"Your fire is too closely packed."
"It is not," she snapped, daring him with her eyes.
"You say it is not," he agreed; but loosening the heap.
"I fear that it was," she sighed. "And the wood is damp."
Geoffrey rebuilt the fire, placing the hot embers to face the wind, and fanned the sticks until they burst into flame.
The daylight went out like a failing lamp, and a red glow flung about them as the fire increased.
"I know that you are weary, sir," said the girl winningly. "Let me lead you into the house and present you to my mother."
Seeing wonder upon the young man's face, she pointed her shapely hand through the smoke.
"Down there my father lies," she explained in a hushed voice. "Deep in the hollow where the beavers bite the bark at night. There the Indians made his grave. French though we are, the Iroquois have been friendly, because my father, who was a skilled physician, used them well. Here my father hid from the world. He found a rest here, and yonder he rests still hidden. I am with my mother and one native servant, who loves us because my father saved his life. And I—I have never known a friend."
"Lady," said Geoffrey suddenly, "I would serve you if I might."