"Pish! 'Tis the child of an Indian woman."
"Oh!" The blood again came to the young gallant's forehead.
"Listen, I tell you! I have been scarce better than a prisoner in this man's hands. He has abused me, threatened me, would have beaten me—"
"Madame—Mademoiselle!"
"'Tis true. We have been far in the West, and I could not escape. Good Providence has now brought my rescue—and you, Monsieur! Oh! tell me that it has brought me safety, and also a friend—that it has brought me you!"
With every pulse a-tingle, every vein afire, what could the young gallant do? What but yield, but promise, but swear, but rage?
"Hush!" said Mary Connynge, her own eyes gleaming. "Wait! The time will come. So soon as we reach the settlements, I leave him, and forever! Then—" Their hands met swiftly. "He has abandoned me," murmured Mary Connynge. "He has not spoken to me for weeks, other than words of 'Yes,' or 'No,' 'Do this,' or 'Do that!' Wait! Wait! How soon shall we be at Montréal?"
"Less than a month. 'Twill seem an age, I swear!"
"Madam," interrupted Law, "pardon, but Monsieur Joncaire bids us be ready. Come, help me arrange the packs for our journey. Perhaps Lieutenant de Ligny—for so I think they name you, sir—will pardon us, and will consent to resume his conversation later."
"Assuredly," said De Ligny. "I shall wait, Monsieur."