"To whom?" The question throbbed with a rush to my lips.
"Stupid dolt!" snarled Louis. "Follow me! Keep your ears open for my whistle—one—they return—two—come you out of the tent—three, we are caught, save yourself!"
I followed the Frenchman in silence. It was a hazy summer night with just enough light from the sickle moon for us to pick our way past the lodges to a large newly-erected wigwam with a small white tent behind.
"This way," whispered Louis, leading through the first to an opening hidden by a hanging robe. Raising the skin, he shoved me forward and hastened out to keep guard.
The figure of a woman with a child in her arms was silhouetted against the white tent wall. She was sitting on some robes, crooning in a low voice to the child, and was unaware of my presence.
"And was my little Eric at the hunt, and did he shoot an arrow all by himself?" she asked, fondling the face that snuggled against her shoulder.
The boy gurgled back a low, happy laugh and lisped some childish reply, which only a mother could translate.
"And he will grow big, big and be a great warrior and fight—fight for his poor mother," she whispered, lowering her voice and caressing the child's curls.
The little fellow sat up of a sudden facing his mother and struck out squarely with both fists, not uttering a word.
"My brave, brave little Eric! My only one, all that God has left to me!" she sobbed hiding her weeping face on the child's neck. "O my God, let me but keep my little one! Thou hast given him to me and I have treasured him as a jewel from Thine own crown! O my God, let me but keep my darling, keep him as Thy gift—and—and—O my God!—Thy—Thy—Thy will be done!"