The grape trellis ran down toward the river landing, and from where I sat in the cool shadow, I could see the broad water gleaming in the sun. Suddenly, as my eyes uplifted, the dark outline of a canoe swept into the vista, and the splashing paddles turned the prow inward toward our landing. I did not move, although I watched with interest, for it was not the time of year for Indian traders, and these were white men. I could see those at the paddles, voyageurs, with gay cloths about their heads; but the one in the stern wore a hat, the brim concealing his face, and a blue coat. I knew not who it could be until the prow touched the bank, and he stepped ashore. Then I knew, and bent low over my sewing, as though I had seen nothing, although my heart beat fast. Through lowered lashes I saw him give brief order to the men, and then advance toward the house alone. Ah! but this was not the slender, laughing-eyed boy of three years before. The wilderness had made of him a man--a soldier. He paused an instant to gaze about, and held his hat in his hand, the sun touching his tanned cheeks, and flecking the long, light-colored hair. He looked strong and manly in his tightly buttoned jacket, a knife at his belt, a rifle grasped within one hand. There was a sternness to his face too, although it lit up in a smile, as the searching eyes caught glimpse of my white dress in the cool shade of the grape arbor. Hat still in hand he came toward me, but I only bent the lower, as though I knew nothing of his approach, and had no interest other than my work. "Mademoiselle," he said gently, "pardon me, but is not this the home of Hugo Chevet, the fur trader?" I looked up into his face, and bowed, as he swept the earth with his hat, seeing at a glance that he had no remembrance of me. "Yes," I answered. "If you seek him, rap on the door beyond." "'Tis not so much Chevet I seek," he said, showing no inclination to pass me, "but one whom I understood was his guest--Monsieur Francois Cassion." "The man is here," I answered quickly, yet unable to conceal my surprise, "but you will find him no friend to Sieur de la Salle." "Ah!" and he stared at me intently. "In the name of the saints, what is the meaning of this? You know me then?" I bowed, yet my eyes remained hidden. "I knew you once as Monsieur's friend," I said, almost regretting my indiscretion, "and have been told you travel in his company." "You knew me once!" he laughed. "Surely that cannot be, for never would I be likely to forget. I challenge you, Mademoiselle to speak my name." "The Sieur Rene de Artigny, Monsieur." "By my faith, the witch is right, and yet in all this New France I know scarce a maid. Nay look up; there is naught to fear from me, and I would see if memory be not new born. Saint Giles! surely 'tis true; I have seen those eyes before; why, the name is on my tongue, yet fails me, lost in the wilderness. I pray you mercy, Mademoiselle!" "You have memory of the face you say?"