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man, but they were as nothing compared to this moment.
    The merchant stepped forward. “She will go with us and she’ll be sensible about it; this I will assure you.”
    Reynaud transferred his gaze to the merchant and so dark with menace was it that the man stumbled backward again. “I want no unwilling woman, nor do I care for a damaged one.”
    “You think we would—”
    “I know not. I can only assume that you judge me by yourselves.”
    “I’m sure she’ll see reason.”
    “That may be. There are arrangements that must be made. I will return at dusk and will expect an answer then.”
    Reynaud directed one last glance at Elise where she still knelt at his feet. His features were hard, unreadable. Abruptly he swung around, moving away. Before he had taken a half-dozen steps, he had disappeared into the forest.
    Pascal argued with her in the long hours that followed, talking until he was hoarse with the effort to keep his voice down yet to convince her that she was a fool, that what was being asked of her was a mere nothing, a few days of unpleasantness soon over. When his temper rose, St. Amant stepped in to prevent the merchant from becoming abusive. Still, he conquered his own scruples enough to swear that he, St. Amant, would see to it that she was not ill-used, if that was her fear. Also, though the decision was, of course, hers alone to make, he would point out that she held in her hands the lives of four other people. For himself it did not matter, but she must remember that one was a woman like herself, another a young boy. It might well be a mistake to let pride and fear dictate a choice that she could live to regret.
    Elise was enough of a realist to recognize that they were right in their way; still, she could not overcome her revulsion. As the time grew shorter and Madame Doucet roused enough to add her tearful entreaties to their arguments, she began to feel the desperation of one cornered, left without a choice.
    In the end, it was the thickening pall of smoke, the sound of the drums, the piping of cane flutes, and the drunken shouts of celebration that forced her decision. There could be no doubt that the Indians were in command, that the vast majority, if not all, of the French were dead. There was no possibility of making a foray for food and water to sustain them without the risk of discovery. Every moment they remained where they were only increased the danger of some Natchez warrior walking up to them. If that happened it would mean torture for the men, without doubt, and for herself and Madame Doucet slavery at best. They had to get away and their best hope of doing so successfully was Reynaud Chavalier. As long as he was not before her, as long as she did not think of what she must do to assure his cooperation, she could convince herself that she could go through with it. Somehow. It could not be any worse than the alternative, could it?
    When she had given her assent, Elise was left alone, alone with her fears and her memories. She did not want to think about Vincent Laffont, not now, not ever. It was easier to think of France and of her father and their house on the Quai Malaquais.
    Her mother had died when she was thirteen, a difficult age to lose one’s maternal influence. For a year she and her father had consoled each other, then her father had begun to keep company with a certain Madame Rouquette. The Widow Rouquette had had a child, a boy of eight years with beady eyes, a large moist mouth, and a nature that took pleasure in petty spite. He was the image of his mother. Within weeks, her father and Madame Rouquette had married, and the widow and her son had moved into the house that Elise had still thought of as belonging to her own mother.
    The months that followed were miserable. Elise’s father was completely under the thumb of his new wife, as much from an addiction to her overripe sensuality as from any overt domination. Her stepmother had disliked Elise on sight, partially