"Ah!" Dunvegan exclaimed. "I thought as much. But you were legally married?"
"Father Merceraux, the Nor'west priest, married us."
Bruce's face brightened. "That's good. I know Merceraux. So there could have been no trickery. You have a copy of his register?"
"Yes," answered Flora. "I treasure that—and the child."
"So will the Factor," Bruce observed.
The daughter frowned at the repeated mention of the grim one who would pronounce judgment on her for disobeying his orders. "I hate him," she declared; "I hate——"
"Stop!" interrupted Dunvegan harshly. "I don't want your confidences. And take a little advice from me. Don't set your spirit up against his. I know him—perhaps better than you. I myself rather fear to tell him of your desertion."
"Fear!" exclaimed Flora, her glance running over Dunvegan's massive, six-foot frame. "You never felt it. But let Malcolm MacLeod take care. I have power here. Running Wolf wishes me to stay. The tribe I can twist like a river weed. And the Nor'west Company is very active in gaining ground. So let the lord of Oxford House consider. I can stir up trouble for him."
Gazing at the defiant daughter, Bruce did not doubt her ability for provoking mischief. Flora Macleod had not that perfection of womanly beauty which makes abject slaves of men, but she possessed what is perhaps a greater gift. She had inherently a natural authority, a mastery, a fire of conquest which enabled her to subordinate many minds to a single dominance. This was her most apparent talent, not wasting in concealment but growing to supremacy through the frequency of its use. And here, Dunvegan knew, she would not scruple in the using if the dour Factor forced her to extremities.
"Why does Running Wolf wish you to stay?" he asked.