But her step lingered. "You leave us soon?"
"At dawn to-morrow."
"Monsieur! And you go"——
"To the Winnebagoes. I shall return in a week."
She clasped her hands behind her as if her white cloak bound her. "To the Winnebagoes,—to another tribe of Indians! Are you sure that they are friendly? I forget that there are Indians in the forest, since I see none here. Ah, you must sleep now if you are to rise so early. Good-night, and—thank you, monsieur. Good-night." I had hardly bowed to her in turn before her long light step had brought her to her door.
And then I went back to work. The furs had been sorted, labeled, and cached; the canoe had been dried, and its splints examined and new bales of merchandise had been made up for the trip on the morrow. But there remained much writing and figuring to be gone over. It seemed as if I had but closed my eyes when Labarthe touched me on the shoulder and told me it was dawn.
And out in the dawn I found the woman. She had seen to it that the whole camp was astir, and the fire was crackling and the kettle already puffing steam. The morning was austere and gray-veiled, so that the red blaze was like the cheer of home. We ate with laughter, and sleepy birds scolded in the thickets. The woman sparkled with dainty merriment that held my thanks at bay. It was only when she waved her adieus at the beach that she dropped her foils.
"I shall pray for fair winds, monsieur," she called.
I looked back at her across the widening water. "Madame, can you hear me? The wind I pray for will blow me back to you."
Metaphor aside, it was a favorable day and the breeze was with us. We pushed up a tarpaulin on our paddles for a square sail, and covered the distance to the west shore of La Baye in a few hours. Before night we were lifting the rush mats that hung before the reed-thatched lodges of the Winnebagoes.