"Even when son and husband are taken away, and the light fails, and all the ground is dark, it is still good to live," went on the voice. "Why the good God gives this love of life we may not know." "Give me more drink," the girl panted. "Our father shall soon pass into the spirit land," went on the stern woman, unheeding her request. "He is old, but 'tis not age that saps his strength. Honour has departed from him. He has lost the headship, and another fills his office." Onawa stared sullenly into the leaping heart of the fire. "As this life continues we find trouble. You have lost beauty, and I a son. We shall not regain that which we have lost. Sisters in blood we are, and sisters in unhappiness also." "I have brought sorrow into your life," muttered Onawa, less in penitence than defiance. "And shall do so again. This night you have brought the enemy of my people out from Acadie. There was a time when you betrayed my son into the hands of him who now spurns you from his side. That which is done cannot be undone, and God shall punish." "Why, then, have you brought me here?" cried Onawa fiercely. "Why did you not leave me to perish, that you might be rid of me for ever?" "Remember you not the words that I spoke to you in the grove? I bade you have in mind that in the time when you should hunger and thirst you might turn to me. I have not forgotten, though you turned against me when your heart followed its own longing. "I grieved for your Richard." "So the hunter grieves when he by mischance has slain the bear cub which has strayed. And so he avoids the mother if he loves his life." At that moment there rang in her steady voice a threat. Onawa looked up and met a suffering brown face and large quiet eyes. There was no menace there, nothing but longing for the dead and charity for the living. She pressed a hand upon her burning throat. "Give me drink," she gasped. Her sister poured some of the rice-water into a smaller vessel. This she stirred gently with a stick, watching the ruined face of Onawa with the same patient eyes. Outside the hut a flight of snow birds whirred from side to side. "When you have drunk you shall go forth," said Mary Iden deliberately. "You shall seek to aid my enemy when he strives to strike down my husband." Onawa gave a cry. In wondering over her sister's forgiveness she had forgotten La Salle. "They may already have met," she muttered. A stern smile crossed her sister's face. "Can you not hear?" she whispered. "Yet you say you love the white priest. I have heard this long while the noise of sword striking sword. I listen without fear, knowing that no man can conquer my husband when no treachery hangs behind. Can you not hear the sounds of the fight?" "My ears burn," cried Onawa. "I hear only the cold wind passing among the pines." "They fight!" exclaimed her sister triumphantly. "My Richard shall rest to-day."