"Euan Loskiel, a soldier of the United States! May God ever mount guard beside you for all your goodness to my little daughter." Tears filled her eyes; her pale, smooth cheeks were wet.
"Lois is still asleep," she said.

"Come quietly with her mother and you shall see her where she sleeps." Cap in hand, coon-tail dragging, I entered the single room on silent, moccasined feet, set my rifle in a corner, and went over to the couch of tumbled fawn-skin and silky pelts.
As I stood looking down at the sweetly flushed face, her mother lifted my brier-scarred hand and pressed her lips to it; and I, hot and crimson with happiness and embarrassment, found not a word to utter.
"My little daughter's champion!" she murmured.

"Brave, and pure of heart! Ah, Monsieur, chivalry indeed is of no nation! It is a broader nobility which knows neither race nor creed nor ancestry nor birth....
How the child adores you!" "And you, Madame.

Has ever history preserved another such example of dauntless resolution and filial piety as Lois de Contrecoeur has shown us all ?" Her mother's beautiful head lifted a little: "The blood of France runs in her veins, Monsieur." Then, for the first time, a pale smile touched her pallour.

"Quand meme! No de Contrecoeur tires of endeavour while life endures....