* * * * *

From the uttermost rim of the ring of light that came from the
flickering fire la Belle the beautiful heard and saw all that had passed
between the two men. She did not throw herself at the feet of the white
man. Being a wild woman she did not weep nor cry out with the pain of
his words, that cut like cold steel into her heart. She leaned against
an aspen tree, stroking her throat with her left hand, swallowing with
difficulty. Slowly from her girdle she drew a tiny hunting-knife, her
one weapon, and toyed with it. She put the hilt to the tree, the point
to her bare breast, and breathed a prayer to We-sec-e-gea, god of the
Crees. She had only to throw the weight of her beautiful body on the
blade, sink without a moan to the moss, and pass, leaving the camp
undisturbed.

Smith marked the faintest hint of sarcasm in the half smile of the
Indian as he turned away.

"Come here," he cried. Jaquis approached cautiously. "Now, you skulking
son of a Siwash, this is to be skin for skin. If any harm comes to that
young Cree you go to your little hammock in the hemlocks--you
understand?"

"_Oui, Monsieur_," said Jaquis.

"Very well, then; remember--skin for skin."

Now to the Belle, watching from her shelter in the darkness, there was
something splendid in this. To hear her praises sung by the Siwash, then