“Monsieur,” she said, “you will tell Monsieur Iberville that I may not; I am married.”
“So, madame,” he said. “But I still must give my message.” When he had done so he said: “Will you take the letter?” He held it out.
There was a moment’s doubt and then she took it, but she did not speak.
“Shall I carry no message, madame?”
She hesitated. Then, at last: “Say that I wish him good fortune—with all my heart.”
“Good fortune—ah, madame!” he answered, in a meaning tone.
“Say that I pray God may bless him, and make him a friend of my country,” she added in a low, almost broken voice, and she held out her hand to him.
The gallant woodsman pressed it to his lips. “I am sorry, madame,” he replied, with an admiring look.
She shook her head sadly. “Adieu, monsieur!” she said steadily and very kindly.
A moment after he was gone. She looked at the missive steadfastly for a moment, then thrust it into the folds of her dress and, very pale, walked quietly to the house, where, inside her own room, she lighted a candle. She turned the letter over in her hand once or twice, and her fingers hung at the seal. But all at once she raised it to her lips, and then with a grave, firm look, held it in the flame and saw it pass in smoke. It was the last effort for victory.