Suddenly the door swung open. In the embrasure stood Aurore in her red mackinaw and corduroy trousers. A pair of snowshoes hung over her back, and her hand gripped a short-handled broad axe. Her great eyes turned from Crossman to the Curé, and across her crimson mouth crept her slow smile. The Curé sprang to his feet at sight of her, his face went white, and the lines from nose to lips seemed to draw in.
"Aurore!" he exclaimed; "Aurore!"
"Oui, mon père," she drawled. "It is Aurore." She struck a provocative pose, her hand on her hip, her head thrown back, while her eyes changed colour as alexandrite in the sun.
The Curé turned on Crossman. "What is this woman to you?"
Her eyes defied him. "Tell him," she jeered. "What am I to you?"
"She is here with Antoine Marceau, the log-brander," Crossman answered unsteadily. "She takes care of our cabin, Jakapa's and mine."
"Is that all?" the Priest demanded.
Her eyes challenged him. What, indeed, was she to him? What was she? From the moment he had followed her into the boreal night, with its streaming lights of mystery and promise, she had held his imagination and his thoughts.
"Is that all?" the Priest insisted.
"You insult both this girl and me," Crossman retorted, stung to sudden anger.