I looked away. "I should be obliged to fight every man of my company first, then every white man that we might meet. It would hardly leave me with an unhampered mind, mademoiselle."
She made no comment with word or eye, and going back to the place where we had been sitting, she dropped upon the sand. I covered her shoulders with the red blanket, and again sat beside her. I would be silent till she chose to speak. After a time I went back into the forest to search fresh fuel for our fire.
When I returned with my arms laden, she turned her face toward me; her sorrowful eyes looked as if she could never again know sleep or forgetfulness. "I am a coward," she said, "yet I thought that cowardice and my desire for life had both died together. I did not draw back from the knives of the Indians, but now I am afraid of a loveless marriage. We are young. We may live many years. Oh, monsieur, I have not the courage!"
I piled the wood on the fire and did not answer. I stirred the red coals and marked how the flames slipped along the dried branches in festoons of light. Pierre was snoring, and I kicked him till he rolled over and swore in bastard French. Then I went to the woman.
"You have won," I said, and I laughed a little,—a mean, harsh laugh, my ears told me, not the laugh of a gentleman. "Mademoiselle, you have won. We start toward Montreal tomorrow. Then marry—whom you will."
She looked into my eyes. "Wait a moment;" she stopped. "Monsieur, how much time have you spent in learning the Indian dialects and preparing for this expedition?"
"Two years."
"And next year will indeed be too late?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We waste good hours," I suggested.
"Mademoiselle, may I say 'good-night'?"
She stepped toward me. "Monsieur, do not spoil your courtesy," she begged. "I asked you a question."