The weather was splendid, the sky cloudless, the air scented with the resinous fragrance of cedar, fir, and pine.  They paused for a midday lunch and then kept on until dark.  In a clearing in an almost impenetrable forest they paused, built a fire, and prepared to camp.  Savignon drew some young saplings together and filled up the interstices with boughs, ordering smaller ones inside that a sort of bed should be raised off the ground.  One of the men had shot some squirrels, and their broiling over the coals was appetizing.

“You and Wanamee will be quite safe,” the guide said.  “We shall wrap in our blankets and sleep about the fire.  If you hear the cry of wolves, do not be alarmed.”

“How good you are,” Rose returned, her eyes glorious with grateful emotions.  “M.  Destournier will never forget your service.  It cannot be rewarded.”

“Mam’selle, a man would give his life for your pleasure.  Sleep well and do not fear.”

And sleep she did, with the slumber of youth and health.  Naught came to alarm them.

Their second day’s journey was uneventful, though it was not so clear and sunny, and again they camped for the night.  Was there only one day more?  Rose’s heart beat with alternate fear and joy.  Indeed, they might meet the cavalcade on the way.

She would not admit fatigue, indeed she did not feel it.  Her grand hope gave lightness to her step and color to her cheeks, which were like a delicious opening rose, and you were fain to declare they had the same fragrance.  When she talked to Wanamee, Savignon did not listen for any girlish secrets, but simply the music of her voice.  That day some bird astray in the forest gave his whistle, perhaps to his mate, and she answered it with the most enchanting music.  He came so near they could hear the flutter of his wings.  Cadotte started up with his gun.

“You shall not kill it!” she cried.  “Do you think I would lure a bird to such a cruel, treacherous death!”

Her face was bewitching in its indignation.  What spirit, what strength of purpose shone in it!

“He will freeze before spring, Mam’selle,” Cadotte returned sullenly.

“Then let him die as the good God intends.”

“Mam’selle, I never heard a human voice so like a bird’s,” Savignon declared, in a tone of admiration.  “Do you know other voices that range in Quebec?”

She laughed, her present anger vanishing.

“I used to tame them when I was a child.  They would come at my call.  I loved them so.  And a tame deer knew my voice and followed me.”

“As anything would.  Mam’selle, sing or whistle, and it will make our steps lighter.  Among the Bostonnais they march to music not as sweet as thine.”

She was glad to give them pleasure.

The last day seemed long indeed, to her.  Once they mistook the path and had to pick their way back.  Savignon’s acute eyes told him another party had crossed it, and he went on warily.

Presently, in the coming darkness, two scouts ran on ahead.

“Art thou tired, Mam’selle?” asked the well-modulated voice that had lost the guttural Indian tone.

“Not tired, but impatient.  Do you suppose we have missed them?  What if they should have started in some other direction?”

“I hardly think that.  I have expected to meet them.  M. Destournier must have been more disabled than we supposed.  But we shall soon know.”

Oh, what if he were dead!  A blackness fell over everything.  She caught Wanamee’s arm for support.  It was growing so dark they kept closer together.  The dead leaves rustled under their feet, now and then in an opening they saw the sky in the soft, whitish-gray tints before it turns to blue.

There was a shrill, prolonged whistle.

“They are coming back with news.”  Savignon guessed it was not cheering.  He answered through his fingers.

The two scouts came hurrying forward.

“They are gone.  They must have taken some other road.  The campfire is out, the stones are missing.  What shall we do?”

Rose gave a soft, appealing cry, that she vainly strove to restrain.

“We had better go on.  We must stop for the night.  It is too dark to find their trail.”

It seemed to Rose as if she would sink to the ground with indescribable terror.

“Oh, do you think ­” She caught Savignon’s arm.

“They have started on and missed the trail,” he replied, in an almost indifferent tone, but he guessed in his heart there had been some surprise.  “We must find the old place and camp for the night.  To-morrow we will seek out the trail.”

“You do not think there can have been ­” Her voice faltered for very fear.

“We had best think nothing.  We should no doubt come wide of the mark.  Let us push on,” to the men.

There were heavy hearts and slow steps.  It seemed as if it must be midnight when they reached the clearing, though it was not that late.  They built their fire.  Cadotte and Savignon took a survey.

“Another party has been here,” Cadotte exclaimed, in a whisper.  “There has been a struggle.  They are carried off somewhere.”

“Do not speak of it to-night.  The women are tired.  And Mam’selle will have a thousand fears.”

They found the others busy with fire and supper.  Rose sat apart, her face buried in her hands, a thousand wild fears chasing one another through her mind.  Life would be dreary if ­if what?  If he were dead?  Had he suffered long with no one to cheer?  Or had he been suddenly despatched by some marauding party?  Then they would find his poor body.  Yes, to-morrow they would know all.

She did not want any supper and crept to bed, weeping out her fears in Wanamee’s arms.

They were all astir the next morning at daybreak.  It was a little cloudy.  The three days had been unusually fine.  Savignon had been tracing this and that clew, and presently came upon a piece of wampum, with a curious Huron design at one end.  And a little further on he found a trail where things had been roughly dragged.  But he came to breakfast with no explanation.

Did the Rose of Quebec care so much for this man?  He had been like a father to her, perhaps it was only a child’s love.  But now M. Destournier was free to choose a new wife ­if he were alive.  He was a brave man, a fine man, but if he were dead!  The Hurons would show scant pity to a disabled man.  Savignon had done and would do his best, but somehow he could not feel so bitterly grieved.  He loved this woman ­he knew that now.

They were discussing plans when a near-by step startled them.  Parting the undergrowth, a torn and dishevelled man appeared.  It was Paul De Loie.  He almost dropped on the ground at their feet.

“I have run all night,” he cried gaspingly.  “The Hurons!  They took us prisoners, and the stores.  They are expecting another relay of the tribe, and are going up north for the winter, to join the Ottawas.  But first they are to have a carouse and dance,” and the three prisoners are to be tortured and put to death.  He had escaped.  He supposed the party would be back for M. Destournier and the stores.  They must fly at once, and return if they would save their lives.  And what madness possessed them to bring women!

“Wait!” commanded Savignon.  “Let us go apart, De Loie, and consider the matter,” and taking the man by the arm, he raised him and walked him a little distance.

“Now tell me ­M.  Destournier ­how did he progress?”

“Well, indeed.  We made him a crutch.  We decided to take what stores we could manage, and resume our journey, thinking we would be met by some of the party. Ma foi, if we had started a day earlier!  There were not many of them, but twice too many for us.  There was nothing to do, we could gain nothing by selling our lives, we thought, but now they will take them.  In two days the rest of the party, thirty or forty, will join them.  We cannot rescue the others.  Vauban could have escaped, but he would not leave M. Destournier.  And now retrace your steps at once.”

Savignon buried his face in his hands, in deep thought.  Should he try to rescue these men?  The Hurons were superstitious.  More than once he had played on Indian credulity.  He held some curious secrets, he had the wampum belt that he could produce, as if by magic.  He was fond, too, of adventure, of power.  And he imagined he saw a way to win the prize he coveted.  He was madly, wildly in love with Rose.  She was heroic.  If she would grant his desire, the safety of three people would accrue from it.  And surely she had not loved the Frenchman, who until a brief while ago had a wife.  As he understood, they had been as parents to her.  She was young, but if a man could inspire her with love ­with gratitude even ­

He questioned De Loie very closely.  The trouble with Destournier would be his inability to travel rapidly.  They would soon be overtaken.  Escape that way was not feasible.

“I will consider.  Come and share our breakfast.”

Rose was walking by herself, on the outskirts of the clearing, her slim hands clasped together, her head drooping, and even so her figure would have attracted a sculptor.  The Indian was enchanted with it.  To clasp it in his arms ­ah, the thought set his hot blood in a flame.

She turned and raised her eyes beseechingly, her beautiful, fathomless eyes in whose depths a man easily lost himself, the curved sweetness of the mouth that one might drain and drain, and never quite have his fill.

“What is it, M’sieu?  Is there any hope?  Can nothing be done?” Her voice went to his heart.

“What would you be willing to do, Mam’selle?”

“If I were a man I would attempt his rescue, or die with him.  It would not be so hard to die holding a friend’s hand.”

“You love him very much?”

The love Savignon meant had so little place in her thoughts that the question did not cause her to change color.

“He was so good to me when I was little, and ill for a long while.  He used to hold me on his knee, and let my head rest on his strong breast.  And when I was well again we climbed rocks, and he showed me where the choicest wild fruit grew.  And we went out in the canoe.  He taught me to read, he had books of strange, beautiful stories.  And after he married miladi he took me in his home as if I was a child.  Ah, I could not help loving one so kind, unless I had been made of stone.  And I wanted to comfort him in his sorrow.”

Her voice, in its pathos, the eyes luminous with tears that did not fall, swept through the man like a devouring flame.  He must have her.  He would risk all, he would test her very soul.

“You have not said what you would give.”

“My life, M’sieu, if I could exchange it for his.”

“It does not need that.  Listen, Mam’selle:  When I first looked upon you, I was swept away with a strange emotion.  I had seen lovely girls, there are some in our own race, with eyes of velvet, and lips that tempt kisses.  And I knew when I helped you get your way on this expedition, what it was; that I loved you, that I would have kissed the ground you had walked on.  And on our journey here I have dreamed beautiful, thrilling dreams of you.  I slept at the door of your improvised tent lest some danger should come upon you unawares.  Last night when I noted your tired step I wanted to take you in my arms and carry you.  You have filled my soul and my body with the rapture of love.  I can think of nothing else but the bliss of straining you to my heart, of touching your lips with the fire that plays about mine, like the rosy lightning that flashes through the heavens, engendered by the heat of the day.  Oh, take me for your husband, and your life shall be filled with the best I can give.  You shall not weary your small hands with work, they shall be kept for a husband’s kisses.  I will worship you as the priests do their Virgin.”

She had been transfixed at the outburst and flaming, passionate tone, that in its vehemence seemed to grow finer, loftier.  Was that love’s work?

“But it will not save M. Destournier,” she wailed.

“Listen again.”  He stood up, manly and strong, and somehow touched her with a subtle influence.  It is not in a woman’s nature to listen to a tale of passionate love unmoved.  “Once, among the Hurons an old witch woman was wild to adopt me for her son.  She gave me a great many secret charms, many you white people would think the utmost foolishness.  Some were curious.  And my people are superstitious.  I have used them more than once to the advantage of myself and others.  I have brought about peace between warring tribes.  I have prevented war.  I will go to the Hurons, and try for M. Destournier’s liberty.  From what De Loie said, they mean to sacrifice the men to-morrow.  There are horrid, agonizing tortures before death comes.  If you will promise to marry me I will go at once and do my utmost to rescue him, them.”

“And if you fail?” Her very breath seemed like a blast of winter cold.

“Then, Mam’selle, I can ask no reward, only a share in your sorrow.  I will try to lighten their sufferings.  That is all I can do.”

She crossed her arms upon her breast and rocked herself to and fro.

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot,” she said, with a cry of anguish.  “Another man, our dear Madame de Champlain’s brother asked this thing of me, and I could not.  I do not want to marry.”

“All women do in their hearts,” he said moodily.

Was she not quite a woman yet?  Had she just the soul of the little girl who had climbed trees, scaled rocks, and plunged headlong into the river to swim like a fish!

“It is three lives,” he said, with the persuasive voice of the tempter.

Three lives!  And among them her best friend!  Something rose in her throat, and she thought she was dying.

“And if I cannot?” in a tone of desperate anguish.

“Then we must start homeward at once.  When the Hurons have whet their appetite with their hellish pleasure, it is not easily satisfied.  They will look about for more fuel to add to the flames.  So we must decide.  I cannot risk my own liberty for months for nothing.  It will not make M. Destournier’s death pang easier.”

“Oh, go away, go away!” she almost shrieked, but the sorrow in her voice took off the harshness.  “Let me think.  I do not love you!  I might run away.  I might drown myself.  I might not be able to keep my promise.”

“I should love you so much that you would not want to break it.  Ah, I could trust you, since you love no one else that you desire to marry.”

She dropped on the ground and hid her face, too much stunned even to cry.  “Three lives” kept singing in her ears.  Was she not selfish and cruel?  O God, what could she do!

“You know even the Sieur and the priests have approved of these mixed marriages, so there would be no voice raised against it.  The children would belong to the Church and be reared in the ways of wisdom and honor.  In my way I am well born.  I could take you to Paris, where you would be well received.  I have had some excellent training.  Oh, it would be no disgrace.”

They were calling to him from the group.  He turned away.  His intense love for her, his little understanding of a woman’s soul, his passionate nature, not yet adjusted to the higher civilization, could not understand and appreciate the cruelty.

When he came back her small hands were nervously beating the dried turf.  He could not see her face.

“They have decided to go at once,” he exclaimed.  “De Loie says there is no time to lose.”

“I shall stay here and die,” she said.

“That will not save any one’s life.”

Oh, that was the pity of it!

She rose with a strained white face.  She looked like some of the beautiful carvings he had seen abroad.  Not even anguish could make her unlovely.

“If you will go,” she began hoarsely, and she seemed to strain her very soul to utter the words, “and bring back M. Destournier, and the others, I will marry you ­not now, but months hence, when I can resolve upon the step.  I shall have to learn ­no, you must not touch me, nor kiss me, until I give you leave.”

“But you must let me take your hand once, and promise by the Holy Mother of God.”

His seriousness overawed her.  She rose and held out her slim, white hand, from which the summer’s brown had faded.  Her lips shook as if with an ague, but she promised.

He wanted to kiss the hand, but he in turn was overawed.

She heard the voices raised in dissent around the fire.  What if they would not let him go?  She was chill and cold, and almost did not care.  She would stay here and die.  Perhaps they could take the strange, awesome journey together.

Wanamee joined her.  “Savignon has determined to go to the rescue of the men,” she began, “but De Loie thinks it a crazy step.  And we must stay and risk being made prisoners.  What is the matter, ma fille?  You are as white as the river foam in a storm.”

“I am tired,” she made answer.  “I slept poorly last night.  Then they think there is no chance of success?”

“Oh, no, no!  And we ought to escape.”

She dropped down again, pillowing her head on a little rise of ground.  Should she be glad, or sorry?  Either way she seemed stunned.

The sky cleared up presently, and the sun came out.  The few men walked about disconsolately.  The rations were apportioned, some went farther in the woods, to find nuts, if possible.  Now that the stores had been taken and two days added to the journey, want might be their portion.

Two of the men succeeded in finding some game.  There was a small stream of water, but no fish were discernible in it.  It froze over at night, but they could quench their thirst, and with some dried pennyroyal made a draught of tea.

Rose wondered if she had ever prayed before!  All she could say now was:  “Oh, Holy Mother of God, have pity on me.”

The long night passed.  De Loie said in the morning:  “I think one of you had better start with the women.  If we should be beset with the savages, they might find their way home.  Here are some points I have marked out.”

“No,” returned Rose, “let us all perish together.”

“Mon Dieu! Do you suppose they would let you perish?  You would have to be squaw to some brave.”

Rose shuddered.  No, she could but die.

De Loie started out on the path he had come.  It was mid-afternoon.  A light snow began to fall, and the wind moaned in the trees.  Rose and Wanamee huddled together at the fire, their arms around each other, under the blanket.  It was easy to love Wanamee.  But then she had begun it as a child ­Was it easy to love when one was grown?

The darkness was descending when they heard a shout.  Was it friend or foe?  Another, and it came nearer.  It was not the voice of an Indian.

De Loie rushed in upon them.  “You men go and relieve those at the litter.  Savignon is a wizard.  He has the three men.  I could not believe it at first, and I am afraid now it is a trick.  You cannot trust an Indian.”

Rose drew a long breath.  Then her fate was sealed.  Or, if they were attacked in the night, it would be some compensation to die together.

They came in at last, with Destournier on an improvised hemlock litter.  The fire blazed up brightly, making a striking picture of the eager faces.  The men lowered the litter to the ground, and they crowded around it.  Destournier was ghostly pale, but full of thankfulness.  When there was a little space open he reached out his hand to Rose.

“You two women have been very brave, but you should not have taken the journey.  As for Savignon, we all owe him a debt that we can never repay.”

“It is repaid already,” returned the Indian, glancing over at Rose.  “To have rescued you ­”

“What arts and incantations you used!  I could not have believed it possible to move their stony hearts.”

“It was not their hearts.”  Savignon gave a grim smile.  “It was their fears that were worked upon.  I was afraid at one time that I would not succeed.  But I had a reward before me.”

“Quebec will pay you all honor.  It is a grand thing to have saved three lives from torture and death.  For there was no other escape.”

That night Destournier related the surprise and capture.  The stores were a great loss.  But they would not let him bemoan them.

“We must get back as rapidly as we can,” he said.  “I do not trust the temper of the reinforcements, when they find they have been balked of their prey.”

The snow had only been a light fall, and the trees in their higher branches were marvels of beauty.  It had not reached the ground in many places.

After a frugal breakfast the cavalcade started.  Destournier insisted upon walking at first, as he was freshened by his night’s rest, comparatively free from anxiety.  His broken leg was well bandaged, and he used two crutches.  Rose noticed the thinness and pallor, and the general languid air, but she kept herself quite in the background.  Savignon was really leader of the small party.

“Wanamee,” she said, in a low tone, “will you tell M. Ralph about miladi? ­I thought to do it, but I cannot.  And I am so sorry she left no message for him.  He was always so good to her.  And you can tell him I held her a long while in my arms that night.”

“You were an angel to her, ma fille.  I used to wonder sometimes ­”

“I suppose it was being ill so long, and trying so hard to get well, that made her unreasonable.  It is better to go out of life suddenly, do you not think so?”

“I should like to know a little about the hereafter.  You see our nation believe we go at once to another land, and do not stay in that miserable place they tell of.  But many of the braves believe there are no women in the happy hunting grounds.  One is swung this way and that,” and Wanamee sighed.

Rose’s mind was torn and distracted by her promise.  Now and then an awful shudder took her in a giant grasp, and she thought she would drop down and ask them to leave her.  Savignon would stay behind, if she proposed that.  What if he had not gone to the Hurons?  Frightful stories of torture she had heard rushed to her mind.  Old Noko had witnessed them.  So had some of the men at the fort.  Death itself was not so hard, but to have burning sticks thrust into one’s skin, to have fingers and toes cut off, piecemeal ­oh, she had saved him from that.  Yes, she would marry Savignon, and then throw herself into the river, after she had kept her promise.

The weather was growing colder.  They halted for the night, and made a fire.  They had shot nothing, but the supper was very light, indeed.

“Little Rose,” said Destournier, “come over beside me, since I cannot well come to you.  I have hardly seen you, and have not asked what has gone on at the fort.  I feel as if I had been away half a lifetime.  And miladi ­”

“Wanamee will tell you, I cannot.”  She drew away the hand he held, and gently pushed the Indian woman forward, going out of the clear sound of her voice.  Oh, would it be a great sorrow to him?

Wanamee’s recital of that last night set a halo about Rose in the man’s mind.  He had known for years that he had not loved miladi as a man could love, but he also questioned whether such a light, frivolous nature could have appreciated the strong, earnest affection.  Her great effort to keep herself young had led to a meretricious childishness.  She had a vain, narrow soul, and this had dwarfed it still more.  Many a night he had watched over her, pained by her passionate beseeching that he would not let her die, her awesome terror of death.  He felt God had been merciful not to allow her to suffer that last rending pain.  He had really become so accustomed to the thought of her dying that it did not seem new or strange to him, but one of the inevitable things that one must endure with philosophy.  He realized the sweetness and patience of Rose through these last months.

When Wanamee came back she was snugly tucked in her blanket, and feigned sleep.  She did not want to talk.  She fancied she would like to lie beside miladi in the little burying ground.  Young sorrow always turns to death as a comforter.

That night an adventure befell them, though most of them were sleeping from exhaustion.  It was the Indian’s quick hearing that caught a suspicious sound, and then heard a stealthy rustle.  He reached for his gun, and his eyes roved sharply around the little circle.  The sound came from nearly opposite.  The fire was low, but his sight was keen, and presently he espied two glaring eyes drawing nearer Wanamee and her charge.  There was a quick shot, a shriek, almost human, and a rush farther in the forest.

They were all awake in an instant.  “An attack!” shouted two of the men.

“A wolf,” rejoined Savignon.  He took up a brand and peered about in the darkness.  The body was still twitching, but the head was a mangled mass.  There were no others in sight, but they heard their cry growing fainter and fainter.

Rose sat up in affright.  How near it had been to her.  Was she always to be in debt to this Indian?

“Go to sleep again,” he said, in a low tone.  “We shall have no more alarms to-night.  I am keeping watch.  I would give my life to save you from harm.”

Wanamee drew the trembling, shrinking figure closer.  Rose felt as if her heart would burst with the sorrow she could not confess.