"Who is she, Klussman?"

"I know not what name she bears now, but two years since she bore the
name of Marguerite Klussman."

"Surely she is not your sister?"

"No, madame. She is only my wife." He lifted his lip, and his blue eyes
stared at the muffled culprit.

"We knew not you had a wife when you entered our service, Klussman."

"Nor had I, madame. D'Aulnay de Charnisay had already taken her."

"Then this woman does come from D'Aulnay de Charnisay?"

"Yes, madame! And if you would have my advice, I say put her out of the
gate this instant, and let her find shelter with our Indians above the
falls."

"Madame," exclaimed Zélie, lifting the half-nude infant, and thrusting
it before her mistress with importunity which could wait no longer, "of
your kindness look at this little creature. With all my chafing and
sprinkling I cannot find any life in it. That girl hath let it die on
her knees, and hath not made it known!"

Klussman's glance rested on the body with that abashed hatred which a
man condemns in himself when its object is helpless.

"It is D'Aulnay's child," he muttered, as if stating abundant reason for