“Why not send me back to Montreal?” she begged.

The embers of the fire fell into irregular, rectangular shapes like the stone buildings on the Marne, where I was born.  My father had beggared us, but those buildings were left.  I scorned my father’s memory, but I had strange pride in the name and place that had been his.

“I have thought over this matter by night and day,” I replied slowly.  “I cannot send you to Montreal, for I cannot trust these men.  If I take you myself I shall lose six weeks out of the summer.  Then it will be too late to accomplish anything.  No, I cannot afford so much time.  The summer is all too short as it is.”

“You would marry me—­marry me to get me out of the way—­rather than lose six weeks of time!”

I rose.  “Spare your scorn, mademoiselle.  This is no joust of wits.  I would sell everything—­except the honor of my sword—­rather than lose six weeks of time.”

“Then you have a mission?”

“A self-sent one, mademoiselle.”

“But you can come again next year.”

“Next year will be too late.”

She threw out her hands.  “Monsieur, try me.  Let me travel with you as a man.  I will be a man.  I will be Monsieur Starling in truth.  Try me once more.”

I took her hand.  “Mademoiselle, mademoiselle,” I said, “think a moment.  Would I force you to this marriage—­would I suggest it even—­if it did not seem a necessity, a necessity for my own ends?  For I must have my head and hands clear.  It is a selfish view.  I know that.  It is crushingly selfish.  But it is for a large purpose.  I am a small man fitted to a great undertaking, and I can permit no divided interests.  I need an unhampered mind.”

She walked a few steps.  “And if I should travel with you as a woman and yet not marry you,” she asked over her shoulder, “what then?”

I looked away.  “I should be obliged to fight every man of my company first, then every white man that we might meet.  It would hardly leave me with an unhampered mind, mademoiselle.”

She made no comment with word or eye, and going back to the place where we had been sitting, she dropped upon the sand.  I covered her shoulders with the red blanket, and again sat beside her.  I would be silent till she chose to speak.  After a time I went back into the forest to search fresh fuel for our fire.

When I returned with my arms laden, she turned her face toward me; her sorrowful eyes looked as if she could never again know sleep or forgetfulness.  “I am a coward,” she said, “yet I thought that cowardice and my desire for life had both died together.  I did not draw back from the knives of the Indians, but now I am afraid of a loveless marriage.  We are young.  We may live many years.  Oh, monsieur, I have not the courage!”

I piled the wood on the fire and did not answer.  I stirred the red coals and marked how the flames slipped along the dried branches in festoons of light.  Pierre was snoring, and I kicked him till he rolled over and swore in bastard French.  Then I went to the woman.