She laughed softly, as though his words recalled memories of other
days, pressing back her hair within its ribbon.

"Such art of compliment seems more in place at Montreal than here.
This is a land of deeds, not words, Monsieur. Yet, even though I
confess your conclusion partially true, what cause does it yield why
you should seek a quarrel with my good friend, John Wayland?"

"You know him, then?" he asked, in quick astonishment.

"Know him! Do you think I should be here otherwise? Fie, Captain de
Croix, that you, the very flower of the French court, should express so
poor a thought of one you profess to respect so highly!"

He looked from one to the other of us, scarce knowing whether she were
laughing at him or not.

"_Sacre_!" he exclaimed at last. "I believe it not, Mademoiselle. The
boy would have boasted of such an acquaintance long before this. You
know him, you say,--for how long?"

"Since yester even, if you must know. But he has a face, Monsieur, a
face frank and honest, not like that of a man long trained at courts to
deceive. 'T is for that I trust him, and have called him friend."

"You may rue the day."

"No, Captain de Croix," she exclaimed, proudly. "I know the
frontiersmen of my father's blood. They are brave men, and true of
heart. This John Wayland is of that race." And she rested one hand