“What? Was it not confession at the post gate when this painted rabble fell upon us? Or is it still the maiden within fearing the word of love? In such short space, Sweetheart, there is no time for girlish fears. Be strong in that as in the courage of the lone trail. Speak!”
“Speak?” said Maren, with her old calmness; “of a surety, M'sieu. Though I have thrilled at your careless bravery, your laughing daring which, as you say truly, is kin of my heart,—though I have taken your red flowers, yet there is in me no spark of love for you, no thought beyond the admiration of a true son of fortune. That alone, M'sieu.”
De Courtenay was staring at her in the blackness of the lodge, his arm fallen loose about her shoulders.
“Name of God!” he whispered wonderingly, “it is not love? Then what, in the living world, has brought you over the waste to this camp of hostile savages?”
“This,” said Maren, and she reached a hand to the body of McElroy.
“Sancta Maria! This factor? This heavy-blooded man?... But he did speak of half-requited—Oh, Saints of Heaven! What a jest of the world! The threads of tragedy are tangled into a farce!”
De Courtenay threw up his head and took a silent laugh at the ways of Fate.
“Three fools together! And the riddle's key too late! At least I can set it straight for one—”
He broke his laughing whisper to listen to new sounds without, a dull blow, muffled and heavy, the slight whisper of garments sliding against garments, the crunch and rustle of a body eased down to earth,—nay, two blows, coming at a little interval, and from either end the beat walked by the two guards, and from the southern end there came a grunt, a cry choked in the throat that uttered it. Instantly the venturer was up and at the flap, peering outside. A figure loomed against the stars, paced slowly by with an audible step, passed and turned and passed again.
It was Marc Dupre, an eagle feather, snatched from the quivering form of the guard lying in the darkness by the wall of the lodge, slanting from his head against the heavens.