“You have heard part of the story. Let me join the tangled threads, and you will the better understand my misgivings.”
“Let us go on now. Every hour is precious. And it will delight me to listen to anything that has concerned thee,” bowing low to her.
So she told of her home and her affiliations with the French, being related on her mother’s side, and how she had always liked them the more, while her brother was proud of his Indian blood and his chieftain father. It was not until she had met and loved François Marchand and plighted her troth to him that she was informed of her brother’s intentions toward her, and she prayed to him for the liberty of choosing her own husband—admitted, indeed, that she had chosen him and could be the wife of no one else. Then he had sent a messenger to say that her escort was on the way with orders to bring him to her at once, and that preparations were being made for a grand marriage. The trading fleet was ready. She had only to step on board. At the first mission station they had stopped for the priest to marry them.
“So, you see, I could never, never be the wife of any other man. And this chief has two wives. He told my brother that I should be first: but Indian women do not always accept their dismissal so easily.”
There was a proud, steadfast light in her eyes, the bloom of courage and constancy on her soft cheek. How beautiful she was!
“And M. Marchand——” in a low tone, half inquiry.
“Whether he is dead or alive I do not know. But I am his in death as well as life,” with a firmness that bespoke the utmost devotion.
No, she would never let another wrest from her the holy bond she had given him with her sweet maidenhood love.
Night was coming on apace again. There was no cairn of stones to be transformed into a sleeping chamber. Renée was very tired and a little pettish.
“Is there nothing for supper but these dried, hard cakes and the fish?” she asked discontentedly.