While the twilight lasted with its gorgeous phantasmagoria there were none of the accustomed sounds of pleasure in the post,—­no fiddle squeaked by the stockade wall, no happy laughter wafted from the cabins.  Even the sleepy children seemed to feel the strangeness and hushed their peevish crying.

Night and darkness and loneliness held sway, and in one heart the shadows of the world were gathered.

What was the meaning of this Life whose gift was Pain, where was the glory of existence?

By the window to the east Maren Le Moyne stood in the darkness, with her hands upon her breast and her face set after the manner of the dreamer who follows his visions in simpleness of soul.

Once again a great call was sounding from the wilderness, as that which lured her to the Whispering Hills had sounded since she could remember, once more the Long Trail beckoned, and once more she answered, simply and without fear.

She waited for the depth of night.

Long she stood at the little window, facing the east like some worshipper, even until the wheeling stars spelled the mid hour.

To Marie she gave one thought,—­child-like Marie with her dependence and her loving heart.  But Marie, to whom she had been all things, was safe in the care of Henri.  There remained only the dream of the Whispering Hills and the illusive figure of a man,—­an old man, sturdy of form and with blue eyes set in swarthy darkness.

Poignant was the pain that assailed her at that memory.  Would she ever reach that shadowy country, ever fulfil the quest that was hers from the beginning?  Did she not wrong that ghostly figure which seemed to gaze with reproach across the years?  Her own blood called, and she turned aside to follow the way of a stranger, an alien whose kiss had brought her all sorrow.

And yet she was helpless as the water flowing to the sea.  The primal quest must wait.  Her being turned to this younger man as the needle to the pole, even though his words were false, his kiss a betrayal.

When the mid hour hung in silence over the wilderness a figure came out of the darkness and stood at the gate beside that watcher, Cif Bordoux, who paced its length with noiseless tread.

A strange figure it was, clad in garments that shone misty white in the shadow, whose fringes .fluttered in the warm wind and whose glowing plastron glittered in the starlight.

“Cif Bordoux,” said the figure, “I would go without.”

Wondering and startled, Bordoux would have refused if he dared; but this was the leader of the Long Trail and her word had been his law for many moons, nor had he ever questioned her wisdom.

Therefore he drew the bolts and opened the gate the width of a man’s body, and Maren Le Moyne slipped outside the palisade into the night.

A rifle hung in her arm and a pouch of bullets dangled at her knee.

Swiftly and silently she pushed a canoe into the water at the landing, stepped in, and with one deep dip of a paddle sent the frail craft out to midstream.  She did not turn her head for a farewell glance toward the post, but set her face toward the way that led to the Pays d’en Haut and the man who journeyed thither.