For a time after D'Antons' departure into the unknown, the little garrison of Fort Beatrix turned day into night. Not a man indulged in so much as a wink of sleep between the hours of dusk and dawn; but from sunrise until afternoon the place was as if it lay under an enchantment of slumber. On the sixth day after the flight of the Frenchman and Red Cloud, Ouenwa approached Kingswell with a request to be allowed to leave the fort, in company with Black Feather. He told how Black Feather was of the opinion that many of the tribesmen were against the leadership of Panounia, and that, if they could be found, it would be an easy matter for Ouenwa to win their support. He, Ouenwa, was of the blood of the greatest chief they had ever known. They would gather to the totem of the Bear. Assured of the friendship of the English people, they could be brought to the rescue of the settlement. So Black Feather had told the tale to Ouenwa, and so Ouenwa believed.

"And you would have to go with Black Feather?" inquired Kingswell, none too cheerfully; for he looked upon the lad as a very dear younger brother.

"Truly, my friend-chief, for I am the grandson of Soft Hand," replied the boy. "When they see me, their blood will rise at the memory of Soft Hand's murder. I will talk great words of my love for the English, and of my hatred for Panounia, and of the great trading that will be done at the fort when the night-howlers have been driven away. Thus we shall all be saved—thus Mistress Beatrix shall escape capture."

At that Kingswell started and eyed his companion keenly. "You think Panounia can break into the fort?" he inquired.

Ouenwa smiled. "Hunger can do it before the snow melts," he replied, "and hunger will fight for Panounia and the black captain."

"What do you know of the black captain?"

"He is with the night-howlers. He will keep their courage warm. He will struggle many times to bring us to our deaths and to capture the lady. That is all I know."

"But how do you know so much, lad?" asked Kingswell.

Ouenwa looked surprised. "How could I know less, who dwelt within eyeshot of the black captain for so many days, and who have learned the ways of such wolves?" he asked, in his turn. "You know it already without my telling, friend-chief," he added.

"Let us to Sir Ralph for his advice," said the other.

Master Kingswell had not crossed the threshold of the baronet's cabin since the time of his rebuff at the hands of Mistress Beatrix. Of course he had seen the baronet frequently, and they had smoked some pipes of tobacco together by the hearth of the departed Frenchman; but from the presence of the lady he had kept off as from a lazaretto. At the voice of duty, however, he sought the baronet in his own house with excellent composure. Anger at the knowledge that a girl could hurt him so nerved him to accept the risk of again seeing the displeasure in her dark eyes.

Mistress Beatrix was not in the living-room when they entered. Sir Ralph welcomed them cordially. Upon hearing Ouenwa's and Black Feather's plan for winning some of the tribesmen to the succour of the fort, he was deeply moved. He took a ring from his own hand and slipped it over one of Ouenwa's fingers. He gave the lad a fine hunting-knife for Black Feather, and a Spanish dagger for himself. He told Kingswell to supply them unstintingly from the store, with provisions and clothing for themselves and gifts for the natives whom they hoped to win.

"'Tis a chance," said he to Kingswell. "A chance of our salvation, and the only one, as far as I can see."

At that moment Mistress Beatrix entered the room. At sight of the visitors by the chimney, she swept a grand curtsey. The visitors bowed low in return. Her father advanced and led her, with the manner of those days, to his own chair beside the hearth. He told her, in a few words, of the venture upon which Ouenwa and Black Feather intended to set forth. The thought of it stirred the girl, and she looked on Ouenwa with shining eyes.

"'Tis a deed for the great knights of old," she said. "Lad, where have you learned your bravery?"

Unabashed, Ouenwa stood erect before her. "Half of it is the blood of my fathers," he replied, "and half is the teaching of Master Kingswell—and half I gather from your eyes."

The girl flushed with suppressed merriment. The baronet concealed his lips with his hand. Kingswell clutched his outspoken friend by the shoulder.

"Brother, you have named one-half too many," he said, laughing, "so your reason will carry more weight if you leave out that in which you mention my teaching. But come, we must find Black Feather, and make arrangements to leave as soon as dusk falls."

At that Beatrix tightened her hands on the arms of the chair and turned a startled face toward the speaker. "Surely, sir, you do not mean to leave us, too!" she exclaimed.

Neither the baronet nor Kingswell were looking at her; but Ouenwa saw the expression of eyes and lips. Kingswell, however, did not miss the note of anxiety in the clear young voice.

"I do not go with them, mistress," he said, "because my company would only delay their movements. And perhaps even spoil their plans. I am a poor woodsman—and already our garrison is none too heavily manned."

"I am glad you are not going," replied the girl, quietly. "I am sure that my father looks upon you as his right hand, and that the men need you."

Sir Ralph looked at his daughter with ill-concealed surprise. Kingswell, murmuring polite acknowledgment of her gracious words, strove to get a clearer view of her half-averted face. He failed. Ouenwa was the only one of the three who knew that the words were sincere; but he had the advantage of his superiors in having caught sight of the sudden fear in the lady's face.

Sir Ralph and Kingswell lowered the light packs over the stockade to Ouenwa and the big warrior. When the figures merged into the gloom, heading northward, the two commanders descended from the storehouse and entered the baronet's cabin. Beatrix was by the fire, radiant in fine apparel.

"I am in no mood for chess," said Sir Ralph. "The thought of those two brave fellows stealing through the dark and cold fidgets me beyond belief."

He began his quarter-deck pacing of the floor—up and down, up and down, with his head thrust forward and his hands gripped behind his back.

"The wind is rising," said the girl to Kingswell. "It will be bleak in the forest to-night—away from the fire."

She shivered, and held her jewelled hands to the blaze.

"It is blowing for a storm," replied the young man. "The sky was clouded over when they left. 'Tis safer for them so. The snow will cover their trail and, very likely, will keep the enemy from prowling abroad for a good many hours to come."

Mistress Beatrix crossed the room to a cupboard in the wall, and from it produced a violin. Kingswell stood by the chimney, watching her. The baronet continued his nervous pacing of the floor. The girl touched the strings here and there with skilful fingers, resined the bow, and then returned to the hearth and stood with her eyes on the fire. Suddenly she looked up at Kingswell. Her eyes were as he had never seen them before. They were full of firelight and dream. They were brighter than jewels, and yet dark as the heart of a deep water.

"Please do not stand," she said, and her voice, though free from any suggestion of indifference, sounded as if her whole being were far from that simple room. Her gaze returned to the fire. Kingswell quietly reseated himself; and at that she nestled her chin to the glowing instrument and drew the bow lightly, lovingly, almost inquiringly, across the strings. A whisper of melody followed the touch and sang clearer and more human than any human voice, and melted into the firelight.

At the first strain of the music, the baronet sat down and reclined comfortably with his head against the back of his chair. For awhile he watched his daughter intently; then he turned his eyes to the heart of the fire and journeyed far in a waking dream.

The girl played on and on, weaving enchantments of peace with the magic strings. Kingswell, leaning back with his face in the shadow, could not look away from her. The minutes drifted by unheeded behind the singing of the violin. The candles on the table flared at their sockets. The logs on the hearth broke, and the flames sprang to new life. Outside the wind raced and shouldered along the walls. And suddenly the player stilled her hand, and, without a word to either of the men, took up one of the guttering candles from the table and went quickly to her own chamber. She carried the fiddle with her against her young breast, and the bow like a wand in her hand.

Sir Ralph started and sat erect in his chair. Kingswell got to his feet with a sigh, and lifted his heavy cloak from the bench.

"I must go the rounds," he said. "Good night, sir."

With that he went out into the swirling eddies of the storm. The baronet sat still for another hour. The music had uncovered so many ghosts of joy and song, of love and hate and shame. It had rung upon past glories and called up more recent dishonours. And still another matter occupied his mind, and was finally dismissed with a smile and a yawn. It was that Beatrix had indulged in one of her deliriums of music in young Kingswell's presence, and that she had never before played in any mood but the lightest in the hearing of a stranger.

Kingswell paced beside the sentry at the drifted gate; but he kept his thoughts to the picture of the girl, the glowing fiddle, and the music and firelight that had seemed to pulse and spread together about the long room. Again he saw the candle flames leap high and waver, as if lured from their tethers by the crying of the instrument. But clearest of all was the player's face. His heart was filled to suffocation at the memory of it. Had other men seen her so beautiful? Had other men heard her soul and her dear heart singing and crying from the strings of the violin?