“I think the time will come, M'sieu,—and, when it does, it will be worth while. I think it would be a lifting sight to see you in some great crisis, before some heavy test.”
“You do?” he said slowly; “you do, Ma'amselle? Then, by Heaven, it would!”
“And some day I shall see it.”
They little knew, these two in their glowing youth, how true was that word, nor how tragic that sight would be.
“And till then,” said this wild youth of the forest, “until then may we be friends?” The head under the crimson cap was whirling.
“Friends?” smiled Maken, and her voice was very gentle; “assuredly, M'sieu—I had destined you for that some time ago.”
As she turned away, her glance once more fell upon the long camp of the Assiniboines, and Marc Dupre faded from her mind.
Not so with him, left sitting on the flat stone, the blood hot in his face and a sudden mist before his eyes.
Her last words sang in his ears like the voice of many waters.
He did not look after her,—there was something within that held him silent, staring at the waters of the river, now sparkling like a stream of diamonds in the risen sun, the lightness gone from him and a trembling loosed in his bosom.