On, on, the little canoe sped. The dense forests grew deeper and darker as the light waned. Alaine with eyes strained for sight of a passing boat scarcely moved, but as the sun began to sink and to redden the water she shivered. Night was coming, and what would it bring her? Her thoughts travelled to her humble home in the village. Now Gerard and Papa Louis were coming in from the field; now Michelle was milking; now they were making ready for supper, a salad, an omelette, maybe. They would miss her; they would fear that she might be drowned, or that something dreadful had happened. Something dreadful? It had happened.
The light and rosy clouds were turning to gray when the boat at last touched shore. All was as silent as death. The great sombre pines beyond the sands loomed up grimly against the sky; a sea-bird once in a while dipped its wing into the waves, then, with a cry, circled aloft. The girl crouching in the canoe did not attempt to move even when the Indian drew the boat high off the sands. He waited for a moment, then put a hand on her shoulder with the word, “Come.” She obediently arose, and he helped her out upon dry land. Then seizing her wrist, he strode up the beach toward the woods, which he entered by a narrow path. Beyond, a faint glimmer of light showed that a clearing existed not far off.
Alaine gave a little cry as, issuing from the dimness of the forest, she saw before her a substantial house, from the windows of which flickering lights were already beginning to twinkle. What was this, and who lived here? For a moment a sense of relief stole over her. This was no Indian camp, but the home of white people; all the surroundings indicated it. The evening breeze fluttered the vine-leaves over the small porch. Across this small porch the patient prisoner was led, and before a door the Indian paused for a moment. “Warraquid has come,” announced he.
The door flew open and out stepped, gay and debonair, François Dupont. “Good-evening, Mademoiselle Hervieu,” he said, with a splendid bow, “I trust I see you well. Your little trip has in no way given you discomfort, I hope. So fine an evening as this it should be delightful upon the water. Permit me.” He extended his hand, but she proudly preceded him into the room, the door of which he held open for her.
It was a pathetic little figure which stood before the half-dozen men assembled in the great room; her black silk gown was stained by mud and torn by briers, and her little high-heeled shoes were scratched and rubbed by rough stones, but the pale face, usually so sweetly piquant, held a look of noble resolve, though the shadows under the dark eyes bespoke anxiety.
“This, gentlemen,” announced M. Dupont, “is Mademoiselle Hervieu, whose presence here is not so much a compliment to us as we could wish, since she was not aware of her destination.” The gentlemen, who had arisen when the girl entered, now bowed low, and one advanced to lead her to a seat.
“Though you visit us perforce, mademoiselle,” said this gentleman, “we trust your stay will not need be made a disagreeable one. You have but to answer a few questions and you will be safely returned to your own home.”
“And if I cannot answer them.”
“If you will not M. Dupont will tell you the alternative, which, after all, is not so unpleasant a one, or should not be to a young and charming lady. First, then, you are well acquainted with Pierre Boutillier, Louis Mercier, and——”
Alaine turned swiftly. “I demand to know the alternative before I answer these questions.” She faced M. Dupont imperiously. “It is true that I am here by no choice of my own, and my lips are sealed unless I know some good reason why I should speak. Whatever is just and right I will answer, but nothing else.”