And in the midst of the awed and hushed excitement that was growing with each passing moment, there cut the voice of McElroy, babbling from the blanket.
“Throw! Throw, Ma'amselle,—for M'sieu!”
“Hush!” said Maren; “where is Prix Laroux?”
“Here!”
The big fellow was pushing through the gathering crowd, to stand before the weary girl with burning eyes.
“Maren!” he said simply, and could say no more.
“Take him, Prix,” she said quietly; “take him to the factory. Get Rette de Lancy's hand above him for care, and Jack for all things else. Take these my men, and give them all the post affords, but chiefly rest at present. They have—”
Here there came a tumult among the listening populace, and Marie rushed through and flung herself upon Maren and there was time for nothing else, save that, as Maren turned with her hanging like a vice about her throat and Henri's arm across her shoulders, there was a streak of crimson, a flash of ornaments in the sun, but now risen above the forest's rim, and some one threw herself upon the unconscious form of McElroy, kissing his face and his helpless hands and weeping terribly.
It was the little Francette. At her heels the great dog, Loup, halted and glowered at the strangers.