As I sat thus, drifting through inaction into a more despairing mood, the rear covering of the tepee moved almost imperceptibly, and I turned hastily to seek the cause, my heart in my throat lest it prove an enemy, perhaps some stealthy savage still seeking the life of De Croix.  It was far from being light as yet, but there was sufficient to show me the faint outline of a woman’s figure.  The Frenchman had seemingly heard nothing; and I rose quickly and faced her eagerly.

“You have found her?” I questioned anxiously.  “I beg you tell me that she yet lives!”

“Hush! you speak too loud,” was the low reply.  “The one you seek is, I think, confined within the lodge of Little Sauk, and thus far remains unharmed.  I have not been able to reach her, but she has been described to me as young, with dark hair and eyes, and as having been dragged from a horse near the rear of the column.  Think you she is the one you seek?”

“I do indeed!” I cried, in a rapture of relief.  “Where is this lodge in which they hold her?”

She hesitated to answer, as if she somewhat doubted my discretion.

“It is the third from the fire, in the row west of this,” she said at last.  “But it is already daylight, and you must lie hidden amid these skins until another night, when I will strive to aid you.  You will be safe here, if you only keep hidden; and I have brought with me food for you both.”

I had quite forgotten De Croix, in my eagerness to learn news of Mademoiselle; but now I realized he had risen to his knees, and was gazing at our visitor through the dim shadows as if half fearful even yet that she was but a spectre.  In that gray dawn his face was ghastly in its whiteness,—­the dark lines under his eyes, his matted hair, and the traces of blood upon his cheek, yielding a haggardness almost appalling.

“Marie!” he sobbed, catching his breath between the words as if they choked him, “Marie, in God’s name, speak one word to me!”

I saw the girl start, looking around at him with eyes widely opened, yet with an expression in them I could not fathom; it was neither hatred nor love, though it might easily have been sorrow.

“Marie,” he urged, rendered despairing by her silence, “I have done you wrong, great wrong; but I thought you dead.  They told me so,—­they told me it was your body they buried.  Will you not speak a word of mercy now?”

Dim as the light was, I saw her eyes were moist as she gazed down upon him; but there was no faltering in her voice.

“You were right, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said slowly, “Marie Faneuf is dead.  It is only Sister Celeste who has aided in the preservation of your life in the name of the Master.  Make your acknowledgment to the Mother of Christ, not to me, for such mercy.”

I knew not when she passed out, or how; but we were alone once more, and De Croix was lying with his face buried in the short grass.