He looked from one to the other of us, scarce knowing whether she were laughing at him or not.

“Sacre!” he exclaimed at last.  “I believe it not, Mademoiselle.  The boy would have boasted of such an acquaintance long before this.  You know him, you say,—­for how long?”

“Since yester even, if you must know.  But he has a face, Monsieur, a face frank and honest, not like that of a man long trained at courts to deceive.  ’T is for that I trust him, and have called him friend.”

“You may rue the day.”

“No, Captain de Croix,” she exclaimed, proudly.  “I know the frontiersmen of my father’s blood.  They are brave men, and true of heart.  This John Wayland is of that race.”  And she rested one hand lightly upon my arm.

The motion, simple as it was, angered him.

“You ask why I sought quarrel,” he said sternly. “’T was because I suspected this uncouth hunter had wronged you.  Now I understand ’t was of your own choice.  I wish you joy, Mademoiselle, of your new conquest.”

I felt the girl’s slight form straighten, and saw his bold eyes sink beneath the flame of her look.

“Captain de Croix,” and every sentence stung like the lash of a whip, “those are cowardly words, unworthy a French gentleman and soldier.  Did you leave all your courtesy behind in Montreal, or dream that in this wilderness I should cringe to any words you might speak?  You wish the truth; you shall have it.  Three days ago, through an accident, I drifted, in an oarless boat, out from the river-mouth at Fort Dearborn to the open lake.  None knew of my predicament.  A storm blew me helpless to the southward, and after hours of exposure to danger, and great mental anguish, I was driven ashore amid the desolation of this sand.  This comrade of yours found me scarce alive, ministered to my sore need, protected me through the hours of the night, stood but now between me and your ribaldry, counting his life but little beside the reputation of a woman.  He may not wear the latest Paris fashions, Monsieur, but he has proved himself a man.”

“I meant not all I said, Toinette,” he hastened to explain.  “You will forgive, I know, for I was sorely hurt to find that some one else had done the duty that was plainly mine.  Surely no rude backwoodsman is to come between us now?”

She glanced from the one to the other, with true French coquetry.

“Faith, I cannot tell, Monsieur,” she said, gayly; “stranger things have happened, and ’t is not altogether fine clothes that win the hearts of maidens on this far frontier.  We learn soon to love strength, and the manly traits of the border.  On my word, Monsieur, this John Wayland seems to have rare powers of body; I imagine he might even have crushed you, as he said.”

“Think you so?” he asked, eying me curiously.  “Yet ’t is not always as it looks, Mademoiselle.”