Marcel was walking on the high river shore above the post with Julie Breton and Fleur. Like a floor below them the surface of the Great Whale moved without ripple in the still June afternoon. Out over the Bay the sun hung in a veil of haze. Back at the post, even the huskies were quiet, lured into sleep by the softness of the air. It was such a day as Jean Marcel had dreamed of more than a year before, in January, back in the barrens, when powdery snow crystals danced in the air as the lifting sun-dogs turned white wastes of rolling tundra into a shimmering sea. He was again with Julie on the cliffs, but there was no joy in his heart.
"The Lelacs have traded their fur," he said, breaking a long silence; "the hearing will take place soon, now."
"Yes, I know, you were with Monsieur Gillies and Henri very late last night," she replied, watching the antics of an inquisitive Canada jay in an adjacent birch.
"Yes, we had some work to do. The Lelacs will not like what we have to tell them."
"I knew that you would be able to show the Crees what bad people these Lelacs are."
"Yes, Julie, we shall prove them liars and thieves; but the stain on the name of Jean Marcel will remain. I cannot deny that Antoine was killed; the Crees will not believe my story."
"Nonsense, Jean," she burst out, "you must make them believe you!"
"Julie," he said, ignoring her words, "since my return I have wanted to tell you—that I wish you all happiness,"—he swallowed hard at the lump in his throat,—"I have heard that you leave Whale River soon."
At the words the girl flushed but turned a level gaze on the man, who looked at the dim, blue shapes of the White Bear Hills far on the southern horizon.
"You have not heard the truth," she said. "Monsieur Wallace has done me the honor to ask me to marry him, but Monsieur Wallace is still a Protestant."