“Ma’amselle,” he said huskily, “nowhere in the wide world is there another woman so deep of heart, so strong in tenderness.  Never before have I seen that side of the trapping.  To a man that is shut.  It needs the soul of a woman to see behind those things.  And, oh, Ma’amselle!” his voice fell low and trembling, “I have seen more,—­the divinity within your spirit.  May the good God make me worthy that you may speak so to me again.  I would I might serve you,—­with my life I would serve you, Ma’amselle, for I have seen no woman like you.”  He was on his feet, this young Marc Dupre, and the hot blood was coursing fast in his veins.  The awakening was coming, though not for Maren Le Moyne.

“May the time come when I may be a stone for your foot,” he said swiftly.  “I ask no better fate.”

Maren looked up at him and a wonderful tenderness spread on her face.

“I think the time will come, M’sieu,—­and, when it does, it will be worth while.  I think it would be a lifting sight to see you in some great crisis, before some heavy test.”

“You do?” he said slowly; “you do, Ma’amselle?  Then, by Heaven, it would!”

“And some day I shall see it.”

They little knew, these two in their glowing youth, how true was that word, nor how tragic that sight would be.

“And till then,” said this wild youth of the forest, “until then may we be friends?” The head under the crimson cap was whirling.

“Friends?” smiled Maken, and her voice was very gentle; “assuredly, M’sieu—­I had destined you for that some time ago.”

As she turned away, her glance once more fell upon the long camp of the Assiniboines, and Marc Dupre faded from her mind.

Not so with him, left sitting on the flat stone, the blood hot in his face and a sudden mist before his eyes.

Her last words sang in his ears like the voice of many waters.

He did not look after her,—­there was something within that held him silent, staring at the waters of the river, now sparkling like a stream of diamonds in the risen sun, the lightness gone from him and a trembling loosed in his bosom.

Within the big trading-room at the factory, seats had been placed, the chief and his headmen sat in a solemn circle, and McElroy, holding in his two hands the long calumet, stood in the centre of the small conclave.

Very gravely he pointed the stem, clinking with its dangling ornaments, to east and west, to the heavens and to the earth, and then with a deft motion swung it around his head.

“My brothers,” he said, glancing around at the solemn visages of these his friends and people, “may the sun smile all day upon us together in peace.”

Wherewith he smoked a moment at the carven mouthpiece and handed the pipe to Quamenoka.

With the utmost gravity Ridgar took it from the chief, passed it to the savage on his right, who likewise smoked and passed, it on, and presently the ceremony was done and the visit had begun.