Not wholly under the spell of mystery were these half-breeds,
but restless and suspicious under the conflicting promptings of their
mixed blood. Slower than the Indians were they to obey the mandate of
silence and peace that the Spirits of Dreams might descend upon the
forest, but at last they were quiet, the tires burned down to red heaps
of coals, then to white ashes, the great fire in the centre flamed and
died and flamed again like some vindictive spirit striving for
vengeance in the grip of death, and the utter stillness of the solitude
fell thick as a garment on all the wilderness. It seemed to Ridgar that
only himself in all the earth was awake and watching, save perhaps the
two guards pacing without a sound the lodge of the captives, and those
two within, so oddly brought near.
As for McElroy, his friend of friends, an aching fear tugged in his
heart that he had waited too long for the chance to help, that the
patient strength was sapped at last, that the end had come. He had seen
the flight of the maul, the sagging of the sturdy figure.
Who had thrown it, if not that brute DesCaut? Who save DesCaut was so
keen on the trail of the factor and the girl? True, De Courtenay was
his latest master, and his spoiling of Maren's aim might as easily send
the blade into the black as the red, but in either case he would cause
her to decide the death she was trying so bravely to postpone.
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