“’T is well over with, Toinette,” I murmured hastily, my voice trembling from the strain that still shook me.

“Oh, John!  John Wayland!  And you are truly unhurt of the struggle?” It was scarcely her voice speaking, so agitated was it.  “Have you killed him?”

“Yes,” I answered, finding my way cautiously toward her, and speaking in whispers.  “I had no other choice.  It was either his life or yours and mine.  Knew you the savage?”

“It was Little Sauk,” she replied, clinging to me, and growing somewhat calmer from my presence.  “Oh, what can we do now?”

“There remains but one thing, and that is to accept the chance that Providence has given us.  There remains no longer a shadow of excuse for your staying here, even by your own reasoning.  You are no longer prisoner to Little Sauk.  Your pledge has been dissolved by Fate, and it must be God’s will that you go forth with me.  What say you, Mademoiselle?” And I crushed her hands in mine.

I could feel her slight form tremble as I waited her reply, and believed she peered across my shoulder through the darkness, imagining she saw the dead Indian’s form lying there.

“Do you truly wish it?” she questioned at last, as though warring with herself.  “Think you she would greatly care?”

’T is a strangely perverse thing, the human mind.  As there dimly dawned upon me a conception of her meaning,—­a knowledge that this seemingly heart-free girl cared enough for me to exhibit such jealousy of another,—­I would not undeceive her by a word of explanation.

“I certainly do wish it,” was my grave answer, “nor does it greatly matter what the desire of any other may be.  This is not an invitation to a ball, Mademoiselle.  I beg you answer me; will you go?”

She looked toward me, wondering at my words.

“Yes,” she said simply.  “Has the time come?”

“I have no certain means of knowing; but it cannot be far from the hour, and we shall be much safer without.”

I took the Indian’s knife with me, wiping the long blade upon the pile of skins, and placing it convenient to my hand within the bosom of my hunting-shirt.  It was dark enough back of the lodge away from the glare of the fires, and we rested there well within the shadow, for some time, while I scanned the surroundings and planned as best I might our future movements.

“Was it from dread of venturing once more upon the water that you held back so long?” I asked her, seeking rudely to delve into the secret of her reserve.

“Have you ever found me of cowardly heart, Monsieur?” she questioned in return, parrying with quick skill, “that you should think any bodily terror could hold me back?  If I had reasons other than those already given, they were worthy ones.”

“You are not afraid of the perils before us?”

“No,” she answered; “my heart beats fast, but ’t is not from fear.”