The gray dress in front of my hearth I could not see without a heaving of the breast.

X.

How a man’s life is drawn, turned, shaped, by a woman!  He may deny it.  He may swagger and lie about it.  Heredity, ambition, lust, noble aspirations, weak self-indulgence, power, failure, success, have their turns with him.  But the woman he desires above all others, whose breast is his true home, makes him, mars him.

Had she cast herself on the settle exhausted and ill after exposure?  Should I find her muttering and helpless?  Worse than all, had the night made her forget that she was a Cloud-Mother?

I drew my breath with an audible sound in the throat.  Her dress stirred.  She leaned around the edge of the settle.

Eagle de Ferrier, not my Cloud-Mother, looked at me.  Her features were pinched from exposure, but flooded themselves instantly with a blush.  She snatched her shoes from the hearth and drew them on.

I was taken with such a trembling that I held to a gallery post.

Suppose this glimpse of herself had been given to me only to be withdrawn!  I was afraid to speak, and waited.

She stood up facing me.

“Louis!”

“Madame!”

“What is the matter, sire?”

“Nothing, madame, nothing.”

“Where is Paul?”

I did not know what to do, and looked at her completely helpless; for if I told her Paul was dead, she might relapse; and evasions must be temporary.

“The Indian took him,” she cried.

“But the Indian didn’t kill him, Eagle.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Paul came to me.”

“He came to you?  Where?”

“At Fort Stephenson.”

“Where is my child?”

“He is at Fort Stephenson.”

“Bring him to me!”

“I can’t bring him, Eagle.”

“Then let me go to him.”

I did not know what to say to her.

“And there were Cousin Philippe and Ernestine lying across the step.  I have been thinking all night.  Do you understand it?”

“Yes, I understand it, Eagle.”

By the time I had come into the house her mind leaped forward in comprehension.  The blanket she had held on her shoulders fell around her feet.  It was a striped gay Indian blanket.

“You were attacked, and the settlement was burned.”

“But whose house is this?”

“This is my house.”

“Did you bring me to your house?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“No, I remember.  You were not there.  I saw you the last time at the Tuileries.”

“When did you come to yourself, madame?”

“I have been sick, haven’t I?  But I have been sitting by this fire nearly all night, trying to understand.  I knew I was alone, because Cousin Philippe and Ernestine—­I want Paul!”

I looked at the floor, and must have appeared miserable.  She passed her hands back over her forehead many times as if brushing something away.  “If he died, tell me.”