"
Good Micene, with her brave heart and her whole-souled sense, smiled at
Marie.
"Love," she said,--"and think you THAT could turn that exalted spirit
from its quest? Still the stir of conquest within her bosom, hush the
call of that glorious country which we know from rumor, and. plain
hearsay lies at the heart of the Athabasca?
"Little do you know Maren, Marie, though the same mother gave you
birth. There is naught that could turn the maid, and I love her for it.
It is that undaunted faith, that steadfast purpose, that white fire in
her face which holds at her heels the whole of us, that turns to her
the faces of our men, as those legions of France turned to the Holy
Maid. Love? She would turn not for it if she could not take it with
her."
Micene looked off across the cabins, and there was a warm light in her
eyes.
"Nay, Marie," she said, "make ready for the trail the coming spring,
for we will surely go."
It was this day, golden and sweet with little winds that wafted from
the blossom-laden woods, that Maren Le Moyne, drawn by the dusky
depths, passed, out the stockade gate, traversed slowly the length of
the Indian camp, stopping here and there to hold out a hand to a
frightened pappoose peeking from behind its mother's fringed leggings,
to watch a moment at the cooking fires, to smile at a slim young boy
brave in a checkered shirt, and entered the forest.
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