"Mademoiselle Starling," I whispered, "tomorrow, at this time, you will be Madame Montlivet." She did not stir, and I laid my hand on her shoulder where it rose slim and sinewy as a boy's from the low neck of her squaw's dress. I bent lower. "You strange woman," I went on, marveling at her calm. "You strange woman, with the justice of a man and the tempers of a child. Have you a woman's heart, I wonder? I do not talk to you of love, but it may be that it will come to us. I will try to be good to you, Mary Starling. Carry that promise with you when I say good-night." And then she trembled. "Wait, wait, monsieur! There is one word first. I have tried--I have tried to say it." I knelt beside her. "What would you say to me, mademoiselle?" But she turned away. "Monsieur, monsieur! I will marry you, yes. But it is to save your hopes,--your future. We have--we have no love. Monsieur, will you not hold me as your guest, your sister? It is I who would kneel to you, monsieur." I pushed her down. "Sit still," I commanded. I turned my back to her, for I had no speech. She did not plead, but I could feel her tremble. I forced words out of me. "You are a Protestant?" "Yes, monsieur." I picked up the corner of her blanket. "I am a Catholic," I said, drawing away the woolen folds that I might look at her. "In our church marriage is a sacrament, mademoiselle." She lifted her great eyes. "Monsieur, our marriage will be no sacrament. It will be a political contract. A marriage--a marriage of convenience--in name only---- Surely when we reach home it can be annulled. Must I--must I beg of you, monsieur?" I rose and looked down at her. "A strange woman of a strange race," I said. "No, you need not beg of me. I have never had a captive in my life,--not even a bird. Mademoiselle, you shall bear my name, if you are willing, for your protection, but you shall go as my guest to Montreal." And I left her in her red blanket and went away. CHAPTER XIII WE REACH THE ISLANDS The dawn came with an uprush of unclouded light showing burnished green leaves and dancing water. I bowed my head to the woman's hand to bid her good-morning, and I served her with meal cakes and sweet water from a maple tree. I was reckless of Pierre's eyes, though I knew them to be weasel sharp for certain sides of life. The woman answered me but scantily, and when we were embarked sat quiet in the bottom of the canoe. I forbore to look at her. The men feared my mood that day, so paddled well. I charged them not to speak nor sing, for I would have no wasted breath, and the sombre shore, pine and tamarack and savage rock, passed before us like pictures dropping from a roll. Toward sunset I sighted a canoe full of warriors, and when we drew near I saw that they were Pottawatamies. "Are we near your islands?" I hailed.