With quickness and precision the whole long village was reduced in a few minutes to rolled coverings, gathered and tied utensils, stacked packs of furs, and ranged canoes already in the water lining the shore.
He could not help a feeling of regret for this wild people, coming but few suns back with their rich peltry, their pomp, and their hopes of gain, as they prepared for the back trail, the whole tribe in deepest mourning.
Of all the tents, that one before the post gate alone stood, silent reproach to the white man's ways.
Around it still knelt a solid pack, wailing and beating the drums.
As the grey light turned whiter, he turned his stiffened neck for a glance at the thing against his shoulder.
He looked into the smiling eyes of Alfred de Courtenay.
“Bonjour, M'sieu,” whispered that ardent venturer; “you nuzzled my arm all night. Apparently we are fellows in captivity, as we have been opposed in war,—and love.”
“Aye, M'sieu,” whispered back McElroy, not relishing the turn of the sentence but passing it by; “and a sorry man am I for this state of events. I owe you my regrets,—not for what I did, mark you,—but for the way and the time and place. Had I waited and proceeded as a gentleman, we should not be in this devilish plight, nor that fine old chief a victim to our blunder.”
“Tish!” said De Courtenay lightly; “'tis all in a day's march. And, besides, I have,—memories,—to shorten the way.”
The pacing guard came back and the two men fell silent.