So soon as we reach the settlements, I leave him, and forever!  Then—­” Their hands met swiftly.  “He has abandoned me,” murmured Mary Connynge.  “He has not spoken to me for weeks, other than words of ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ ‘Do this,’ or ‘Do that!’ Wait!  Wait!  How soon shall we be at Montreal?”

“Less than a month.  ’Twill seem an age, I swear!”

“Madam,” interrupted Law, “pardon, but Monsieur Joncaire bids us be ready.  Come, help me arrange the packs for our journey.  Perhaps Lieutenant de Ligny—­for so I think they name you, sir—­will pardon us, and will consent to resume his conversation later.”

“Assuredly,” said De Ligny.  “I shall wait, Monsieur.”

“So, Madam,” said Law to Mary Connynge, as they at last found themselves alone in the lodge, arranging their few belongings for transport, “we are at last to regain the settlements, and for a time, at least, must forego our home in the farther West.  In time—­”

“Oh, in time!  What mean you?”

“Why, we may return.”

“Never!  I have had my fill of savaging.  That we are left alive is mighty merciful.  To go thither again—­never!”

“And if I go?”

“As you like.”

“Meaning, Madam—?”

“What you like.”

Law seated himself on the corded pack, bringing the tips of his fingers together.

“Then my late sweetheart has somewhat changed her fancy?”

“I have no fancy left.  What I was once to you I shall not recall more than I can avoid in my own mind.  As to what you heard from that lying man, Sir Arthur—­”

“Listen!  Stop!  Neither must you insult the dead nor the absent.  I have never told you what I learned from Sir Arthur, though it was enough to set me well distraught.”

“I doubt not that he told you ’twas I who befooled Lady Catharine; that ’twas I who took the letter which you sent—­”

“Stay!  No.  He told me not so much as that.  But he and you together have told me enough to show me that I was the basest wretch on earth, the most gullible, the most unspeakably false and cruel.  How could I have doubted the faith of Lady Catharine—­how, but for you?  Oh, Mary Connynge, Mary Connynge!  Would God a man were so fashioned he might better withstand the argument of soft flesh and shining eyes!  I admit, I believed the disloyal one, and doubted her who was loyalty itself.”