“Mademoiselle”—­I began.

“Wait!” she interrupted.  She raised her hand, and her fingers looked carven white in the moonlight, though by daylight they were brown.  “Monsieur, you watched the star.  It went into the unknown,—­a way so wide and terrible that we may not follow it even in thought.  We live alone with majestic forces,—­forests greater than an empire, unmapped waters, and strange, savage men.  We are pygmies; yet, if we have spirit we can grow into some measure of the greatness and inflexibility around us.  Monsieur, when you asked me—­what you asked me now—­you were thinking of France and its standards.  Of little, tidy, hedged-in France.  You were not——­ Oh, monsieur, I am sorry you asked me that question.  Of course I answer ‘no,’ but—­but I am sorry that you asked it.”

I went to her.  “You are cold.  Come with me to the fire.  Come.  The men are asleep by this time.  Mademoiselle, your spirit is steel and fire, but your body betrays you.  You are shivering and afraid.  Yet——­ Well, mademoiselle, pygmies or giants, whichever we may be, we must not scorn counsel.  You once called us partners.  On that basis, will you listen to me now?”

“But you must not”——­

“Mademoiselle, on that basis will you listen to me now?”

“Yes.”

“Then come.”  I led her to the warmth, and placed her snugly, with logs to pillow her and her face away from the sleeping men.  Then I sat beside her.  But my speech had left me.  I had no reasons, no persuasions at my tongue.

“Father Nouvel is at the islands,” I said.  “Mademoiselle, you must marry me.  You must.”

“Why ‘must,’ monsieur?”

“We cannot travel in this way.”

“A week ago you thought it possible.”

“I had not tried it then.  It will not do.”

“Monsieur, what has gone wrong?”

I took out my hunting knife and tried its edge.

“My mind,” I answered savagely.  “Mademoiselle, I may, as you say, have tidy, circumscribed France behind my thought, but——­ Well, mademoiselle, I was brought up to certain observances in regard to a woman.  And I cannot forget you are a woman.  When the men speak roughly to you I put my hand on my sword.”

“I have seen you, monsieur.”

“And so I lose much thought and time conquering my anger.  It fills my thought.  When I taught you Indian verbs the other day the rain dripped from your hair.  And I sat like a clod.  What could I do?  I could not shelter you for fear of rousing suspicion in the men.  Mademoiselle, I cannot stand it.  I must let the men know that you are a woman.  And then I must marry you when we reach Father Nouvel.”

She rose.  “Monsieur, you must send me back to Montreal.”

I kept my seat.  “Mademoiselle, I have your word,” I reminded.  “You agreed to listen.”

I had meant to plead, not to rebuke, and I regretted that she flushed.  She seated herself lingeringly, but I saw that she leaned back, and did not sit as she had done before with her muscles braced for flight.