And now to tell something of the movements of Pierre d'Antons, which, of late, have been carried on behind the screen of the forest and beyond the ken of the reader.

The defeat of Panounia's warriors, on that night of fire and blood, knocked the adventurer's fortunes flatter than they had ever been. You may believe that he cursed Ouenwa bitterly, and wished that he had killed him long ago, when the lad threw his followers into the battle. It was then that D'Antons himself left his post beyond the scuffle, and, with desperate efforts, tried to turn the reverse back to victory. His swordsmanship and energy availed him nothing. He missed capture only by slipping the buckle of his sword-belt. Then, a fugitive from both sides, he ran to the woods, avoiding the scattered and retreating warriors who had so lately been struggling in his behalf as fearfully as he would have avoided William Trigget or Sir Ralph Westleigh. One of his late comrades, trailing wounded limbs along the snow, hurled a Beothic curse after him. Another, better prepared, let fly a war-club, and missed him by an inch. He slashed on, through the underbrush, the drifts, and the dark, sure that capture by any of the defeated savages would mean death and perhaps torture.

The black captain did not run on any vague course, despite his haste. He knew where a possibility of help awaited him. He had given his wits to more than plans of revenge and kidnapping during his sojourn with Panounia. In winning the men to him, he knew that his hold upon them would not outlast defeat; but in winning the love of the Beothic maiden Miwandi, he had laid up store against an evil day. But he had not won her heart simply on a chance of defeat—far from it, for he had not dreamed of such a chance. It was a pleasant thing in itself to be the lover of that nut-brown, lithe-limbed, warm-hearted young girl—for Miwandi suspected nothing of his desire for, and plans concerning, the lady in the fort. She loved the tall foreigner quickly and surely. She was extravagantly proud of his power over the warriors of her people. He was her brave, and as such she cherished him openly, to the envy rather than the criticism of the other women of the encampment.

Miwandi was the daughter of a lesser chief of Panounia's faction. She was seventeen years of age. Her skin was ruddy brown, darker than the skins of some of her people and lighter than that of others. Her hair was brown and of a silken texture, very unlike the straight locks of the savages of the great continent to the westward. Her features were good, and her eyes were full of life and warmth. D'Antons' conquest rankled in the breasts of more than one of the young bucks of the camp.

Pierre d'Antons, fleeing from the fighting men of both parties, shaped his course for the lodge in which Miwandi dwelt. As he ran, with fear at his heels, he forgot to regret the girl in the fort; instead, a pang of honest affection for the comely young woman toward whom he was flying for help stirred in him. He stumbled into the lodge, and Miwandi caught him in her arms. In a few quick words, he told her of the defeat, and of the anger of Panounia's warriors toward him. She kissed him once, passionately, and then fell to collecting a few things—a quiver of arrows, a bow, furs, and some food. She pressed a bundle into his arms. He accepted it without a word. She bound her snow-shoes to her feet, and retied the wrenched thongs of his. Then they slipped from the dark lodge to the darker woods; and his sheathless sword, damp with blood, was still in his hand. They heard the cries of the wounded behind them, and other cries that inspired them to flight.

They fled for hours, without pausing to ease their breathing. Of the two, it was the man who sometimes lagged, who often stumbled, and who cried once that he would rather be captured than strain limb and lung to another effort. D'Antons had been actively employed throughout the day, and again during the most desperate passages of the battle, and his strength was well-nigh exhausted. At last he fell and lay prone. In an instant the girl was beside him, pillowing his head and shielding his body from the cold, and revived him with brandy from the scanty supply in his flask. By that time the dawn was breaking gray under the stars, and all sounds of the chase had died away. She cut an armful of fir-branches, and with them and the skins she and D'Antons had carried, she made a rude bed and a yet ruder shelter. So they lay until high noon, fugitives in a desolate wilderness, with death, in half a dozen guises, lurking on either hand.

Behind D'Antons and Miwandi, the broken band of Panounia's followers soon gave up the hunt. Matters were not in condition to be mended by killing a long-faced Frenchman and a pretty girl. The defeated savages had their own wounds to see to, and already too many dead to hide under the snow. A matter of sentiment, like the torturing and killing of their false leader D'Antons, would have to wait. Now, of all those valorous warriors who had menaced the little fort since the very beginning of winter, only ten remained unhurt. Panounia was dead. He had breathed his last in the edge of the woods, while the battle was still raging, and had been carried farther in by one of his men. Thus his death had remained unknown to the victors; as had also the deaths of many more of the besiegers. Wolf Slayer, that courageous savage lad who had once boasted of his deeds to Ouenwa, was desperately hurt. Painfully and hopelessly, those of the wounded who could move at all, the women, and the unhurt of the band, retreated toward farther and surer fastnesses. The wounded who could not drag themselves along were left to perish in the snow. Some were frozen stiff before morning. Some bled to death within the same time. A few lived until they were discovered by Ouenwa's men in the bright daytime,—they were reported as having been found dead.

D'Antons and Miwandi travelled, by forced marches, until they reached a wooded valley and a narrow, frozen river. Along this they journeyed inland and southward. At last they found a spot that promised shelter from the bleak winds as well as from prying eyes. There they built a wigwam of such materials as were at hand. Game was fairly plentiful in the protected coverts around. They soon had a comfortable retreat fashioned in that safe and voiceless place.

"It will do until summer brings the ships," remarked D'Antons, busy with plans whereby he might give Dame Fortune's wheel another twirl. Sometimes he spent whole hours in telling Miwandi brave tales of far and beautiful countries. He spoke of white towns above green harbours, of high forests with strange, bright birds flying through their tops, and of wide savannahs, whereon roved herds of great, sharp-horned beasts of more weight than a stag caribou.

"Oh, but you do not mean to leave me, Heart-of-Life," she cried.

So he swore, by a dozen saints, that she, Miwandi, should be his queen in a palace of white stone above a tropic sea.