Presently the trafficking was about over. The Indians had gone to their respective lodges, the _voyageurs_ sailed up the river, and now only occasional boats and canoes came in. André was not so busy. He joined the parties on their rambles when he was certain Renée would be among them. He did not hesitate to make himself agreeable to other demoiselles. She could not help drawing contrasts. He had certain ways of the better class, though social lines were not strongly marked and few people knew what culture meant. He talked Spanish fluently; he was quite an adept in English, though he had acquired a little of that before. But the difference was largely one of manner, the small, delicate attentions that went to her heart and understanding. Uncle Gaspard always had some of them, M. Marchand also, and a few of the others. The rather rough good nature had much honesty, but it was not so flattering to a girl of Renée’s cast. There were times when she was quite as jealous as she had ever been of Uncle Gaspard. Yet it was strange to be so shaken by his coming when she told herself she did not care for him, to have the touch of his hand thrill through every nerve, to have the steady glance of his eye conquer the spirit of rebellion until there was nothing left except the thin outside crust, that would surely fall at the next assault if she did not run away. This was cowardly, too, and she despised herself for it, but she was not the first who had escaped in this fashion. He was amused. In the earlier days he had experienced a great terror at the thought of losing her. It might be the elder man’s wisdom had helped open his eyes. He liked her piquant independence, and he learned, too, there was a mood of most fascinating dependence as well. But she never wholly gave up. “Is it true you are going back to New Orleans?” Renée asked one day in her charming, but imperious fashion. “Yes, ma’m’selle. And I must start in another month.” He looked so brave and dignified, his clear eyes shining, his shoulders thrown back, his head securely poised, as if he could lead an army. There was not his match in all St. Louis. Oh, yes, Uncle Gaspard and M. Marchand, and Madame Chouteau’s splendid sons, who had risked various dangers! And M. Marchand had carried off the pretty Wawataysee when he knew if they should be captured he would be put to cruel tortures and death. Well, had not André escaped with them both when a like fate would have awaited him in being taken? “You care nothing for us now, André,” in her most plaintive tone, a hundred times more dangerous than her pride tinctured with sweetness. And the sorrow that flooded her beautiful brown eyes almost swept him from his standing-ground. “Yes, ma’m’selle, I care a great deal. I love M. Denys as an elder brother. And you—” hesitatingly. She blushed scarlet and her eyes drooped.