Thus the sun went down on De Seviere, with the eager maids and women passing and repassing near the gate to peep out at the rustling throng, at the tepees with their fine skin coverings painted with all the wonders of battle and the chase, at the comely squaws and maidens, the chubby brown children, the dogs snarling arid savage, for they had full complement of the grey northern huskies.

To a woman they peeped at the gate from all the cabins of the post, save only that one who had been most eager before when the Indians came, Maren Le Moyne, sitting in idle apathy on her sister’s doorstep.

“Ma’amselle,” said Marc Dupre, stopping hesitant before her, “have you seen the Nakonkirhirinons?”

“Nay,” she said listlessly, “I care not, M’sieu.”

And the youth went gloomily away.

“Something there is which preys on her like the blood-sucker on the rabbit’s throat.  But what?  Holy Mother, what?”

His handsome eyes were troubled.

By dawn on the following day the trading had begun.  Up the main way passed a line of braves, each laden with his winter’s catch of furs, to barter at the trading-room, haggle with the clerks by sign and pantomime, and pass down again with gun and hatchet and axe, kettle and bright blanket, beads, and, most eagerly sought of all, yards of crimson cloth.

There was babble of chatter among the squaws, shrill laughter, and comparison of purchases.

In the trading-room sat the chief with his headmen and old Quamenoka of the Assiniboines, smoking gravely many pipes and listening to the trading.  Like some wild eagle of the peaks brought down to earth he seemed, ever alert and watchful behind his stately silence.

For two days the trading progressed finely, and McElroy had so far laid aside his doubts as to take delight in the quality of the rare furs.

Never before had such pelts stacked themselves in the sorting-room.

It was a sight for eyes tired by many springs of common trade.

Then, like a bomb in a peaceful city, came a running word of excitement.

The Nor’wester from the Saskatchewan was among the Nakonkirhirinons!  Was at the very gates of De Seviere!  When Pierre Garcon brought the news, McElroy flushed darkly to his fair hair and went on with his work.

This was unbearable insolence.

“An’, M’sieu,” pursued Pierre, “not only the man from Montreal, but, like the treacherous dog he is, among the Nor’westers is that vagabond Bois DesCaut.”

“Turncoat?” said the factor.

“Aye.”

True enough.  When McElroy, after trading hours, strolled down to the gate between the bastions, whom should he behold but the hulking figure of his erstwhile trapper, sulky of appearance, shifty eyes flitting everywhere but toward his old factor.  And farther down the bank, among a group of warriors, a brown baby on his shoulder and his long curls shining in the sunset, was that incomparable adventurer, Alfred de Courtenay.