"Now the saints forbid," cried Madame. "Shall an infidel lie in my house, while a holy Churchman sleeps outside? Out the Lutheran shall go, and you, my father, must honour my poor home this night." "'Tis not for me to provoke a quarrel," La Salle replied. "I may but fight in self-defence. Let me have food and a palliasse here." Madame bent her grey head, and went to do his bidding. The cabin was in gloom when Madame entered and passed through silently to procure food for the priest. Madeleine rose, seeking to be of service, but the grating voice sent her back to the fireside. Viner had also arisen, dimly suspicious. The girl's head reached his shoulder, and to put away the thought, which recurred more strongly when he noted her helplessness, he resorted to selfishness. "Am I safe?" he asked. Madeleine gave him a reproachful glance. "My mother hates all Protestants. The heathen Indians are merely animals in her sight; but such as you and I are children of the devil." "The fire beyond the palisade is burning more strongly," he said. The door was open, and the glow entered the cabin like moonlight. "It is to keep away the wolves. You do not suspect--me?" "No, no," he said, in a manner that brought a smile to her mouth. "For myself I care nothing, but I may not forget my comrades. I must be upon my guard for their sake." The dame reappeared, a mantle over her shoulders and her hands. She smiled grimly, and gently addressed her guest: "I have my birds to feed. They are the sole companions of my loneliness, and each night finds them awaiting me beyond the palisade. They are brighter birds than those of my country, but sadder because songless. The saints protect you, sir, in your sleep to-night." "Shall I come with you, mother?" said Madeleine. "Why upon this night more than others?" answered Madame bitterly. "Your way is never mine. When you shall learn to pray with me then you may walk with me." She left the cabin, drawing the door close. "Stay you here," whispered Madeleine, detaining Viner with a gentle hand. "There was that in my mother's manner which makes me fear. I will follow her and bring you word." "I would not have you put yourself to danger." "For me there is no danger." "I go with you," he said. "No!" cried Madeleine, stamping her foot. "You shall not." He gave way and let her have her will. When Madeleine returned with the tidings that a tall French priest was without, the young man's first impulse suggested that he should rush out and attempt to silence the spy, but prudence and a girl's hand detained him. For the first time Geoffrey shuddered at the thought of danger. With those two beautiful eyes watching him tenderly he felt that it was good indeed to live.