I do not know by what instinct I felt my way, conscious of slipping between the wild citizens of that vast town of trees; but we finally reached a clearing and saw across the open space a lighted cabin.  Its sashless windows and defective chinks were gilded with the yellow light that comes from a glowing hearth.

“I know this place!” exclaimed Annabel.  “It is where the Saint-Michels used to live before they went to my father’s settlement at Le Rayville.  Look at the house!  Nobody lives there.  It must be full of witches.”

Violin music testified that the witches were merry.  We halted, and the horses neighed and were answered by others of their kind.

“George Croghan’s grandmother was struck by a witch ball.  And here her grandson stands, too tired to run.  But perhaps there aren’t any witches in the house.  I don’t believe wicked things would be allowed to enter it.  The Saint-Michels were so pious, and ugly, and resigned to the poverty of refugees.  Their society was so good for me, my mother, when she was alive, made me venerate them until I hated them.  Holy Sophie died and went to heaven.  I shall never see her again.  She was, indeed, excellent.  This can’t be a nest of witches.  George, why don’t you go and knock on the door?”

It was not necessary, for the door opened and a man appeared, holding his violin by the neck.  He stepped out to look around the cabin at some horses fastened there, and saw and hailed us.

I was not sorry to be allowed to enter, for I was tired to exhaustion, and sat down on the floor away from the fire.  The man looked at me suspiciously, though he was ruddy and good natured.  But he bent quite over before De Chaumont’s daughter, and made a flourish with his hand in receiving young Croghan.  There were in the cabin with him two women and two little girls; and a Canadian servant like a fat brown bear came from the rear of the house to look at us and then went back to the horses.

All the women began to speak, but Annabel de Chaumont could talk faster than the four others combined, so they knew our plight before we learned that they were the Grignon and Tank families, who were going into the west to find settlement and had made the house their camp for one night.  The Dutch maid, dark and round-eyed, and the flaxen little Grignon, had respect for their elders and held their tongues while Madame Tank and Madame Grignon spoke, but Annabel de Chaumont was like a grove of sparrows.  The world seemed swarming with young maids.  The travelers were mere children, while the count’s daughter was startling as an angel.  Her clothing fitted her body like an exquisite sheath.  I do not know what it was, but it made her look as slim as a dragon fly.  Her white and rose pink face had a high arched nose, and was proud and saucy.  She wore her hair beaten out like mist, with rich curly shreds hanging in front of her ears to her shoulders.  She shook her head to set her hat straight, and turned her eyes in rapid smiling sweeps.  I knew as well then as I ever did afterwards that she was bound to befool every man that came near her.