in return save her measureless and voiceless gratitude. Friendship she
could give him; but it was a silent friendship, an incompanionable
friendship, founded upon a secret and chivalrous act. He was in Quebec
and she in Pontiac; and since that day when he had burned the will before
her eyes she had not seen him. She had heard from him but twice; once to
tell her that she need have no fear of Tardif, and again, when he urged
her to accept the testimonial and the gift to be offered by her grateful
fellow-citizens.

The deputation, distinguished and important, had been received by the
people of Pontiac with the flaunting of flags, playing of bands, and
every demonstration of delight. The honour done to Madelinette was an
honour done to Pontiac, and Pontiac had never felt itself so important.
It realised that this kind of demonstration was less expensive, and less
dangerous, than sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion. The vanity of
the habitants could be better exercised in applauding Madelinette and in
show of welcome to the great men of the land, than in cultivating a
dangerous patriotism under the leadership of Louis Racine. Temptations
to conspiracy had been few since the day George Fournel, wounded and
morose, left the Manor House secretly one night, and carried back to
Quebec his resentment and his injuries. Treasonable gossip filtered no
longer from doorway to doorway; carbines were not to be had for a song;
no more nightly drills and weekly meetings gave a spice of great
expectations to their life. Their Seigneur, silent, and pale, and
stooped, lived a life apart. If he walked through the town, it was with
bitter, abstracted eyes that took little heed of their presence. If he
drove, his horses travelled like the wind. At Mass, he looked at no one,
saw no one, and, as it would seem, heard no one.

But Madelinette--she was the Madelinette of old, simple, gracious, kind,