“Let it be, Marc Dupre,” as the youth dropped his and from Maren's arm. “Ma'amselle does not object,—a trapper or a cavalier, all are fish to Ma'amselle's net. Mon Dieu! If all were so attractive as Ma'amselle!”
The little maid sighed in exaggerated dolour.
Dupre flashed round on his moccasined heel and reached her in a stride.
“Aha! It is you, by all the saints!” he said beneath his breath, as he took her none too gently by the shoulder. “I know your tricks.”
Aloud he said, “Francette, children should keep from where they are not wanted. Get you back to your mother.”
“Children, you say, M'sieu Dupre? Is eighteen so far behind twenty-two? Grow a beard on your cheek before you give yourself the airs of a man. And, anyway, grown men of twice eighteen have been known to love children of that age.”
It was a dagger thrust, and it found its mark even as the girl glanced slily at her victim. Maren's full mouth twitched and she looked dully away to the fort gate. Dupre gave Francette an ungallant push. “Begone!” he cried angrily; “you little cat!”
With a ringing laugh the maid danced away in the sunshine, and Dupre faced Maren.
“It is that imp of le diable, Francette?” he asked. “What has she done to you, Ma'amselle?”
But Maren shook her head.