There was no answer; even the reckless audacity of a courtier was silenced by that calm final dismissal.  It was Mademoiselle who spoke in swift whisper, her lips at my ear.

“Speak! who is she?”

“The woman of whom you have heard so often,—­the missionary in the Indian camp.”

“Yes, I know,” impatiently; “but I mean her name?”

“She calls herself Sister Celeste; I have indeed heard mention of another, but it abides not in my memory.”

“You deceive me, Monsieur; yet I know, and will speak with her,” was the quick decision.  “Mother of God! ’tis a voice too dear ever to be forgotten.”

She was beside them with a step, seeming no doubt a most fair vision to be born so instantly of the night-shadows.

“Marie Faneuf!” she exclaimed, eagerly.  “I know not by what strange fortune I meet you here, but surely you will not refuse greeting to an old friend?”

The girl drew hastily back a step, as if her first thought was flight; but ere such end could be accomplished, Mademoiselle had clasped her arm impetuously.

“Marie!” she pleaded, “can it be possible you would flee from me?”

“Nay,” returned the other, her voice trembling painfully, as she struggled to restrain herself.  “It is not that.  Dear, dear friend!  I knew you were among the few saved from Dearborn.  The American hunter told me, and ever since have I tried to avoid you in the camp.  ’Twas not for lack of the old love, yet I feared to meet you.  Much has occurred of late to make the keeping of my vow most difficult.  I have been weak, and grievously tempted; and I felt scarce strong enough, even though protected by prayers, to withstand also my deep love for you.”

Their voices insensibly merged into French, each speaking so rapidly and low that I could get little meaning of it.  Then I noted De Croix, half lying upon the ground, his head hidden within his hands.  With sudden remembrance of the work before us, I touched his shoulder.

“Come below, Monsieur, and help me search for the boat,” I said, kindly, for I was truly touched by his grief.  “It will help clear your mind to have some labor to accomplish.”

“I dare not, Wayland!” he answered hoarsely, and the face he uplifted toward me was strangely white and drawn.  “I must stay with her; I dare not leave her again alone, lest she escape me once more.  She is mine, truly mine by every law of the Church,—­my wife, I tell you, and I would die here in the wilderness rather than permit her longer to doom herself to such a fate as this.”

His words and manner were so wild they startled me.  Surely, in his present frame of mind he would prove useless on such a mission as that before us.

“Then remain here, Monsieur!” I said, “and do your best to win her consent to accompany us.  No doubt Mademoiselle will aid you all that is in her power.”

CHAPTER XXXIV