To a man the men of De Seviere rallied to him and council was held.
Everywhere in the trading-room, the living-room behind, were evidences of the factor and Ridgar. It seemed as if the two men had but just stepped out-were not in hostile hands drifting down the river toward an unspeakable fate.
In the midst of the grave-faced council another step sounded on the sill and once again Maren Le Moyne stood looking in at the factory door, though this time there was no eager interest on her face, only a drawn tenseness which cut to the heart of her leader like a knife.
“Come in, Maren,” he said in aching sympathy.
“Men,” she said straightly, “is there none among you who will turn a hand to save his factor?”
Over every face her eyes travelled slowly, hot and burning.
In every face she read the same thing,—a pitying wonder at the folly of her words.
“Aye,” spoke up Henri Corlier, grizzled and weathered by his years of loyal service to the Great Company, “not a man among us, Ma'amselle, but would give his life if it would serve. It would not serve.”
“And you?” her gaze shifted feverishly to Laroux; “you, Prix?”
“'Tis useless, Maren. What would you have us do?”