“Aye, an' may the Good God have mercy on our factor!” whimpered a withered old woman, wife of a trapper, making the sign of the cross; “nor hold back His mercy from the other!”
Night seemed to fall early on Fort de Seviere, waiting sadly for its healing touch on fevered hearts.
Throughout the long day a waiting hush had lain upon the post, an expectancy of ill.
Over the dark forest the stars came out on a velvet sky, and a little wind came out of the south, nightbirds called from the depths, and peace spread over the Northland like a blanket.
While the twilight lasted with its gorgeous phantasmagoria there were none of the accustomed sounds of pleasure in the post,—no fiddle squeaked by the stockade wall, no happy laughter wafted from the cabins. Even the sleepy children seemed to feel the strangeness and hushed their peevish crying.
Night and darkness and loneliness held sway, and in one heart the shadows of the world were gathered.
What was the meaning of this Life whose gift was Pain, where was the glory of existence?
By the window to the east Maren Le Moyne stood in the darkness, with her hands upon her breast and her face set after the manner of the dreamer who follows his visions in simpleness of soul.
Once again a great call was sounding from the wilderness, as that which lured her to the Whispering Hills had sounded since she could remember, once more the Long Trail beckoned, and once more she answered, simply and without fear.
She waited for the depth of night.