Her brother advanced to meet her, and she ran and gave him her hands and her cheek to kiss. They had been apart four years, and looked at each other with scrutinizing gaze. He overtopped her by a head. Barbe expected to find him tall and rudely masculine, but there was change in him for which she was not prepared.
“My sister has grown charming,” pronounced Colin. “Not as large as the Caveliers usually are, but like a bird exquisite in make and graceful motion.”
“Oh, Colin, what is the matter?” demanded Barbe, with direct dart. “I see concealment in your face!”
“What do you see concealed? Perhaps you will tell me that.” He became mottled with those red and white spots which are the blood’s protest against the will.
“The Récollet Father did not answer a word to Monsieur de Tonty’s questions, Colin; and the voice of my uncle the Abbé sounded unnatural. Is there wicked power in those countries you have visited to make you all come back like men half asleep from some drug?”
“Yes, there is!” exclaimed the boy; “I hate that wilderness. When we are once in France I will never venture into such wilds again. They dull me until my tongue seems dead.”
“And, Colin, you did leave my uncle La Salle quite well?”
“It was he who left us. He was in excellent health the last time we saw him.” The boy spoke these words with precision, and Barbe sighed her relief.
“For myself,” she said, “I love this wild world. I shall stay here until my uncle La Salle arrives.”