not strange, happened--Dorothy rose to the occasion. She
had danced the very same fantasia many a time out of
sheer exuberance of spirits, and the love of dancing
itself. She must dance and gain the sympathy of that
rough crowd, in the event of her identity being discovered.
There was nothing so terrible about this particular group
after all. They were merely dancing while the others were
going in for riot and pillage. There was something so
incongruous and ludicrous in the whole affair that the
odd, wayward, fun-loving spirit of the girl, of late held
in abeyance, asserted itself, and she forgot all else
save the fact that she must do her best to dance her
partner down.

Her feet caught the rhythm of the "Arkansaw Traveller"
--that stirring, foot-catching melody without beginning
or ending--and in another minute Dorothy was dancing
opposite the delighted and capering half-breed, and almost
enjoying it. With hands on hips, with head thrown back,
and with feet tremulous with motion, she kept time to
the music. She was a good dancer, and realised what is
meant by the poetry of motion. The fiddler played fairly
well, and Pierre La Chene, if somewhat pronounced in his
movements, was at least a picturesque figure, whose soul
was in the dance. So amusing, were his antics that the
girl laughed heartily, despite the danger of her position.

It was evident that Pierre was vastly taken with his
partner. He rolled his eyes about in a languishing and
alarming fashion; he twisted and wriggled like a