They came with me down to the edge of the stream without a word of protest.  I had taken Mademoiselle in my arms and lifted her slight form into the boat, when she turned suddenly, as it by an unrestrainable impulse, and held out her hands toward the dim figure of the silent girl who yet remained motionless several feet away.

“Marie!” she said, anxiously, “it may be wrong of me to urge it, but I beg you to think again in this grave matter.  Surely such horrible massacre as you have witnessed must absolve you from your vow, and yield you freedom to return eastward with those you love.”

The other did not respond to this passionate appeal, but stood facing us silent as a statue.

“What mean you, Mademoiselle?” I asked.  “Will not this Sister Celeste consent to leave the Indians?”

“Nay, she has made a sacred vow of religion which binds her to this sacrifice.  I implore you, John Wayland, urge her to go with us!  ’T is but waste of her life here.  She is an old schoolmate of mine, and ’t will be hard to leave her alone in this wilderness.  Captain de Croix, she was far from being a stranger to you in those other days at Montreal,—­will you not add your entreaties to ours?”

I saw him step forward toward that quiet bowed figure, and she straightened perceptibly, even in the darkness, as he drew near.  His words were in French, and spoken so low I missed their meaning; yet we all heard plainly her calm answer, while marking the faltering accents of her lips.

“Dear, dear friend!” and I felt her eyes, blinded by tears, were seeking out Mademoiselle through the gloom, “it breaks my heart to answer you nay in this hour of sore trial to us both.  Yet my vow to God is more sacred than any earthly friendship; nor could peace ever again abide in my heart were I to break the vow so lightly.  My duty is here, be it for life or death; and here I must abide until the Master sets me free.”

Then, addressing De Croix, she continued sadly, “No, Monsieur, the sense of duty that presses upon me and yields me such strength is beyond your comprehension.  I bid you go back to that world of light and gaiety you have always loved so fondly, and think no more of me.  To you I am, even as you have supposed, a dead woman, yet happier far in this sad exile than I ever was in that gilded social cage where men laugh while they break the hearts that trust them.  My Indians are indeed cruel, but there is a deeper cruelty than that of bloodshed, and I prefer the open savagery of the woods and plains to things I have known in city life.  So it must be good-bye, Monsieur!”

I was looking directly at her when she uttered these last words of dismissal, yet as she ended she vanished into the black night beyond, I knew not how.  A moment before, two figures had been standing there, De Croix’s and hers; and although my eyes never once wavered, suddenly there remained but one, that of De Croix, peering forward with bent body as if he also knew not how or when the girl had vanished from his side.  I was staring yet, half believing it was but a trick of my eyes, when suddenly, like phantoms from the mist, a half-dozen naked figures topped the high bank before me.  It was the work almost of a second.  I caught Burns’s low cry of warning from where he sat watching within the boat.