She came close to the white girl who shrank back terrified at the eyes fixed so resolutely on her.
"You are the French girl who wants to marry Louis Marsac," she hissed, between her white teeth.
"I am a French girl, Jeanne Angelot, and he stole me from Detroit. I do not want to marry him. Oh, no! a thousand times no! I have told him that I shall kill myself if he forces me to marry him!"
The Indian girl looked amazed. Her hands dropped at her side. Her eyes flickered in wavering lights, and her breath came in gasps.
"You do not want to marry him?"
Her voice was hoarse, guttural. "Ah, you lie! You make believe! It cannot be! Why, then, did you come up here? And why has he gone to L'Arbre Croche for the priest he expected?"
"I told you. He hired some Indians to take me from Detroit, after his boat had left. I would not go. I did not want to marry him and said 'no' dozens of times. They took me out in a canoe. I think they were Hurons; I did not understand their language. Somewhere—I do not know where we are now, and I cannot remember the days that passed, but they met the trader's boat and put me on it, and then I knew it was Louis Marsac who had stolen me. Has he gone for a priest? Is that what you said? Oh, save me! Help me to escape. I might throw myself into the bay, but I can swim. I should not like to die when life is so sweet and beautiful, and I am afraid I should try to save myself or some one might rescue me. Oh, believe it is no lie! I do not want to marry him."
"You have another lover?" The eyes seemed to pierce her through, as if sure of an affirmative.
"I have no lover, not even in Detroit. I do not like love. It is foolish and full of hot kisses, and I do not want to marry. Oh, save me if you have any pity! Help me to escape!"
She slipped down at the Indian girl's feet and caught at the garment of feathers so smooth and soft it seemed like satin.