ful, elusive. And that beauty was her own. She flung the sketch aside and hurled herself on her knees before Moosta.
"Look!" she cried. "Look on me. Omisse—with the straight eyes. Am I so? Ah—est-il that je suis is belle? Moosta! Dites-moi! Vouis êtes tapwa mynatun; mais moi—I am so! Ah! Tell me!"
She shook the placid fat Moosta until the silk threads were half-swallowed, and Moosta gasped:
"Wah! Wah! Andree! Feenish! Vous mak' keep. Eh? Aha; him say vous mooch plus preety."
"Nemoweya! Ah, say that again, Moosta, and I'll love you kakeka mena kakeka."
"Vhy you s'prise?" Moosta rubbed her wide, flat nose. "Wee all mak' see vous laike dat—tous les jours."
Andree sprang up; swaying, glowing, glorious. She was drunk with joy in her own beauty.
"I did not know. I" She stopped suddenly with her deep eyes turned sideways like a listening animal and her breast heaving quickly. Grange was speaking in the passage, and both women knew the voice with a laugh in it which answered.
"Ah!" Andree whipped the moccasin from Moosta's astonished hands, and sat herself down to work demurely.
"Dans les prisons des Nantes,
Dans les prisons des Nantes . . ."
she sang, sweet and low, setting careful scarlet stitches into a growing bud on the deer-skin.
Grange giggled as he pushed the door wide.
"Here's the Corp'ril came along fur a game o' cards," he said. "You take a hand, Andree? You sure will?"
Andree broke her song one half-moment, but she did not raise her eyes.
"Too busy," she said sedately.
"But" began Moosta, finding her voice in her dismay, and then Andree's voice carolled out, high and clear:
"Lui y a-t-n prisonnier, gai,
Faluron, falurette, faluron, falurette."
Dick's voice came in with hers on the last line:
"Faluron, falurette, donde."
