“A woman?  Mother of God!”

Wondering eyes turned to the figure in the glow of the fire, to the brown hands hard clasped, the face with its flame-lit eyes.

“Five men and a good canoe I send with them,” said Mowbray quietly; “who goes?  Know you it is a quest of death.”

“Who goes, M’sieu?” cried a French trader.  “I!  ’Tis worth a year of the fur trade!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

Once more she had made her appeal to man, man in the abstract, and once more he had come to her, this maid of dreams.

Mr. Mowbray had lost half his brigade had he not fixed on those who were the strongest among the volunteers, the best canoe-men, the best shots.

Such were these men of the wilderness, excitable, ready for any hazard, drawn by the longest odds, and to serve a woman gave the last zest to danger.

Seldom enough did a woman appeal to them in such romantic wise.

“Brilliers,—­Alloybeau,—­Wilson,” picked out Mr Mowbray, with a finger pointing his words; “McDonald,—­Frith,—­make ready the fourth canoe, Take store of pemmican and all things necessary for light travel and quick.  From to-morrow you will answer to Ma’amselle.  When she is through with you report to me, either at Cumberland or York, according to the time.”

And he left his men to walk over and seat himself beside Maren Le Moyne on the shingle.

It was dark of the moon and the night was thick with stars and forest sounds.  Out on the lake beyond the ranged canoes at the water’s edge, the fish were slapping.

“Ma’amselle,” said Mr. Mowbray gravely, “I have detailed you five men, a canoe, and stores.  May God grant that they may serve your purpose”

A long sigh escaped the girl’s lips.

“And may He forever hold you in His grace, M’sieu!” she said tremulously; “and bless you at the hour of death!”

“And now, Ma’amselle,” he said gently, “tell me more of this strange adventure.  How comes it that a young maid, alone but for a youthful trapper, goes to the Pays d’en Haut after a factor, of the Company?  Why did this duty not fall to the men of the post?”

“They said, as you, M’sieu, but an hour back, that it was a quest of death.  They love life.  I love the factor.”

She made her explanation simply, in all innocence, looking gravely into the fire, and Mr. Mowbray gasped inwardly.

“I see.  So Anders McElroy is your lover.  A fine man, worthy of the love of such a woman, and blessed above men in its possessing if I may make so bold, Ma’amselle.”

“Nay,—­you mistake.”

Maren shook her head.

“Not my lover.  I but said that I love the factor He does not love me, M’sieu.”

“What?  Heaven above us!  What was that?  Does not love you!  And yet you go into the Pays d’en Haut after the North Indians?  You speak in riddles.”

“Why, what plainer?  Life would die in me, M’sieu, did I leave him to death by torture.  I can do no less.”