But she begged me to hear her out.  “I must speak of the past,” she went on.  “It leads to what I would have you say to the commandant.  Will you listen?”

“I will try.”

“Then—­then let me speak of the day we parted.  I saw that I had to leave you.  I knew—­I thought I knew—­that country was more sacred than individual happiness.  But I was weaker than I thought.  When I saw Michillimackinac fade, when I knew that I should never see you again, my life seemed to stop.  I begged my cousin to take me back.  I—­I begged till I fainted.”

I could not keep my hands from clenching.  “And he refused you?” I asked with my lips dry, and I knew that my voice showed hate of a man who was dead.

She did not answer my question, and when she did not defend him I knew that he had been hard to her.  “I must have remained unconscious a long time,” she hurried on, “for when I came to myself again the country was different and the sun was low.  I was exhausted, and I could not think as I had done.  You had said that patriotism was a man-made feeling, and I repeated your words over and over.  It was all I could seem to remember.  I could not see why our parting had been necessary.  I wonder if you can understand.  It was as if I had been reborn into a new set of beliefs.  All that had seemed inevitable and great had grown trivial.  I could not see distinctions as I had.  God made us—­English, French, Indians.  I could not understand what patriotism stood for, after all.  I did not know what had come upon my mind, but I saw that words that I had thought worth sacrificing life for had lost their meaning.  And so—­and so——­ You see what I would say.  I have changed.  If you wish to lead the tribes you are not to think of me.”

I rose and drew her to me.  “But, Mary, I no longer wish to lead the tribes.”

She could not understand me, as indeed I could not wholly understand myself.  She looked at me gravely and long, and she tried to find the truth in me,—­the truth that was out of sight; the truth about myself that even I did not know.

“Was the commandant right?” she queried.  “Is it anxiety about me that has changed your plans?”

I could only shake my head at her.  “I am not sure.”  Then I sat beside her and tried to explain.  “Simon is dead, Pierre died saving me.  Leclerc and Labarthe died under torture.  I sacrificed them to enforce a belief.  And now the belief is a phantom.  It is very strange.  Mary, we have traveled by different roads, but we have reached the same goal.  My ambition for conquest is put away.”

She drew a long breath, and I saw splendid understanding of me in the look she gave.  Yet she was unconvinced.

“Perhaps this feeling may pass,” she argued.  “It may be temporary.  Then you will regret your lost hold with the tribes.”

I smiled at her.  “I love you,” I murmured.  “I love you.  I love you.  I am tired of talk of blood and war.  Mary, you accepted me as I was, accept me, if you can, as I am now.  I cannot analyze myself.  I cannot promise what I will believe as time goes on.  But this I know.  I was born with a sword in my hand, but now I cannot use it—­for aggression.  I do not mean that I think it is wrong.  I do not know what I believe.  Time will tell.”