NANON, who for the last few days had been as restless as an unquiet spirit, had followed her mistress down to the beach, and now stood close at hand, watching the preparations for departure which were being energetically carried on. She found herself in a position antagonistic to all her former instincts. Those about her were so completely engrossed by their own concerns that no one remarked how greatly Nanon had changed in the last few days. The Frenchwoman’s rich brown complexion had turned to dark chalk color; her cap, usually poised so coquettishly, was pushed carelessly to the extreme corner of her head; the crushed lappets hung limp over her shoulders, her cheeks had lost their rounded contour, her eyes were red and swollen with crying. A rueful sense of loss was troubling her, and she had even ceased to care whether Anne Barroy suspected the cause of her affliction. “Is it for her sins that poor Nanon is taking thought, or is it the men who are pleased to go that she is weeping for?” Anne had whispered to a crony, taking care that her voice should be quite loud enough to be overheard. The malicious words revived Nanon’s spirit. As she spoke there was a blaze of fiery agitation, and a light of pain flashed through the moisture in her eyes. “Yes, it is for the brave men going to their death that I am crying. I am not ashamed of being soft-hearted; if there were more like me it would be to their credit.” “The poor Nanon! she fears that she may be left to make _la tire_ on the feast of St. Catharine.”[4] Baptiste, smoking his pipe in silence, eyed Nanon reflectively. He was very slow, but he was very sure, and an heroic resolve was gradually assuming definite proportions in his mind. Things could not continue as they had been; any change was better than that. He meditated upon his long, hopeless passion. When did it begin? He could not decide that; it seemed always to have dominated him. Away in the forest, amidst toil, hardship and privation, when he thought of home, it was Nanon’s saucy face that smiled upon him. He thought upon all the wit and sparkling vivacity that rendered his cruel love charming, the oppressive thraldom in which she had held him, the burning pains of jealousy which he had endured. No one knew better the dangers of an expedition such as that upon which he and his comrades were starting, and none dreaded them less than Baptiste Leroux. But the thought that he might never again see Nanon confused and depressed his mind; happily it also inspired the great simple fellow with a more desperate courage than any required to resist the attacks of English or Iroquois, or to die in defence of his country. “That is the last of all trades—a coward,” he said to himself. “My principle has always been to conduct matters by beat of drum. After all, I can be in no worse condition than I am now; so here goes, even if I pay through the nose for it.”