I smiled at her. "The answer has lost pith and meaning. Yes, mademoiselle, next year will indeed be too late."
She put her hands before her eyes. "Then I will change my answer.
Monsieur, I will marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."
But I would not reply. I walked to the beach where there were dark and stars. I ground my heel into the pebbles, and I did not hear her moccasined step behind me. She had to touch my arm.
"I meant it, monsieur," she whispered.
I raised her fingers, and laid them back against her side. "Why tempt me?" I said rudely. "Happily for you my word is a man's word. We start toward Montreal to-morrow."
"Monsieur, I beg you. Go west to-morrow."
"No, mademoiselle."
"Then—then—monsieur, I give you warning. If we start toward Montreal to-morrow I shall escape you at the first opportunity, and try my fortune alone in the woods."
"You threaten me?"
She stood in front of me. "I would bring you to reason. Yes, I threaten you, in that I shall do what I say. Come, monsieur, I will follow you westward. Your years of preparation, your great opportunity, shall not be wasted because of me."