All horror was in the cry.

“They are among the Indians!”

“Aye,—­and may the good God have mercy on them!”

Laroux hastily made the sign of the cross.

“We must guard the post, Maren.”

“But—­” She turned her eyes slowly around from face to face and not a woman there but read her secret plain, the open script of love,—­but for which man?

“But-they-will—­be—­” She did not finish the sentence, staring at Laroux.  Once she moistened her lips.

“They will—­Prix,—­as I am your leader, open that gate!”

With sudden reviving the daze went out of her features and the old light came back to her eyes, the far-seeing, undaunted light that had beaconed the long way from Grand Portage.  She was every inch the leader again, tall, straight against the logs, her brown arm pointing imperiously to the closed gate.

“Open, I say!”

For a moment Laroux faced her squarely, the man who had tied himself to her hand, pledged himself to forge the way to the Whispering Hills, who followed her compelling leadership as these lesser men had turned to follow his but now.  Then he set his will to hers.

“I will not,” he said quietly.

With no more words she flung herself upon the gate and tore at the chains, her strong hands able as a man’s.  As the sight of her in peril had worked for both weakness and strength in Dupre, so had McElroy’s plight affected her.  That helpless moment was the one defection of her dauntless life.

Now again she was herself, reaching for the thing of the moment, and the roar outside the palisade, constantly rising in volume, in menace and savagery, brushed out of her brain every cloud of shock.  Laroux caught her from behind, pinioning her arms.

“Maren,” he said quietly, “hear me.  Out there are five hundred warriors wild as the heart of the Pays d’en Haut, howling over the body of their dying chief.  What would be the opening of the gate but the massacre of all within?  Could forty men take the factor from them?  There would be but as many more scalps on their belts as there are heads within the post.  See you not, Maren?”

In his iron grip the girl stood still, breathing heavily.  As he ceased speaking a great sigh came from her lips, a sigh like a sob.

“Aye,” she said brokenly, “I see,—­I see!  Mary Mother!  Let me go, Prix.  I see.”

Laroux loosed her, knowing that the moment was past, and went at once about his duties of throwing the post into a state of defence.

Once more strong and quiet, Maren went to the cabin by the gate.  Here Marie knelt at her bed with a crucifix grasped in her shaking hands, her face white as milk and prayers on her trembling lips.

“Maren!” she gasped, with the child’s appeal to the stronger nature.  “Oh, Maren, what will befall?  For love of God, what will befall?”

“Hush, Marie,” answered Maren; “’tis but a tragedy of the wild.  Naught will befall us of the post.”