The travellers received a hearty welcome, and a number of women immediately surrounded Winona and hurried her to the largest hut.
Warren saw her once before leaving the next morning. “Good-bye, Winona; I shall return in a few weeks at longest. You are safe now until we can reach Canada.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Maxwell. Do not speak so confidently. How can we tell that you will ever return or that I shall ever see Canada? I hate these good-byes,” she said, with trembling lips.
Warren took the childish hand in his and kissed it. “Let us add ’God willing.’”
“No more time,” called Parson Steward. “We’ve a good twenty miles and a bit before night,” the next moment they had shaken hands with Maybee and Judah, and were riding out of camp.
The condition of Warren’s mind was one of bewilderment. He had never in his life imagined anything like his experiences of the past few days. Now and again across the confusion of his mind, images floated vaguely—a white throat tinted by the firelight, a supple figure, a rapt young face, a head held with all a princess’ grace, and dark, flashing eyes. The sound of a sweet voice, soft but not monotonous, fascinated his senses, as he recalled the tones repeating commonplace answers to commonplace questions. Somehow, the poor gown accented the girl’s beauty.
Toward the close of the next day, the two men rode along in silence, save when Steward broke forth in song. He was singing now in a good baritone voice:
“A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save,