“You are a brave man, monsieur,” I said inconsequently.  “I know that you will bear your share to-night.”

He laid his hand on the door, and searched me with his sad eyes.  “One last word,” he said, “and then I shall bury this for aye.  Monsieur, if I bring you misfortune, I ask you to remember—­to remember from now on—­that you took me against my will.”

For all my impatience, I had some effort not to smile.  He would be a burden, he might be a nuisance, but he could hardly be a misfortune.  He had a weighty sense of his importance, to use so large a term.  But I would not ridicule him.  “I promise,” I said.

He held out his hand.  “Say that again with your hand in mine.  Promise me that, whatever disaster I bring you, you will remember that I came against my will.”

Somehow that sobered me.  “I promise,” I repeated, and touching his hand, and again bidding him be on the watch, I went away.

I had no plans.  My mind was cloudy as muddy water, and I sauntered around the camp looking important and weighty with calculation, but feeling resourceless and slow.  Then I bethought me of Singing Arrow.

I shouldered my way to her lodge with speed that made me a target for scantily hidden laughter.  But I could not find her.  Lodge and fire were alike deserted.  I asked questions, but was met by shrugs.  My eagerness had been unwise.  I had sought too openly and brusquely, and the Ottawas suspected my zeal of being official rather than personal.  I saw myself in their eyes as an officer of the law, and knew that I had closed one door in my own face.  I told myself contemptuously that I had made so many blunders in that one day that I must, by this time, have exhausted the list, and that I would soon stumble on the right road as the only one left.

And so it proved.  For I went to my canoes, and there, perched bird-wise on my cargo, and flinging jests and laughter at Pierre and the men, sat Singing Arrow.

It was what I most wanted, and so relieved was I at finding it, that I could not forbear a word of reproof.

“I told you to keep away from Singing Arrow!” I stormed at Pierre, like the mother who stops to shake her recovered child before she cries over it.

Pierre grinned shamefacedly, but Singing Arrow smiled like May sunlight.

“Has monsieur been looking for me?” she asked.  “He carries the wet red clay that lies in front of my wigwam,” and she pointed a curving finger at my boots.

I could have embraced her.  If I had no wit, she had it and to spare.  I made up my mind, then and there, to trust her.  It was a mad chance, but a good gamester likes a dangerous throw.

“Come here, Singing Arrow,” I commanded, and I would have led her down the beach out of earshot.

She followed but a step or two, then halted, balancing herself on one foot like a meditative crane.  “I want sunset-head to go too,” she insisted, darting her covert bird-glance at Pierre, and when I would have objected, I saw her mouth pinch together, and I remembered that no Indian will submit to force.  So I let her have her will.