A hand touched her shoulder, a hand infinitely soft of pressure, infinitely gentle.
“Ma'amselle,” whispered the cavalier in her ear, “one more turn of the wheel of Fate,--and we take the plunge together. Kin are we, truly; kin of the tribe of Daring Hearts. A lioness are you, oh, maid with the Madonna face! No woman, but a creature of the wild, superb in courage and unknown to fear! I saw it in your face that day in De Seviere,--the something alien to the common race, the spark, the light; oh, I know not what it is, save that it is Divine and yet splendidly of the earth! We are matched in heart. Venturers both, and like true venturers we shall take the longest trail with a laugh and our hands together,--and trust to the Aftermath to give us largess of that love which has its beginning in such glorious wise. Pledge me, oh, my Queen of the World!”
With a grace beyond compare he drew her into his arms, silent and velvet soft, light and inimitable in his love way.
In utter astonishment Maren felt his silken curls sweep her cheek, his lips on hers. Her tears were wet on his face. She put up her hands and pushed him loose.
“Do? Why, bow to the One Woman of my heart,” he said; “my Maid of the Red Flower, whom love has led to share my fate.”
“In all pity! M'sieu, you do mistake most grievously!”
“What? Was it not confession at the post gate when this painted rabble fell upon us? Or is it still the maiden within fearing the word of love? In such short space, Sweetheart, there is no time for girlish fears. Be strong in that as in the courage of the lone trail. Speak!”
“Speak?” said Maren, with her old calmness; “of a surety, M'sieu. Though I have thrilled at your careless bravery, your laughing daring which, as you say truly, is kin of my heart,--though I have taken your red flowers, yet there is in me no spark of love for you, no thought beyond the admiration of a true son of fortune. That alone, M'sieu.”
De Courtenay was staring at her in the blackness of the lodge, his arm fallen loose about her shoulders.
“Name of God!” he whispered wonderingly, “it is not love? Then what, in the living world, has brought you over the waste to this camp of hostile savages?”
“This,” said Maren, and she reached a hand to the body of McElroy.