“Aye, an' may the Good God have mercy on our factor!” whimpered a withered old woman, wife of a trapper, making the sign of the cross; “nor hold back His mercy from the other!”
Night seemed to fall early on Fort de Seviere, waiting sadly for its healing touch on fevered hearts.
Throughout the long day a waiting hush had lain upon the post, an expectancy of ill.
Over the dark forest the stars came out on a velvet sky, and a little wind came out of the south, nightbirds called from the depths, and peace spread over the Northland like a blanket.
While the twilight lasted with its gorgeous phantasmagoria there were none of the accustomed sounds of pleasure in the post,--no fiddle squeaked by the stockade wall, no happy laughter wafted from the cabins. Even the sleepy children seemed to feel the strangeness and hushed their peevish crying.
Night and darkness and loneliness held sway, and in one heart the shadows of the world were gathered.
What was the meaning of this Life whose gift was Pain, where was the glory of existence?
By the window to the east Maren Le Moyne stood in the darkness, with her hands upon her breast and her face set after the manner of the dreamer who follows his visions in simpleness of soul.
Once again a great call was sounding from the wilderness, as that which lured her to the Whispering Hills had sounded since she could remember, once more the Long Trail beckoned, and once more she answered, simply and without fear.
Long she stood at the little window, facing the east like some worshipper, even until the wheeling stars spelled the mid hour.
To Marie she gave one thought,--child-like Marie with her dependence and her loving heart. But Marie, to whom she had been all things, was safe in the care of Henri. There remained only the dream of the Whispering Hills and the illusive figure of a man,--an old man, sturdy of form and with blue eyes set in swarthy darkness.
Poignant was the pain that assailed her at that memory. Would she ever reach that shadowy country, ever fulfil the quest that was hers from the beginning? Did she not wrong that ghostly figure which seemed to gaze with reproach across the years? Her own blood called, and she turned aside to follow the way of a stranger, an alien whose kiss had brought her all sorrow.