The words broke in a moan and the child began to cry.
"Hush, dearie! The birds never cry, nor the beavers, nor the great, bold eagle! My own little warrior must never cry! All the birds and the beasts and the warriors are asleep! What does Eric say before he goes to sleep?"
A pair of chubby arms were flung about her neck and passionate, childish kisses pressed her forehead and her cheeks and her lips. Then he slipped to his knees and put his face in her lap.
"God bless my papa—and keep my mamma—and make little Eric brave and good—for Jesus' sake——" the child hesitated.
"Amen," prompted the gentle voice of the mother.
"And keep little Eric for my mamma so she won't cry," added the child, "for Jesus' sake—Amen," and he scrambled to his feet.
A low, piercing whistle cut the night air like the flight of an arrow-shaft. It was Louis Laplante's signal that Diable and the squaw were coming back. At the sound, mother and child started up in alarm. Then they saw me standing in the open way. A gasp of fright came from the white woman's lips. I could tell from her voice that she was all a-tremble, and the little one began to whimper in a smothered, suppressed way.
I whispered one word—"Miriam!"
With a faint cry of anguish, she leaped forward. "Is it you, Eric? O Eric! is it you?" she asked.
"No—no, Miriam, not Eric, but Eric's friend, Rufus Gillespie."