“The maid is not to blame. She is but a child in spirit and what le bon Dieu has seen fit to give her has gone to her head. That is all, save as your quick eye has detected, M'sieu, I have received a heavy hurt.”
Suddenly, with that whimsical youthfulness of soul which glimmered at times through her apparent strength, she looked at Dupre with a sort of fright.
“Merci, M'sieu! For what reason does the good God let some things befall?... But I have still a stone. Throughout I will remember that.”
In a moment she was gone, walking toward the cabin of Micene Bordoux, and Marc Dupre went on his quest of Pierre, wondering and all a-tremble with pity and thought of that promise.
Where Marc, with the revelation of adoration, had seen sharply, Micene with her good sense felt vaguely that something was wrong with the intrepid leader of the long trail.
“Maren,” she said this day, as she took the bread pan which had been borrowed, “I fear there is something troubling you. Is there bad news from Athabasca?”
Always there lay behind Maren's eagerness a fear, sleeping like a hidden fawn but ever ready to quiver into life, a fear of news from the Whispering Hills, news that should make the promise of the trail a sudden void.
“Nay, Micene,” smiled Maren, “these latest Indians come from the south.”
“And all is well with the plans?”
The vague uneasiness was not stilled in Micene.