Apparently he had not come for barter, nor for anything save the love
of the unusual, the thirst for adventure that had brought him primarily
to the wilderness.
"A fine fit of apoplexy would he have, that peppery old uncle at
Montreal, Elsworth McTavish, could he see his precious nephew following
his whims up and down the land, leaving his post in the hands of his
chief trader," thought McElroy, as he looked at the scene before him.
While he stood so, there was a rustle of women behind him and voices
that bespoke more eager eyes for the Indians, and he glanced over his
shoulder.
Micene Bordoux and Mora LeClede approached, and between them walked
Maren Le Moyne. McElroy's heart pounded hard with a quick excitement as
he saw the listless droop of the face under the black braids and
stopped with a prescience of disaster. His glance went swiftly to the
long-haired gallant in the braided coat. Surely were the elements
brought together.
It seemed as if Fate was weaving these little threads of destiny, for
no sooner did Maren Le Moyne step through the gate among the lodges
than her very nearness drew round upon his heel De Courtenay.
His eyes lighted upon her and the sparkling smile lit up his features.
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