"Now, Klussman," said Marie, meeting her lieutenant with the intentness of one used to sudden military emergencies. He trod straight to the fireplace, and pointed at the strange girl, who hid her face.
"Madame, I have come in to speak of a thing you ought to know. Has that woman told you her name?"
"No, she hath not. She hath kept a close tongue ever since we found her at the outpost."
"She ever had a close tongue, madame, but she works her will in silence. It hath been no good will to me, and it will be no good will to the Fort of St. John."
"Who is she, Klussman?"
"I know not what name she bears now, but two years since she bore the name of Marguerite Klussman."
"Surely she is not your sister?"
"No, madame. She is only my wife." He lifted his lip, and his blue eyes stared at the muffled culprit.
"We knew not you had a wife when you entered our service, Klussman."
"Nor had I, madame. D'Aulnay de Charnisay had already taken her."