“Yes,” she said, “and you pointed your gun at me!”

I was too dumfounded for words.  Then a suspicion flashed to my mind.  “Who sent Le Borgne for us in the storm, Hortense?”

“Oh,” says Hortense, “that was nothing!  Monsieur pretended that he thought you were caribou.  He wanted to shoot.  Oh,” she said, “oh, how I have hated him!  To think—­to think that he would shoot when you helped us in Boston!”

“Hortense, who sent Le Borgne and M. Picot to save me from the wolves?”

“Oh,” says Hortense bravely, with a shudder between the words, “that was—­that was nothing—­I mean—­one would do as much for anybody—­for—­for—­for a poor little stoat, or—­or—­a caribou if the wolves were after it!”

And we laughed with the tears in our eyes.  And all the while that vow to the dying adventurer was ringing like a faint death toll to hope.  I remember trying to speak a gratitude too deep for words.

“Can—­I ever—­ever repay you—­Hortense?” I was asking.

“Repay!” she said with a little bitter laugh.  “Oh!  I hate that word repay!  I hate all give-and-take and so-much-given-for-so-much-got!” Then turning to me with her face aflame:  “I am—­I am—­oh—­why can’t you understand?” she asked.

And then—­and then—­there was a wordless cry—­her arms reached out in mute appeal—­there was no need of speech.

The forest shone green and gold in the sunlight.  The wind rustled past like a springtime presence, a presence that set all the pines swaying and the aspens aquiver with music of flower legend and new birth and the joy of life.  There was a long silence; and in that silence the pulsing of the mighty forces that lift mortals to immortality.

Then a voice which only speaks when love speaks through the voice was saying, “Do you remember your dreams?”

“What?” stooping to cull some violets that had looked well against the green of her hunting-suit.

“’Blind gods of chance—­blind gods of chance’—­you used to say that over and over!”

“Ah, M. Radisson taught me that!  God bless the blind gods of chance—­Hortense teaches me that; for”—­giving her back her own words—­“you are here—­you are here—­you are here with me!  God bless the gods of chance!”

“Oh,” she cried, “were you not asleep?  Monsieur let me watch after you had taken the sleeping drug.”

“The stars fight for us in their courses,” said I, handing up the violets.

“Ramsay,” she asked with a sudden look straight through my eyes, “what did he make you promise when—­when—­he was dying?”

The question brought me up like a sail hauled short.  And when I told her, she uttered strange reproaches.