He stretched out his strong right arm, quietly took possession of his coquettish mistress,—who appeared to be so entirely taken by surprise that she made no attempt to offer resistance—enveloped her in a great bear’s hug, kissed her once, twice, a dozen times, then recovering himself, loosened his hold. Realizing the enormity of his offence he stood humbled and contrite, with bowed head, to receive the punishment of his audacity. He could conceive no idea of what form the tempest which was about to break upon his devoted head was to assume, but even the noisiest clamor of Nanon’s sharp tongue would be less terrible to bear than this breathless silence. Feeling that he could no longer endure the suspense, he burst out impetuously: “I do not care, I could not help it; you may be enraged if it pleases you; in truth, I could no longer contain myself. Any good woman would have some pity on a poor fellow.” Words were scarce with Bras de Fer, but now he was fairly started, the sound of his own eloquence delighted him, and he continued boldly, “If to-morrow I am to be scalped, or thrown into the Iroquois kettle—and either may likely happen—I shall have had the satisfaction of feeling what it would be like if you were really my own girl, who would welcome me back if I should be so lucky as to escape tomahawk and bullet, and who would mourn for me should I fall.” The light of a strong love illumined his brave, honest face as he spoke. There was still silence. It was hard that at such a moment she should remain obdurate. His heart swelled to bursting; she must be altogether heartless. Bras de Fer at last found courage to steal an anxious, imploring glance in the direction of his sweet tormentor. Nanon stood still as a statue; the warm tears were streaming down her cheeks, but a strangely happy smile lingered about her lips. “If you please, Master Baptiste Bras de Fer, but it is an innocent one may eat with salt, your Canadian.” The color had returned to the girl’s cheek, the sparkle to her eye. “Your wits have long been wool gathering; say, then, is it possible that you have found them at last? Did you expect the women to make love to you, my fine big fellow?” * * * * * Du Chesne had drawn Lydia apart from the crowd. The girl made no effort to control herself; sobbing convulsively, she clung to him as, taking her hands in his, his eyes went slowly over her from head to foot. He was silent, as one who, looking for the last time on a face he loves, would carry the memory of it with him to the wide world’s end. “Stay! Give the expedition up; let the others go. What does it matter? Even if the English come here, I may find friends among them. Do not leave me; the parting will kill me,” she entreated.