“You dare not cross a camp-parade beside me.  At least the plaything of an officer should walk in silk, whatever clothes a soldier’s trull.  Sir, do you suppose I do not know?”

She looked up at the stare, and then quietly at me.

“The open comradeship of any man with me but marks us both.  Only his taste is criticized, not his morals.  But the world’s judgment leaves me nothing to cover me except the silk or rags I chance to wear.

And if I am brave and fine it would be said of me, ’The hussy’s gown is brave and fine!’ And if I go in tatters, ’What slattern have we here, flaunting her boldness in the very sun?’ So a comradeship with any man is all one to me.  And I go my way, neither a burden nor a plaything, a scandal only to myself, involving no man high or low save where their advances wrong us both in the world’s eyes—­ as did those of your friend, yonder by a dead fire asleep.”

“All men are not so fashioned.  Can you not believe me?”

“You say so, sir.”

“Yes; and I say that I am not.”

“Birds sing.”

“Lois, will you let me aid you?”

“In what?  The Sagamore feeds me; and the Middle Fort is not so far.”

“And at the Middle Fort how will you live?”

“As I have lived; wash for the soldiers; sew for them—­ contrive to find a living as I journey.”

“Whither?”

“It is my own affair.”

“May I not aid?”

“You could not if you would; you would not if you could.”

“Ask me, Lois.”

“No.”  She shook her head.  Then, slowly:  “I do thank you for the wish, Mr. Loskiel.  But the Siwanois himself refuses what I ask.  And you would, also, did you know my wish.”

“What is your wish?”

She shook her head:  “It is useless to voice it—­ useless.”

She gathered the scant fragments of her meal, wrapped them in a bit of silver birch-bark, unrolled her bundle, and placed them there.  Then she drained the tin cup of its chilly water, and, still sitting there cross-legged on the rock, tied the little cup to her girdle.  It seemed to me, there in the dusk, that she smiled very faintly; and if it was so it was the first smile I had had of her when she said: 

“I travel light, Mr. Loskiel.  But otherwise there is nothing light about me.”

“Lois, I pray you, listen.  As I am a man, I can not leave you here.”

“For that reason, sir, you will presently take your leave.”

“No, I shall remain if you will not come into camp with us.”

She said impatiently: 

“I lie safer here than you around your fire.  You mean well; now take your leave of me—­ with whatever flight of fancy,” she added mockingly, “that my present condition invests me with in the eyes of a very young man.”

The rudeness of the fling burnt my face, but I answered civilly: 

“A scalping party may be anywhere in these woods.  It is the season; and neither Oneida Lake nor Fort Niagara itself are so distant that their far-hurled hatchets may not strike us here.”