But beyond all this, a thing that held his wondering gaze and brought
the fur cap from his head, there stood an altar, rude as the rest, but
still an altar of God, with a black iron crucifix, whose pale ivory
Christ glimmered in the gathering evening, upright upon it. Before the
crucifix, and at either end, were the burnt-out evidences of tallow
candles, while flanking the holy Symbol there stood two wooden crosses,
their pieces held together by bindings of thread. Before one there lay
a heap of little withered flowers, frail things of the forest and the
spring, and every one was snowy white. Across the other hung a solitary
blossom, first of its kind to open its passionate eyes to the sun, and
it was blood-red, counterpart of that wee star which Alfred de
Courtenay had snatched from the stockade wall one day in another
spring.
The earnest blue eyes of the man were very grave, touched with a deep
tenderness.
"Maren!" he whispered reverently; "maid of the splendid heart!"
So deep was he in contemplation of the things before him and his own
holy thoughts that he did not hear a soft sound behind him, the fall of
a light step.
A breath that was half a gasp turned him on his heel.
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