For Whaley, in his slow, feline fashion, was moving toward them.

Bluntly the gambler claimed his right. "Ooche-me-gou-kesigow," he
said.

The girl shook her head. "Are you a Cree, Mr. Whaley?"

For that he had an answer. "Is Beresford?"

"Mr. Beresford is a stranger. He didn't know the custom--that it
doesn't apply to me except with Indians. I was taken by surprise."

Whaley was a man of parts. He had been educated for a priest, but had
kicked over the traces. There was in him too much of the Lucifer for
the narrow trail the father of a parish must follow.

He bowed. "Then I must content myself with a dance."

Jessie hesitated. It was known that he was a libertine. The devotion
of his young Cree wife was repaid with sneers and the whiplash. But he
was an ill man to make an enemy of. For her family's sake rather than
her own she yielded reluctantly.

Though a heavy-set man, he was an excellent waltzer. He moved evenly
and powerfully. But in the girl's heart resentment flamed. She knew he
was holding her too close to him, taking advantage of her modesty in a
way she could not escape without public protest.

"I'm faint," she told him after they had danced a few minutes.