Leaving this path at last, she climbed a low hill. There she entered a narrow grass-grown spot devoid of trees.
Here, with only the fir and balsam trees standing in a circle at a respectful distance to witness, she robed herself in one of those filmy creations known to Paris alone.
Then, with all the native grace that the Creator had bestowed upon her, she went through the steps of that weird dance that was to be the climax of the drama in which she had been given a great part.
“It is now moonlight at the back of a battlefield,” she whispered softly to herself. “This is a dance to the dead, to the dead who live forevermore, to those beautiful brave souls who loved their land more than life.”
Should one have happened upon her there, dancing with the bear, he must surely have been tempted to believe in fairies. So light was her step, so lissom and free her slight form, so zephyr-like her flowing costume, so great the contrast between her and the cumbersome bear, that she seemed at this moment a creature of quite another world. Yet this fairy was capable of feeling fatigue. In time she wound her filmy gown about her and threw herself on a bed of moss, to lie there panting from exhaustion brought on by her wild gyrations.
* * * * * * * *
Florence, having thought out her problems as far as she was able to follow them, which was not far, and having conquered her muskie, had rowed home, docked her boat and entered the cabin. She remained for a few moments indoors; then she reappeared with a basket on her arm. She took the trail of Jeanne and the bear.
It was on this same trail that she experienced a severe shock.
As she trudged along over the moss padded path, her soft soled sneakers made no sound. Thus it happened that, as she rounded a clump of dark spruce trees, she came unobserved upon a little woodland fantasy played by a child and a chipmunk. The chipmunk was in the path, the child at one side. A nut was in the child’s hand, a gleam of desire in the chipmunk’s eye.
The little striped creature advanced a few steps, whisked his tail, retreated, then advanced again. The statuesque attitude of the child was remarkable. “Like a bronze statue,” Florence told herself.