“Maren!” she gasped, with the child's appeal to the stronger nature. “Oh, Maren, what will befall? For love of God, what will befall?”
“Hush, Marie,” answered Maren; “'tis but a tragedy of the wild. Naught will befall us of the post.”
“But those without? What is that roaring of many throats? Little Jean Bleaureau but now ran past crying that the Nakonkirhirinons were killing the factor”
“No!” Marie jumped at the word like one shot, so wild and sudden it was. “No! No! Not yet!”
Even in the stress of the moment Marie stared open-mouthed at her sister.
“Holy Mother! It is love,—that cry! You love the factor!”
“Hush!” whispered Maren, dry-lipped.
The roar from the river bank had sharpened itself into one point of utterance which pierced the calm heavens in a mingling of native speech, French and broken English from Nakonkirhirinon and halfbreed, and, worse than both, dissolute “white Indian,” and its burden was,
“A skin for a skin!”