“Then,” whispered Maren, apart from the clerk’s listening ears, “take you this letter.  Keep it until M’sieu the factor is in his right mind, then give it him with your own hands.  If he—­if he should—­burn it, Rette, unopened.”

And she gave into the woman’s keeping the only letter she had ever written to a man.

It was in French, and the script was fine and finished.

This was what she had said, alone in the little room with its eastern window at the end of the Baptiste cabin: 

“Monsieur MCELROY, Factor of Fort de Seviere, ave atque vale.” (The tender word of Father Tenau when he blessed her that last time in Grand Portage)

“The time has come when I must take my people out of your post, must break their contract and their word.  Forgive them, M’sieu, and lay not the fault to them, for I, and I only, am to blame.  But the time I promised is too long....  I can no longer hold back the tide of longing which drives me to that land of which we spoke once....” (Here there was a break in the letter, a smudge on the page, as if the quill had caught the paper or a drop of moisture run into the ink.)

“I must go forward, and at once, to the Athabasca.  The great quest is strong at my heartstrings again.  I thank you, M’sieu, for all kindness done my people, and I promise that, should fortune favour them and me in that far land to which we journey, they shall send what trade lies with them to De Seviere.  For one thing I ask,—­if it be possible, M’sieu, give to certain men who will be found by word to Mr. Mowbray of York, such stipend as you can, for they were good and faithful,—­ namely, Frith and Wilson and McDonald, Brilliers and Alloybeau....  Adieu, M’sieu.  God send you health. (Signed)

“Maren le Moyne, of Grand Portage.”

Laroux was worth his word.

Forty-eight hours later there stood at the portal of Fort de Seviere, ready for the trail, that small band of wanderers who had come into it in the early spring.

They were fuller of hope, more eager to face the wilderness than on that day, for joy after sorrow sat blithely on their faces, turned to the tall young woman at their head.  And they were fully equipped for travel.  Three canoes held wealth of supplies, while six huskies whined in leash, nervous under new masters, touched with the knowledge of coming change.

Not a man in De Seviere who had not given gladly, nay, vied with his neighbour to give, to the helping of this woman.

Had they not their factor back from death and its torments?

There was God-speed and hearty handclasp from the men, and Maren smiled into their faces, reading their simple hearts.

With the women it was different.  They hung, gazing, on the outskirts, calling farewell to Marie, who wept a little at sight of her deserted cabin, to Anon and Mora and Ninette, but there was no reflection of the feeling of their masters for this girl with her weary beauty, her steady, half-tragic eyes.  Nor was there great regret over Micene.  Too sharp had been her tongue, too keen her perception of their faults.