Who had thrown it, if not that brute DesCaut? Who save DesCaut was so keen on the trail of the factor and the girl? True, De Courtenay was his latest master, and his spoiling of Maren's aim might as easily send the blade into the black as the red, but in either case he would cause her to decide the death she was trying so bravely to postpone.
DesCaut, surely.
The stars wheeled in their endless march, the well-known ones of the forenight giving place to strangers of the after hours, and Ridgar had begun to move with the caution of the hunted, inch by inch, out from the shelter of the lodge, when he felt a hand steal from the darkness and touch him with infinite care. He lay still and presently a voice whispered,
“M'sieu Ridgar?
“Aye?” breathed Ridgar.
“'Tis I,—Marc Dupre from De Seviere.”
“Voila! Another! Are there more of you?”
“I would know first, M'sieu,—where is your heart, with savage or Hudson's Bay?”
“Fair question, truly. I but now am started for yonder lodge on quest of their deliverance, though without hope. Your appearance lends me that.”
“Sacre! 'Tis done already. Listen, M'sieu, with all your ears. Just beyond earshot, up the river to the south there lies a big canoe, with at its nose for instant action two men of Mowbray's brigade, while a hundred yards inland another waits, armed and ready to cover a hurried flight. There needs but loosing of those yonder, M'sieu, and here are we. Two Indians pace the lodge.... You one, me one. What easier?