With all the prodigal fire of his wild French blood, the youth dropped on his knee and, catching the fringe on the buckskin garment, pressed it to his lips.
For once Maren, unused to tears, could speak no word.
She only drew him up, her grip like a man's upon his wrists, and turned to the making of the fire.
Dupre drew up his canoe and took a snared wild hen from the bow.
* * * * * * * * *
“I think, Ma'amselle,” said the youth when Maren awaked some hours later from a heavy sleep, during which Dupre had killed the little smoke of the fire and kept silent watch from the shore, “that we had best leave your canoe here and take mine. It is much the better craft.”
“So I see. Mine was but the first I could put my hands upon in the darkness.”
“'Tis that of old Corlier, and sadly lacking in repair. If you will steer, Ma'amselle?”
Thus set forth as forlorn a hope as ever lost itself in that vast region of hard living and daily tragedy, with the strength of the man set behind the woman's wisdom in as delicate a compliment as ever breathed itself in silken halls, and the blind courage of the dreamer urged it on..
At the forks of Red River they passed the signs of a landing.