"Is this the first white woman he has seen?" I asked the priest.

Father Nouvel smiled reflectively at the retreating back. "Oh, no," he
replied. "He has been in Quebec. He is the chief you must have heard
quoted, who vaunted that God had made three great men,--La Salle,
Frontenac, and himself. He is a crafty man and able. You see that he
never squanders strength nor words. No, monsieur, you must not follow
me." He stopped to lay a hand on my shoulder. "Take heed, my son. Ox
that you look to be for endurance, there are yet lines under your eyes.
I will not talk to you to-night. Sleep well. I take it for granted
that you prefer to sleep as I do, under the stars." And putting out
his thin, ivory hand in blessing, he went away.

But I was not ready for sleep. I went to the canoes, sent the men to
rest, and found food which I carried to the woman, and left, with a
whispered word, outside her door. Then I ate some parched corn, and
lighting my pipe, lay down to take counsel of what had befallen me. I
lay at some distance from the woman's lodge, but not so far but that I
could see the rush mat that hung before it. The Indians watched me,
but kept at a distance. I saw that Onanguissé had given commands.

I had so much to work out in my mind that I thought sleep would come
slowly, but I remember nothing from the moment when I bolstered my head
in my arms till I found the moon shining in my face. It had been
starlight when I went to sleep, I remembered, and I raised my eyelids
warily. A wild life teaches the dullest to know when he has been
wakened by some one watching him. And I knew it now.

The world was white light and thick shadow. Wigwams, dogs, stumps,