“You do not need me.  If your whisper cannot reach the white woman she would not hear my shouts.  I must go with my man.”

“Singing Arrow, the Great Spirit is not ready for you.  When he is ready he will send.  You must wait for him to send.”

She did not shift her look from me.  “Your Great Spirit is strange.  He tells you that you are brave men and good when you take other lives, but he will not let you take your own.  Why should you have power over other men’s bodies if your own does not belong to you?  Your Great Spirit may be right for you white men, but for me he speaks like a child.  When my man calls me I shall go.”  She dropped her eyes, wrapped her blanket closer, and went away.  I did not follow her.  She had as sound a right to her belief as I to mine.

And what was my belief?

The sun was at the horizon, and I went to Cadillac.  “You hold council to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow morning.”

“I shall be here.”

“But where are you going now?”

“To the woods.”

Cadillac took me by the arm.  “Montlivet, be sane!”

But I think that as he looked at me he saw that I was sane.  “I shall be with you in the morning,” I promised.  And I would have no further words.

All that night in the woods, both waking and dreaming, the thought of the woman was like a presence near me.  I slept some, dropping against trees, then roused and stumbled on.  I do not know that I consciously searched for her, but I went on and on to meet her.  It seemed that I should always do that while I lived,—­should always push my way forward, feeling that beyond the next turn she stood beckoning.

The stars rose and set.  There were multitudes of them and very bright.  If man could only have his orbit fixed and follow it as they did; be compelled to follow it by a governing power!  The terrible cruelty of a God who throws volition into a man’s hands without giving him understanding to handle it came to me for the first time.

When day arrived I ate a portion of meal and meat, and made my way back.  It was a long trip, for I had wandered far, and when I reached the camp the sun was three hours high.  A large tent had been made of skins and tarpaulins, and French and savages were gathered there and waiting.  I was late.  The calumet was already passing as I went in.

I halted a moment at the entrance.  There was no cheer of welcome at sight of me.  Instead there was a hush,—­the hush of suspended breathing.  In two days these savages had come to draw aside from me for what was in my look.  “His face is the face of one dead,” Outchipouac had said.  I knew that I had grown to seem abnormal, alien.  I tried to form my expression to better lines, but it was out of my power.  I took my place as interpreter, and the long conclave opened.

The hours of droning speeches went on and on.  Each tribe presented its claims, and metaphor shouldered metaphor.  It sounded trivial as the bragging of blue-jays, but I interpreted carefully and kept the different headings in mind.  Then I asked Cadillac’s permission, and took it on myself to answer.