“Maren,” he said, with the wonder of love in his voice, “Maren—my maid!”
And he strode forward swiftly, stooped, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
With a jerk the drooped head came up. She drew from his touch as if it burned her.
“If you please, M'sieu,” she said coldly, “go away.”
McElroy sprang back.
“What? Go away! You wish that,—Ma'amselle?”
The tone more than the words drove out of him all daring of her sweet name, took away in a flash all the personal.
“Of a surety,—go away.”
The factor stood a moment in amazed silence. Did the red flower mean so much to her, then? Had she accepted its message? And yet he knew in his heart that the look in her eyes, the smile on her lips had told their own tale of awakening to his touch. What but the red flower in its birchbark case had wrought the change?
He thought swiftly of De Courtenay's beauty, of his sparkling grace, his braided blue coat, his wide hat, and the long golden curls sweeping his shoulder. Truly a figure to turn a woman's head. But within him there rose a tide of rage, blind vent of the hurt of love, that boded ill for the dashing Nor'wester on the Saskatchewan.