But what of him, and of De Courtenay, if he was yet alive?
He wondered why they had been reserved.
The light came quickly and he looked eagerly around on the moving camp.
With quickness and precision the whole long village was reduced in a
few minutes to rolled coverings, gathered and tied utensils, stacked
packs of furs, and ranged canoes already in the water lining the shore.
He could not help a feeling of regret for this wild people, coming but
few suns back with their rich peltry, their pomp, and their hopes of
gain, as they prepared for the back trail, the whole tribe in deepest
mourning.
Of all the tents, that one before the post gate alone stood, silent
reproach to the white man's ways.
Around it still knelt a solid pack, wailing and beating the drums.
As the grey light turned whiter, he turned his stiffened neck for a
glance at the thing against his shoulder.
He looked into the smiling eyes of Alfred de Courtenay.
"Bonjour, M'sieu," whispered that ardent venturer; "you nuzzled my arm
all night. Apparently we are fellows in captivity, as we have been
opposed in war,--and love."
"Aye, M'sieu," whispered back McElroy, not relishing the turn of the
sentence but passing it by; "and a sorry man am I for this state of
events.
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