She must leave De Seviere at once. Therefore, she raised her head with her face to the west.
It was early dawn again. It seemed that it had ever been dawn when fateful things had happened in this post, every log and stone of which was suddenly dear to her.
She stood in the opened gate and looked back upon it, on the cabins, the well where De Courtenay had placed his first red flower in her hair, the storehouses, and the factory.
The factory!
With sight of it once more the wave of anguish swept over her. She saw the small plain room at the back, the figure of a man prone in his helplessness, a fair head with blue eyes, pleading in their honest clearness, and her lips trembled.
“Ready?” she said, and the deep voice slipped unsteadily.
“Aye,” answered Prix Laroux, and picked up the last pack of chattels.
At that moment there was a flurry among the pressing men around, a sound above the many voices wishing them luck, and little Francette broke through.
“Ma'amselle!” she cried, looking up into Maren's eyes with conflicting expressions on her small face, misery and solemn joy and hatred that strove to soften itself beneath a better emotion; “Ma'amselle,—I would thank you! Oh, bon Dieu! I am not all bad! Here!”
She seized Loup by the ears and dragged him forward, snarling. “Take him, Ma'amselle! I love him! Do you take him,—and—and-understand!”