And she had but hastened the end she had come to avert!

“Jesu mia,” she prayed, from the shelter of her arms, “help!  Help Thou —­Lord of Heaven, give him to be spared!”

And not once did she think of the great quest, broken by a meagre waiting by the way; no thought crossed her mind in this crisis of the Land of the Whispering Hills, of an old man, dreaming his dreams in the wilderness.

Thus had love set aside like a bauble the thing for which her life had been lived, for which she had grown and prepared herself in the attainments of men.

She had felt the magic touch of the great mystery, and henceforth she was captive, servant to its will, and its mandate had been service.  And here was the end—­

A hand touched her shoulder, a hand infinitely soft of prcssurc, infinitely gentle.

“Ma’amselle,” whispered the cavalier in her ear, “one more turn of the wheel of Fate,—­and we take the plunge together.  Kin are we, truly; kin of the tribe of Daring Hearts.  A lioness are you, oh, maid with the Madonna face!  No woman, but a creature of the wild, superb in courage and unknown to fear!  I saw it in your face that day in De Seviere,—­the something alien to the common race, the spark, the light; oh, I know not what it is, save that it is Divine and yet splendidly of the earth!  We are matched in heart.  Venturers both, and like true venturers we shall take the longest trail with a laugh and our hands together,—­and trust to the Aftermath to give us largess of that love which has its beginning in such glorious wise.  Pledge me, oh, my Queen of the World!”

With a grace beyond compare he drew her into his arms, silent and velvet soft, light and inimitable in his love way.

In utter astonishment Maren felt his silken curls sweep her cheek, his lips on hers.  Her tears were wet on his face.  She put up her hands and pushed him loose.

“M’sieu!” she said, “what do you do?”

“Do?  Why, bow to the One Woman of my heart,” he said; “my Maid of the Red Flower, whom love has led to share my fate.”

“In all pity!  M’sieu, you do mistake most grievously!”

“What?  Was it not confession at the post gate when this painted rabble fell upon us?  Or is it still the maiden within fearing the word of love?  In such short space, Sweetheart, there is no time for girlish fears.  Be strong in that as in the courage of the lone trail.  Speak!”

“Speak?” said Maren, with her old calmness; “of a surety, M’sieu.  Though I have thrilled at your careless bravery, your laughing daring which, as you say truly, is kin of my heart,—­though I have taken your red flowers, yet there is in me no spark of love for you, no thought beyond the admiration of a true son of fortune.  That alone, M’sieu.”

De Courtenay was staring at her in the blackness of the lodge, his arm fallen loose about her shoulders.

“Name of God!” he whispered wonderingly, “it is not love?  Then what, in the living world, has brought you over the waste to this camp of hostile savages?”