"Then let him die as the good God intends."
"Mam'selle, I never heard a human voice so like a bird's," Savignon declared, in a tone of admiration. "Do you know other voices that range in Quebec?"
She laughed, her present anger vanishing.
"I used to tame them when I was a child. They would come at my call. I loved them so. And a tame deer knew my voice and followed me."
"As anything would. Mam'selle, sing or whistle, and it will make our steps lighter. Among the Bostonnais they march to music not as sweet as thine."
She was glad to give them pleasure.
The last day seemed long indeed, to her. Once they mistook the path and had to pick their way back. Savignon's acute eyes told him another party had crossed it, and he went on warily.
Presently, in the coming darkness, two scouts ran on ahead.
"Art thou tired, Mam'selle?" asked the well-modulated voice that had lost the guttural Indian tone.
"Not tired, but impatient. Do you suppose we have missed them? What if they should have started in some other direction?"