And out in the dawn I found the woman.  She had seen to it that the whole camp was astir, and the fire was crackling and the kettle already puffing steam.  The morning was austere and gray-veiled, so that the red blaze was like the cheer of home.  We ate with laughter, and sleepy birds scolded in the thickets.  The woman sparkled with dainty merriment that held my thanks at bay.  It was only when she waved her adieus at the beach that she dropped her foils.

“I shall pray for fair winds, monsieur,” she called.

I looked back at her across the widening water.  “Madame, can you hear me?  The wind I pray for will blow me back to you.”

Metaphor aside, it was a favorable day and the breeze was with us.  We pushed up a tarpaulin on our paddles for a square sail, and covered the distance to the west shore of La Baye in a few hours.  Before night we were lifting the rush mats that hung before the reed-thatched lodges of the Winnebagoes.

And here for seven days I plied my trade.  A man has many coats and all may fit him.  The one that I wore in those days showed the bells and ribands of the harlequin, but there was chain armor underneath.  I counted my results as satisfactory when I started home.

We did not reach the camp on this second homecoming till after the stars were out.  That left me too few hours for a large labor, and I had but hurried greetings from the woman while all the camp looked on.  The men were sleek from idleness, and I had need to goad them with word and eye.  It was late before I could linger at the woman’s cabin and beg a word.  She sat with Singing Arrow, watching the soft night, and again her first question was of her cousin.

“You have heard nothing of Lord Starling?”

Was this fear of him or a covert wish to meet him?  “Nothing, madame,” I replied.  “But I have been to the south far out of your cousin’s way.  I go next to the Malhominis.  I think I shall certainly hear tidings of him there.”

“You go to-morrow?”

“I must, madame.  Madame, I have been anxious about you.  Will you promise me not to stray alone from the camp?”

She left the cabin and came and stood beside me in the quiet and starshine.  She looked off at the forest.

“Is there danger around us, monsieur?”

I followed her look back into the dark timber.  We both hushed our breathing till we heard the moan of the water and the lament of some strange night bird.  The woman was so small, and yet I left her in the wilderness without me!

“Keep close to the camp,” I said hoarsely.  “No, I know of no danger.  But keep close to the camp.”

Her glance came back to me.  “Ah, you do think there is danger!  But, monsieur, of yourself——­ If there is peril for me there must be more for you.”

She looked at me fully, with no fear in her eyes, but with quick, intelligent concern.  She stood beside me in the dusk, as wife should stand with husband, and feared for my safety and forgot her own.  Yet I dared not touch her hand.  I lifted my sword and slammed it in its scabbard.