For an hour this ineffectual and abortive sniping kept up, and then from the walls of the stockade appeared that for which MacNair had been waiting—­a white flag fluttering from the end of a sapling.  Raising his head, MacNair imitated the call of the loon, and the firing ceased in the timber.  Having no white rag, MacNair waved a spruce bough and stepped boldly out into the clearing.

The head and shoulders of Lapierre appeared above the wall of the barricade, and for several moments the two faced each other in silence.  MacNair grim, determined, scowling—­Lapierre defiant, crafty, with his thin lips twisted into a mocking smile.  The quarter-breed was the first to speak.

“So,” he drawled, “my good friend has come to visit his neighbour!  Come right in, I assure you a hearty welcome, but you must come alone!  Your retainers are too numerous and entirely too bourgeois to eat at a gentleman’s table.”

“But not to drink from his bottle,” retorted MacNair.  “I am coming in—­but not alone!”

Lapierre laughed derisively.  “O-ho, you would come by force—­by force of arms, eh!  Well, come along, but I warn you, you do so at your peril.  My men are all armed, and the walls are thick and high.  Rather, I choose to think you will listen to reason.”

“Reason!” roared MacNair.  “I will reason with you when we come to hands’ grips!”

Lapierre shrugged.  “As you please,” he answered:  “I was only thinking of your own welfare, and, perhaps, of the welfare of another, who will to a certainty fare badly in case your savages attack us.  I myself am not of brutal nature, but among my men are some who—­” He paused and glanced significantly into MacNair’s eyes.  Again he shrugged—­“We will not dwell upon the possibilities, but here is the lady, let her speak for herself.  She has begged for the chance to say a word in her own behalf.  I will only add that you will find me amenable to reason.  It is possible that our little differences may be settled in a manner satisfactory to all, and without bloodshed.”

The man stepped aside upon the firing ledge, evidently in order to let someone pass up the ladder.  The next instant the face of Chloe Elliston appeared above the logs of the stockade.  At the sight of the girl MacNair felt the blood surge through his veins.  He took a quick step toward and at a glance noted the unwonted pallor of her cheeks, the flashing eyes, and the curve of the out-thrust chin.

Then clear and firm her voice sounded in his ears.  He strained forward to catch the words, and at that moment he knew in his heart that this woman meant more to him than life itself—­more than revenge—­more even than the welfare of his Indians.

“You received my letter?” asked the girl eagerly.  “Can you forgive me?  Do you understand?”

MacNair answered, controlling his voice with difficulty.  “There is nothing to forgive.  I have understood you all along.”