When Dollard strode into the lower bazar it was boiling in turmoil around two wrangling men who had laid claim on one maid. The most placid girls from the remotest benches left their seats to tiptoe and look over each other’s shoulders at the demure prize, who, though she kept her eyes upon the floor and tried to withdraw her wrists from both suitors, laughed slyly. “It is that Madeleine,” the outer girls who were not quarreled over whispered to each other with shrugs. But all the men in delight urged on the fray, uttering partisan cries, “She is thine, brave Picot!” “Keep to thy rights, my little Jean Debois!” to the distress of Madame Bourdon. She spread her hands before the combatants, she commanded them to be at peace and hear her, but they would not have her for their Solomon. “I made my proposals, madame,” cried one. “I but stepped to the notary’s table an instant, when comes this renegade from the woods and snatches my bride. Madame, he hath no second pair of leather breeches. Is he a fit man to espouse a wife? The king must needs support his family. Ah, let me get at thee with my fist, thou hound of Indian camps!” “Come on, peasant,” swelled the coureur de bois. “I’ll show thee how to ruffle at thy master. Mademoiselle has taken me for her husband. She but engaged thee as a servant.” The two men sprang at each other, but were restrained by their delighted companions. “Holy saints!” gasped Madame Bourdon, “must the governor be sent for to silence these rioters? My good men, there are a hundred and fifty girls to choose from.” “I have chosen this one,” hissed red Picot. “I have chosen this one,” scowled black Jean Debois. “Now thou seest,” said Madame Bourdon, presenting her homily to the spectators, “the evil of levity in girls.” “Mademoiselle,” urged Picot at the right ear of the culprit, who still smilingly gazed down her cheeks, “I have the most excellent grant in New France. There is the mill of the seignior. And our priest comes much oftener than is the case in up-river côtes.” “Mademoiselle,” whispered the coureur de bois at her other ear, “thou hast the prettiest face in the hall. Wilt thou deck that clod-turner’s hut with it when a man of spirit wooes thee? The choice is simply this: to yoke thee to an ox, or mate with a trader who can bring wealth out of the woods when the ground fails.” “And an Indian wife from every village,” blazed Picot. “Even there thou couldst never find thee one!” retorted Jean Debois. They menaced each other again. “Choose now between these two men,” said Madame Bourdon, sternly. “Must the garrison of the fort be brought hither to arrest them?” The girl lifted her eyes as a young soldier hurriedly entered the outer door, carrying a parcel. He wore several long pistols, and was deeply scarred across the nose. Pushing through to the object of dispute, he shook some merchandise out of his bundle and threw it into her hands as she met him.