(Why is the window barred?)
Wild is the trail from the Kimash Hills,
The blight has fallen on bush and tree,
The choking earth has swallowed the streams,
Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol:
(Why should the door be shut?)
The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide--
(Why is the window barred?)"

Pierre stopped to listen. The voice singing was clear and soft, yet
strong--a mezzo-soprano without any culture save that of practice and
native taste. It had a singular charm--a sweet, fantastic sincerity. He
stood still and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods away. It stood
on a knoll perching above Fort Ste. Anne. Years had passed since Pierre
had visited the Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, after many
wanderings. The house had stood here in the old days, and he remembered
it very well, for against it John Marcey, the Company's man, was shot by
Stroke Laforce, of the Riders of the Plains. Looking now, he saw that the
shutter, which had been pulled off to bear the body away, was hanging
there just as he had placed it, with seven of its slats broken and a dark
stain in one corner. Something more of John Marcey than memory attached
to that shutter. His eyes dwelt on it long he recalled the scene: a night
with stars and no moon, a huge bonfire to light the Indians, at their
dance, and Marcey, Laforce, and many others there, among whom was
Lucille, the little daughter of Gyng the Factor. Marcey and Laforce were
only boys then, neither yet twenty-three, and they were friendly rivals
with the sweet little coquette, who gave her favors with a singular
impartiality and justice. Once Marcey had given her a gold spoon. Laforce
responded with a tiny, fretted silver basket. Laforce was delighted to
see her carrying her basket, till she opened it and showed the spoon