From every door it brought the populace running, half-dressed and
startled, and in scant space a ring of faces stared upon the strangers
in stupid awe.
"Ma'amselle Le Moyne!" they whispered, fearfully.
"Mother of Heaven! The factor!"
"Our factor! Out of the hands of Death!"
"Mon Dieu! One of them! And the maid!"
And in the midst of the awed and hushed excitement that was growing
with each passing moment, there cut the voice of McElroy, babbling from
the blanket.
"Throw! Throw, Ma'amselle,--for M'sieu!"
"Hush!" said Maren; "where is Prix Laroux?"
"Here!"
The big fellow was pushing through the gathering crowd, to stand before
the weary girl with burning eyes.
"Maren!" he said simply, and could say no more.
"Take him, Prix," she said quietly; "take him to the factory. Get Rette
de Lancy's hand above him for care, and Jack for all things else. Take
these my men, and give them all the post affords, but chiefly rest at
present. They have--"
Here there came a tumult among the listening populace, and Marie rushed
through and flung herself upon Maren and there was time for nothing
else, save that, as Maren turned with her hanging like a vice about her
throat and Henri's arm across her shoulders, there was a streak of
crimson, a flash of ornaments in the sun, but now risen above the
forest's rim, and some one threw herself upon the unconscious form of
McElroy, kissing his face and his helpless hands and weeping
terribly.
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