"You have decked the canoe for my wedding journey," I said, and all my perverse inner merriment suddenly died. "This traveler, whom you have known as a man, is Mademoiselle Marie Starling and my promised wife. We are to be married when we reach the Pottawatamie Islands. She is your future mistress, and you may come and touch her hand and swear to serve her as faithfully as you have served me. Pierre, you may come first." A man who has seen battle knows that the pang of a bullet can clear even a peasant's clogged brain. The churls took this blow in silence and tried to make something out of it. What they made I could not fathom, but it lifted them out of themselves, for after a moment they raised their eyes and came forward like men. I had never seen them in an equal guise; I could have grasped them by the hand had it been wise. The woman extended her palm to them, and gave them each a word as they passed in review. She was gracious, she was smiling, yet somehow she was negligent. I was not prepared that she should be used to homage. Perhaps I had thought that this bit of vassalage would give her pleasure. She treated it like an old tale. "Enough," I ordered. "Pierre, you may draw a portion of brandy all around and drink to the health of your mistress. Then we shall get under way." Pierre's portions were always ample, and the western red was dulling by the time we were again afloat. I did not paddle, but seated myself beside the woman on the crushed leaves and watched in inactivity and silence while the starlight came. As the dusk deepened we slipped by strange islands, but I held the canoes straight in advance till a limestone headland rose white out of the blurred, violet water. The star shine showed a deep bay and wavering lights among the trees. I touched the woman's shoulder. "The largest of the Pottawatamie Islands," I explained. "I have had maps. Pray God we may find what we seek." The canoes bumped and slid upward on the sand, and I left the men on guard, and taking the woman's hand led her toward the lights. A rabble of dogs trooped upon us and gave tongue, and black shapes, arrow-laden, clustered out of the wigwams. "Peca," I cried, in greeting, and again, "Where is your chief? Where is Onanguisse?" A French voice answered, "Who calls?" The mat that hung before the entrance of the nearest lodge was pulled aside, and smoke and red light flared out of the opening. I saw the black robe of a priest! "Father Nouvel, Father Nouvel!" I cried like a schoolboy. "You are indeed here!" The priest stooped to pass through the skin-draped opening, and came peering into the starlight. "Who calls Father Nouvel?" he demanded in a mellow voice, rich in intonations. "What, an Indian woman, monsieur! Who are you? What means this?"