“Sweet, take courage. I do not know why, but I have a curious faith that overrides my fears, that something will intervene. Elk Horn has dealt treacherously, after the fashion of his tribe. Oh, my darling! I know you will see Uncle Gaspard again, so dry your tears.” “I am so tired of the journeying and those fierce men. Do you remember the old Chief Neepawa and the women of the village? They seemed like ours at home.” “Ah, I wish we were there!” The supper came in, and, in spite of their fears, they were hungry. The wind rose and the air was delightfully cool. Wawataysee spread the bed and the child was soon peacefully asleep. The tent pole was a tree that had been trimmed for that purpose, and the young girl leaned against it, watching the flicker of the fire without and the pine torches that had been lighted. Courageous as she had appeared, every pulse shrank and throbbed. But there was death. She would be no man’s slave. Only Renée must not be left behind. She knew of poisonous plants for which there was no remedy. Oh, would she have the courage to take another’s life? She dozed at length, even in her uncomfortable position. Then something roused her, a rending crash and a glare that seemed to be the world on fire. She sprang up, and the next crash she knew was the storm that had broken over them with the wildest fury. Were there cries of beast and men mingled with it? The deluge seemed to sweep the ground, the trees writhed and groaned and crashed in the fury of the gale. In the intervals she could hear voices without. Presently the flashes of bewildering light ceased, though the mutterings of thunder could still be heard, and the trees were wind-swept by the fierceness of the mighty power. One and another came down, but her tent stood the storm and was sheltered by an angle of three trees. The gray light of morning began to dawn sullenly. She watched the faint streaks stealing through the loopholes. Renée still slept. She went to the flap of the wigwam and raised it. The rain was pouring in torrents. There at her feet lay a body, the leggings and deer-skin breeches ploughed by a curious zigzag streak, scorched and torn, and the blanket shrivelled to fragments. Some figures were moving about like wraiths in the dusky light. It was a weird picture. She was not at all afraid. She was used to forest storms. One of the figures came nearer. “Ma’m’selle!” it said in a whisper. The familiar word was the sweetest music. She stretched out her hand. “I never saw anything so terrible. And you—lived? Others have gone. Three are dead. One is drowned, and Black Feather—” Valbonais’s voice trembled. “Well!” with a long breath. Did she hope for his death?