They were themselves as
nature made them, cruel to the point of art.
The work of the day was visible upon the captives tied to their stakes
on either side the fire. Half-clothed, for they had been thrown into a
lodge to recuperate for the night's festivities, they stood in
weariness, that from time to time drooped one head or the other, only
to lift again with taunt and jeer.
De Courtenay, his thin face between the curls thinner, was still facing
the mob with the smile that would not down. McElroy was as Maren had
ever known him, patient and strong, and from time to time he tossed up
the light hair falling in his eyes.
"We are none too soon," she said tensely; "tonight it must end. Go you
around to the east, M'sieu, between the camp and the river. Look for
the lodge of the dead chief, for there will be the trader, Ridgar. Look
for him and read his face,--whether or no he will help us. I will skirt
to the north."
"I--Ma'amselle! Stay far from their sight, for love of Heaven!"
"Sh! Go, my friend;" and Maren turned into the darkness.
"Mary Mother, now do thou befriend!" she whispered, as she felt her way
forward. With touch of tree trunk and slipping moccasin, lithe bend and
sway and turning, as sure in the forest as any savage, this Maid of the
Trail took into her hands the saving of a man.
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