“Pardon me. I will do you no harm,” he said, with an appeal in his voice. “It was the language that sounded so sweet to me. I am French. I come from Detroit. But we fell in with a band of Indians and only three of us escaped unhurt. We were made prisoners.”
“And we are prisoners, too,” returned Wawataysee, with a sigh. “We come from St. Louis.”
“St. Louis! How strange! I had meant to go there. I have an uncle, Pierre Valbonais.”
“Oh, I know!” cried Renée with delight, as if she had found a friend. “He comes in my uncle’s shop; and Uncle Gaspard likes him. They sit and smoke together.”
“And I am André Valbonais. We are companions in adversity, both prisoners. Whither are you going?”
Wawataysee shook her head. “We do not know, m’sieu.”
He laughed softly. “How natural that sounds! I am glad to hear a familiar voice. Neither do I know my destination. It is one thing to-day, another to-morrow. I do not think they know themselves. Black Feather is chief of the gang. Now and then they quarrel. He killed two Indians not more than a week ago who wanted to have their own way, but he has not been cruel to us. Still, I dream of escape continually.”
“Ah, if we could compass it together!” and Wawataysee’s beautiful eyes went to his very heart.
The woman came out with her beadwork in her hand.
“You are not of our people,” she said. “You have no right here. Go your way.”