One purchase that I made took time.  I wished a new suit of skins for the woman, and I went from lodge to lodge, searching and brow-beating and dangling my trinkets till I was ready to join with the squaws in their laughter at my expense.  But my purchase once completed pleasured me greatly.  I had found it a little here and a little there, and it was worthy any princess of the woods.  I had gathered blouse, skirt, leggings, and moccasins, all new, and made of white dressed deerskin pliable as velvet to the hand.  They looked to me full of feminine bravery.  The leggings and moccasins were beaded and quill broidered, and the skirt was fringed and trimmed with tiny hawk’s bells.

I took the garments to the green lodge, laid them out in order, saw that there were trenchers of fresh water, and brought what conveniences we had from the canoe.  The pity of the situation came upon me hard.  I had to be father and friend,—­lover I could not be.  The woman had great self-control, but she would need it.  Well, I could trust her to do her best.  I went to find her.

As yet I had not said good-morning to her, although I had seen her from the distance, and knew that she had breakfasted and had talked with Father Nouvel.  She was sitting now under a beech tree on the headland, and when I bent before her she shook her head.

“It is not real,” she said, with a look over water and forest.  “It is all a dream.”

I stopped to send a group of curious squaws upon their way.  It was indeed like a pictured spectacle,—­the green wood, the Indian village, and the headland-guarded bay opening northward over rolling water.

“Yes, it is a dream,” I agreed.  “You will soon wake.  Where would you like the wakening to take place, mademoiselle?  At Meudon?”

She looked up with a smile.  “What would you like to know about me?” she asked, with a sober directness, which, like her smile, was friendly and brave.  “You heard something last night.  I am entirely willing to tell you more.  But is it not wise for us to know as little as possible about each other?”

“Why, mademoiselle?”

She hesitated.  “As we stand now,” she explained slowly, “we have no past nor future.  We live in a fantasy.  We are cold and hungry, but life is so strange that we forget our bodies.  It is all as unreal as a mirage.  When it is over, we part.  If we part knowing nothing of each other, it will all seem like a dream.”

I thought a moment.  “Then you think that we must guard against growing interested in each other, mademoiselle?”

She looked at me gravely.  “Yes.  Do you not think so, monsieur?  ‘Friends for the night’s bivouac.’  Those were your words.”

Now was here a woman who felt deeply and talked lightly?  I had not met such.  “It is wise,” I rejoined, “but difficult.”  I took the crayon from my pocket and began drawing faces on the white limestone rock at my side.  I drew idly and scowled at my work.  “The Indians can do better,” I lamented.  “Was your cousin, Benjamin Starling, clever with his pencil, mademoiselle?”