When it was over, Prix Laroux turned back to the deserted factory and
stood hesitating on its step.
This was one of the crises which so commonly confronted the fur
industry in the North-west.
What had he a right to do?
The simple man considered carefully. What right but the right of
humanity to do the best for the many could send a servant into the seat
of power?
And yet who among them all was fitted?
Not the clerks, youths from the Bay, not the traders nor the trappers.
With a daring heart the venturer from Grand Portage went in across the
sill.
To a man the men of De Seviere rallied to him and council was held.
Everywhere in the trading-room, the living-room behind, were evidences
of the factor and Ridgar. It seemed as if the two men had but just
stepped out-were not in hostile hands drifting down the river toward an
unspeakable fate.
In the midst of the grave-faced council another step sounded on the
sill and once again Maren Le Moyne stood looking in at the factory
door, though this time there was no eager interest on her face, only a
drawn tenseness which cut to the heart of her leader like a knife.
"Come in, Maren," he said in aching sympathy.
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