“I have chosen this one,” hissed red Picot.
“I have chosen this one,” scowled black Jean Debois.
“Now thou seest,” said Madame Bourdon, presenting her homily to the spectators, “the evil of levity in girls.”
“Mademoiselle,” urged Picot at the right ear of the culprit, who still smilingly gazed down her cheeks, “I have the most excellent grant in New France. There is the mill of the seignior. And our priest comes much oftener than is the case in up-river côtes.”
“Mademoiselle,” whispered the coureur de bois at her other ear, “thou hast the prettiest face in the hall. Wilt thou deck that clod-turner’s hut with it when a man of spirit wooes thee? The choice is simply this: to yoke thee to an ox, or mate with a trader who can bring wealth out of the woods when the ground fails.”
“And an Indian wife from every village,” blazed Picot.
“Even there thou couldst never find thee one!” retorted Jean Debois. They menaced each other again.
“Choose now between these two men,” said Madame Bourdon, sternly. “Must the garrison of the fort be brought hither to arrest them?”
The girl lifted her eyes as a young soldier hurriedly entered the outer door, carrying a parcel. He wore several long pistols, and was deeply scarred across the nose. Pushing through to the object of dispute, he shook some merchandise out of his bundle and threw it into her hands as she met him.