The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved, and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.

"Has it stopped raining?" she asked.

Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of wood.

Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped his arm through Father Claude's, and led him for a short walk, giving him an account of the incident. "I didn't say anything at the time," he concluded, "partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin to see—I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the girl—that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious children. I confess I don't know just what to do about it. We must think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you what she wouldn't tell me. If he's annoying her, we must know it."

Father Claude was troubled.

"The maid is in our care," he said, "and also in that of Lieutenant Danton. It would seem that he—"

"There's no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father."

"Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child."

"Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser."

The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence, in spite of Menard's efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest's report.

After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude joined Menard at the fire.

"Well, Father, what word?"

"Softly, M'sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet."

"Well?"

"I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind."

"How is that?"

"She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and not an idle curiosity, she was moved."

"Did she speak then?"

"No, M'sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her mind,—it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had cast her down."

"And so she has pride," mused Menard. "Could you gather any new opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some understanding?"

"I hardly think so, M'sieu. But may I suggest that it would be well to be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our trust,"

"True, Father. I will account for him."

There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before, with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and each of the four engages stood his turn.

The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river, and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.

During the next day they passed on up the stream to the Coteau des Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from the strained relations of the two days just gone.

"M'sieu," she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. "Oh, M'sieu, may I stay in the canoe?"

Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness. Menard looked at her in doubt.

"It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle."

"And why not, M'sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect myself." She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a blanket across her knees. "Now I can brave the stream, Captain. Or,"—her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at him,—"perhaps it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I will obey my orders, Captain." But as she spoke she tucked the blanket closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.

He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter, who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid. "Very well," he said, "Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe."

"But it is not safe"—broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then, conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.

"Lay hold, boys," said Menard.

Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern. He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, "Take the rope with the men."

Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined them.

"Wait," called Menard, as the rope straightened. "Mademoiselle, I am sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have less trouble from the spray." He waded along the side, and helped her to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about her as before. Then he shouted, "All right," and they started into the foaming water.

They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.

When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.

"Come around behind Perrot," said Menard.

Danton reached around Perrot's body, and caught hold of the gunwale. At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe. The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.

Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The maid was unable at once to get her feet, used as she was to the water, and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes. Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.

"Give her to me!" he said huskily. "I've drowned her! My God, let me have her!"

"Stop," said Menard, sternly. "Take the men, and go after those bales—quick!"

Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain. Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his arm about the girl's shoulders. He helped her to the shore.

"Keep moving, Mademoiselle,—don't sit down. In a moment we shall have a fire. Father Claude," he called, "bring the canoe ashore." Then to the maid, "There are yet some dry blankets, thank God."

Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. "But it is only water, M'sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids."

Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid, enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man dried himself as best he could.

This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days, during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day following, the party camped at Pointe a Baudet, on Lake St. Francis. The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of Danton's heavy face and the maid's troubled eyes. After the supper the two strolled away, and sat just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when Danton's rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the sight of those unheeding eyes, they took to watching and speculating on the course of the conversation. The night came on, and the dark closed over them. Still the murmur of those low voices floated across the camp.

Father Claude, with a troubled mind, went down to the water, and walked slowly up and down. Menard saw to the final preparations for the night, and posted the first sentry. Then he joined the priest.

"Father?"

"Yes."

"I think it is time to speak."

"I fear it is, M'sieu."

"I must leave it in your hands."

"Shall I go now?"

"Yes."

Without further words, Father Claude walked up the bank, crackling through the bushes. From this spot the voices were inaudible, and for a few moments there was no sound. Then Menard could hear some one moving heavily through the undergrowth, going farther and farther into the stillness, and he knew that it was Danton. He sat on the bank with his back against a tree, and waited for a long hour. At last he dropped asleep.

He was awakened by Father Claude. The priest dropped to the ground beside him. His training had given Menard the faculty of awaking instantly into full grasp of a situation.

"Well," he said. "Where is the maid?"

"She has gone to her couch, but not to sleep, I fear. It has come, M'sieu."

"What has come?"

"Danton has lost his senses. He asks her to marry him, to flee with him. It is a difficult case. She has had no such experience before, and knows not how to receive him. She seems to have no love for him, beyond the pleasure his flattery has given her. She believes all he says. One thing I know, aside from all questions of expediency, of care for our trust, this must not go on."

"Not for the present, at least. She may do what she will, once we have taken her safely to Frontenac."

"No, M'sieu; not even then. We must stop it at once."

"Oh, of course," said Menard; "so far as we are concerned, we have no choice. You need not bother longer to-night. I will wait for the boy. I am sorry for him."

"I should have more pity, if I knew less of his past."

"Tush, Father! He is not a bad fellow, as they go. To be sure he does not rise any too well to new responsibilities, but he will grow into it. It is better an honest infatuation with the daughter of a gentleman than a dishonest one with an Indian maid. And you know our officers, Father. God knows, they are all bad enough; and yet they are loyal fellows."

"Ah, M'sieu, I fear you will be too lenient with him. Believe me, we have not a minute to waste in stopping the affair."

"Have no fear, Father. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest. Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already rolled in his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a tree a few rods away.

"Colin," he said, "have you seen Lieutenant Danton?"

"Yes, M'sieu. He is up there." Colin pointed through the trees that fringed the river. "I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see. He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,—and I should have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep."

Menard nodded, and walked slowly along the bank, bending aside the briers that caught at his clothes and his hands.



CHAPTER VI.

THE FIGHT AT LA GALLETTE.

Danton was lying on the ground, but he was not asleep. He looked up, at the sound of Menard's footsteps, and then, recognizing him, lowered his eyes again. The Captain hesitated, standing over the prostrate figure.

"Danton," he said finally, "I want you to tell me the truth."

The boy made no reply, and Menard, after waiting for a moment, sat upon a log.

"I have decided to do rather an unusual thing, Danton," he said slowly, "in offering to talk it over with you as a friend, and not as an officer. In one thing you must understand me: Mademoiselle St. Denis has been intrusted to my care, and until she has safely reached those who have a right to share the direction of her actions, I can allow nothing of this sort to go on. You must understand that. If you will talk with me frankly, and try to control yourself for the present, it may be that I can be of service to you later on."

There was a long silence. Finally, Danton spoke, without raising his head.

"Is there need of this, M'sieu? Is it not enough that she—that Mademoiselle dismisses me?"

"Oh," said Menard, "that is it?"

"Yes."

"You are sure of yourself, Danton? sure that you have not made a mistake?"

"A mistake?" The boy looked up wildly. "I was—shall I tell you, M'sieu?—I left the camp to-night with the thought that I should never go back."

Menard looked at him curiously.

"What did you plan to do?"

"I didn't know,—I don't know now. Back to Montreal, perhaps to the Iroquois. I don't care where."

"You did not bring your musket. It would hardly be safe."

"Safe!" There was weary contempt in the boy's voice. He sat up, and made an effort to steady himself, leaning back upon his hands. "I should not say this. It was what I thought at first. I am past it now; I can think better. It was only your coming,—when I first saw you, it came rushing back, and I wanted to—oh, what is the use? You do not know. You cannot understand."

"And now?"

"Now, Captain, I ask for a release. Let me go back to Montreal."

"How would you go? You have no canoe."

"I will walk."

Menard shook his head.

"I am sorry," he said, "but it is too late. In the first place, you would never reach the city. There are scouting bands of Iroquois all along the river."

"So much the better, M'sieu, so—"

"Wait. That is only one reason. I cannot spare you. I have realized within the last day that I should have brought more men. The Iroquois know of our campaign; they are watching us. A small party like this is to their liking. I will tell you, Danton, we may have a close rub before we get to Frontenac. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. What reason could I give for sending you alone down the river to Montreal? You forget, boy, that we are not on our own pleasure; we are on the King's errand. For you to go now would be to take away one of our six fighting men,—to imperil Mademoiselle. And that, I think," he looked keenly at Danton, "is not what you would wish to do."

The boy's face was by turns set and working. He looked at Menard as if to speak, but got nothing out. At last he sprang to his feet, and paced back and forth between the trees.

"What can I do?" he said half to himself. "I can't stay! I can't see her every day, and hear her voice, and sit with her at every meal. Why do you call yourself my friend, Menard? Why don't you help? Why don't you say something—?"

"There are some things, Danton, that a man must fight out alone."

Danton turned away, and stood looking over the river. Menard sat on the log and waited. The moments slipped by, and still they said nothing. They could hear the stirring of Colin, back at the camp, and the rustle of the low night breeze. They could almost hear the great silent rush of the river.

"Danton."

The boy half turned his head.

"You will stay here and play the man. You will go on with your duties; though, if the old arrangement be too hard, I will be your master in the Iroquois study, leaving Mademoiselle to Father Claude. And now you must return to the camp and get what sleep you can. Heaven knows we may have little enough between here and Frontenac. Come."

He got up, and walked to the camp, without looking around. Danton lingered until the Captain's tall figure was blending with the shadows of the forest, then he went after.

During the following day they got as far as the group of islands at the head of Lake St. Francis. Wherever possible Menard was now selecting islands or narrow points for the camp, where, in case of a night attack, defence would be a simple problem for his few men. Also, each night, he had the men spread a circle of cut boughs around the camp at a little distance, so that none could approach without some slight noise. Another night saw the party at the foot of Petit Chesneaux, just above Pointe Maligne.

While Perrot was preparing the supper, and Danton, with the voyageurs, was unpacking the bales, Menard took his musket and strode off into the forest. There was seldom a morning now that the maid did not have for her breakfast a morsel of game which the Captain's musket had brought down.

In half an hour he returned, and sought Father Claude; and after a few low words the two set off. Menard led the way through thicket and timber growth, over a low hill, and down into a hollow, where a well-defined Indian trail crossed a brook. Here was a large sugar maple tree standing in a narrow opening in the thicket. Menard struck a light, and held up a torch so that the priest could make out a blaze-mark on the tree.

"See," said Menard. "It is on the old trail. I saw it by the merest chance."

Father Claude bent forward, with his eyes close to the inscription that had been painted on the white inner bark, with charcoal and bear's grease.

"Can you read it?" asked Menard, holding the torch high.

The priest nodded. Both of these men knew the Indian writing nearly as well as their own French.

[Transcriber's Note: An illustration of picture-writing appears here in the text with the following caption:

NOTE.—By this picture-writing the Long Arrow (of the clan of the Beaver) tells the Beaver (of the same clan) that he has taken up the hatchet against the party in the canoe, and he asks the Beaver to assist him. The parallel zigzag lines under the long arrow tell that he is travelling by the river, and the two straight lines under these that he has two warriors with him. The attack is to be made in either three or four sleeps, or days, as indicated by the three finished huts and one unfinished.

The Beaver has seen this sign, as shown by his signature at the bottom. The seventeen slanting lines under the foot mean that he has seventeen warriors and they are travelling on foot, southward, as shown by the fact that the lines slope toward the sun.

That the figures in the canoe are French is shown by their hats. The priest has no paddle, the maid is represented with long hair.]

"He does not know of the two men you got at Montreal, M'sieu. He tells of only six in our canoe."

"No? But that matters little. The Beaver has hurried after him with nearly a score. They can give us trouble enough. What do you make of the huts? Do they mean three days or four?"

"It looks to me," said the priest slowly, "that he was interrupted in drawing the fourth."

"Well,"—Menard threw his torch into the brook, and turned away into the dusk of the thicket,—"we know enough. The fight will be somewhere near the head of the rapids. Perhaps they will wait until we get on into the islands."

"And meantime," said the priest, as they crackled through the undergrowth, "we shall say nothing of this to Lieutenant Danton or the maid?"

"Nothing," Menard replied.

In three days more they had passed Rapide Flat, after toiling laboriously by the Long Sault. They were a sober enough party now, oppressed with Danton's dogged attention to duty and with the maid's listless manner.

They were passing a small island the next morning, when Perrot gave a shout and stopped paddling.

"What is it?" asked Menard, sharply.

Perrot pointed across a spit of land. In the other channel they could see a bateau just disappearing behind a clump of trees. It was headed down-stream. Menard swung the canoe about, and they skirted the foot of the island. Instead of a single bateau there were some half dozen, drifting light down the river, with a score of coureurs de bois and voyageurs under the command of a bronzed lieutenant, Du Peron, a sergeant, and a corporal. The lieutenant recognized Menard, and both parties landed while the two officers exchanged news.

"Can you spare me a few men?" Menard asked, when they had drawn apart from the others.

The lieutenant's eye roamed over the group on the beach, where the men of both parties were mingling.

"How many do you want? I'm running shorthanded. We have all we can manage with these bateaux."

"There's a war party of twenty on my trail," said Menard. "If I had my own men with me I should feel safe, but I have my doubts about these fellows. I haven't room for more than two."

"What's the trouble?—that La Grange affair?"

Menard nodded.

"I heard that they had a price on your head. There's been a good deal of talk about it at Frontenac. A converted Mohawk has been scouting for us, and he says that the Onondagas blame you for that whole galley business."

"I know," said Menard, grimly. "You could hardly expect them to get the truth of it."

"It was bad work, Menard, bad work. The worst thing La Grange did was to butcher the women and children. He was drunk at the time, and the worst of it was over before d'Orvilliers got wind of it. Do you know who is leading this war party?"

"The Long Arrow."

"Oh, yes. A big fellow, with a rather noticeable wampum collar. He came to Frontenac as a Mission Indian, but got away before we suspected anything. Our scout told me that his son was in the party that was taken to the galleys. He's been scouting along the river ever since. Likely as not he followed you down to Quebec. How many men have you now?"

"Five, and Father Claude."

"He could shoot at a pinch, I suppose. I'll let you have the best two I have, but—" Du Peron shrugged his shoulders—"you know the sort that are assigned for this transport work. They're a bad lot at best. But they can shoot, and they hate the Iroquois, so you're all right if you can keep them sober. That will make nine, with yourself,—it should be enough."

"It will be enough. How is the transport moving?"

"Splendidly. Whatever we may say about the new Governor, our Intendant knows his business. I judge from the way he is stocking up Frontenac, that we are to use it as the base for a big campaign."

"I suppose so. You will report, will you, at Montreal, that we were safe at Rapide Flat? And if you find a coureur going down to Quebec, I wish you would send word to Provost that Mademoiselle St. Denis is well and in good spirits."

The lieutenant looked curiously at the maid, who was walking with Father Claude near the canoe. Then the two officers shook hands, and in a few moments were going their ways, Menard with two villainous voyageurs added to his crew. That afternoon he passed the last rapid, and beached the canoe at La Gallette, thankful that nothing intervened between them and Fort Frontenac but a reach of still water and the twining channels of the Thousand Islands, where it would call for the sharpest eyes ever set in an Iroquois head to follow his movements.

They ate an early supper, and immediately afterward Father Claude slipped away. The maid looked after him a little wistfully, then she wandered to the bank, and found a mossy seat where she could watch the long rapid, with its driving, foaming current that dashed over the ledges and leaped madly around the jagged rocks. Menard set his men at work preparing the camp against attack. When this was well under way he called Danton, who was lying by the fire, and spent an hour with him conversing in Iroquois. By that time the twilight was creeping down the river. Menard left the boy to form a speech in accord with Iroquois tradition, and went on a tour of inspection about the camp. The new men had swung thoroughly into the spirit of their work; one of them was already on guard a short way back in the woods. The other men were grouped in a cleared place, telling stories and singing.

Father Claude came hurriedly toward the fire, looking for Menard. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm.

"M'sieu," he said, in an eager voice, "come. I have found it."

"What?"

"It has come to me,—about the canoe."

Menard looked puzzled, but the priest caught his arm, and led him away.

"It came while we ate supper. The whole truth, the secret of the allegory, flashed upon me. I have worked hard, and now it is done. Instead of leaving out the canoe, I have put it back, and have placed in it six warriors, three paddling toward the chapel, and three away from it. Over them hovers an angel,—a mere suggestion, a faint, shining face, a diaphanous form, and outspread hands. Thus we symbolize the conflict in the savage mind at the first entrance of the Holy Word into their lives, with the blessed assurance over all that the Faith must triumph in the end."

At the last words, he stopped and drew Menard around to face the portrait of the Lily of the Onondagas, which was leaning against a stump.

"Is it too dark, M'sieu? See, I will bring it closer." He lifted the picture, and held it close to Menard's eyes. He was trembling with the excitement of his inspiration.

The Captain stepped back.

"I should like to know, Father, where you have had this picture."

"It was in my bundle. I have"—for the first time he saw the sternness in Menard's face, and his voice faltered.

"You did not leave it at Montreal?"

Father Claude slowly lowered the canvas to the ground. The light had gone out of his eyes, and his face was white. Then suddenly his thin form straightened. "I had forgotten. It was M'sieu's order. See,"—he suddenly lifted the picture over his head and whirled to the stump,—"it shall go no farther. We will leave it here for the wolves and the crows and the pagan redmen."

He dashed it down with all his strength, but Menard sprang forward, and caught it on his outstretched arm. "No, Father," he said; "we will take it with us."

The priest smiled wearily, and lowered the picture to the ground; but when Menard said, "You have broken it," he raised it hastily, and examined it. One corner of the wooden frame was loosened, but the canvas was not injured.

"I can mend it," he said.

Then they walked to the camp together, without talking; and Menard helped him repair the frame, and pack the picture carefully.

"How is it that it was not ruined in the capsize at Coteau des Cedres?" Menard asked.

"It was preserved by a miracle, M'sieu. This bundle did not leave the canoe."

The voyageurs, still lounging in the clearing, were laughing and talking noisily. The Captain, after he had prepared the maid's couch, and bade her good-night, called to them to be quiet. For a time the noise ceased, but a little later, as he was spreading his blanket on the ground, it began again, and one of the transport men sang the opening strain of a ribald song. Menard strode over to the group so quickly that he took them by surprise. Colin was slipping something behind him, but he could not escape Menard's eye. In a moment he was sprawling on his face, and a brandy flask was brought to light. Menard dashed it against a tree, and turned to the frightened men.

"Go to your blankets, every man of you. There are Iroquois on this river. You have already made enough noise to draw them from half a league away. The next man that is caught drinking will be flogged." He thought of the maid lying under her frail shelter, for whose life he was responsible. "If it occurs twice, he will be shot. Perrot, I want you to join the sentry. From now on we shall have two men on guard all night. See that there is no mistake about this. At the slightest noise, you will call me."

The men slunk to their blankets, and soon the camp was still.

The river sang as it rushed down its zigzag channel through the rocks,—a song that seemed a part of the night, and yet was distinct from the creeping, rustling, dropping, all-pervading life and stir of the forest. Every leaf, every twig and root, every lump of sod and rock-held pool of stagnant water, had its own miniature world, where living things were fighting the battle of life. In the far distance, perhaps, an owl hooted; or near at hand a flying squirrel alighted on a bending elm-twig. Deer and moose followed their beaten tracks to the streams that had been theirs before ever Frenchman pierced the forest; beaver dove into their huts above the dams their own sharp teeth had made; moles nosed under the rich soil, and left a winding track behind; frogs croaked and bellowed from some backset of the river,—and all blended, not, perhaps, so much into a sound, as into a sense of movement,—an even murmur in a low key, to which the lighter note of the water was apart and distinct.

To a man trained as Menard had been, this was companionship. He was never alone in the forest, never without his millions of friends, who, though they seldom came into his thoughts, were yet a part of him, of his sense of life and strength. And through all these noises, even to the roar of Niagara itself, he could sleep like a child, when the slightest sound of a moccasined foot on a dry leaf would have aroused him at the instant to full activity. To-night he lay awake for a long time. With every day that he drew nearer the frontier came graver doubts of the feasibility of the plan which had been intrusted to him. The wretched business of La Grange's treachery and the stocking of the King's galleys had probably alienated the Onondagas for all time. Their presence on the St. Lawrence pointed to this. He felt safe enough, personally, for the very imprudence of the Governor's campaign, which had made it known so early to all the Iroquois, was an element in his favour. The Iroquois, unlike many of the roaming western tribes, had their settled villages, with lodges and fields of grain to defend from invasion. One secret of the campaign had been well kept; no one save the Governor's staff and Menard knew that the blow was to fall on the Senecas alone. And Menard was certain enough in his knowledge of Iroquois character to believe that each tribe, from the Mohawks on the east to the Senecas on the west, would call in its warriors, and concentrate to defend its villages. Therefore there could be no strong force on the St. Lawrence, where the French could so easily cut it off. As for the Long Arrow and his band, eight good fighting men and a stout-hearted priest could attend to them.

No, the danger would begin after the maid was safe at Frontenac, and he and Danton and Father Claude must set out to win the confidence of the Onondagas. The Oneidas and Mohawks must not be slighted; but the Onondagas and Cayugas, being the nearest to the Senecas, and between them and the other nations, would likely prove to be the key to the situation.

The night was black when he awoke. Clouds had spread over the sky, hiding all but a strip in the west where a low line of stars peeped out. This strip was widening rapidly as the night breeze carried the clouds eastward. At a little distance some of the men were whispering together and laughing softly. A hand was feeling his arm, and a voice whispered,—

"Quick, M'sieu; something has happened!"

"Is that you, Colin?"

"Yes. Guerin was on guard with me, and he fell. I thought I heard an arrow, but could not be sure. I looked for him after I heard him fall, but could not find him in the dark."

Menard sprang to his feet, with his musket, which had lain at his side every night since leaving Montreal.

"Where was Guerin, Colin?"

"Straight back from the river, a few rods. He had spoken but a moment before. It must have told them where to shoot."

"Call the men, and draw them close in a circle." Menard felt his way toward the fire, where a few red embers showed dimly, and roused Danton with a light touch and a whispered caution to be silent. Already he could hear the low stir of the engages as they slipped nearer the fire. He walked slowly toward the river, with one hand stretched out in front, to find the canoe. It was closer than he supposed, and he stumbled over it, knocking one end off its support. The maid awoke with a gasp.

"Mademoiselle, silence!" he whispered, kneeling beside her. "I fear we are attacked. You must come with me." He had to say it twice before she could fully understand, and just then an arrow sang over them, and struck a tree with a low thut. He suddenly rose and shouted, "Together, boys! They will be on us in a moment. Close in at the bank, and save your powder. Perrot, come here and help me with the canoe."

There was a burst of yells from the dark in answer to his call, and a few shots flashed. Danton was rallying the men, and calling to them to fall back, where they could take cover among the rocks and trees of the bank.

The maid was silent, but she reached out her hand, and Menard, catching her wrist, helped her to her feet, and fairly carried her down the slope of the bank, laying her behind the tangled roots of a great oak. Already the sky was clearer, and the trees and men were beginning to take dim shape. The river rushed by, a deeper black than sky and woods, with a few ghostly bits of white where the foam of the rapids began.

"Stay here," he whispered. "Don't move or speak. I shall not be far."

She clung to his hand in a dazed manner, but he gently drew his away, and left her crouching on the ground.

The men were calling to one another as they dodged back from tree to tree toward the river, shooting only when a flash from the woods showed the position of an Indian. Some of them were laughing, and as Menard reached the canoe Perrot broke into a jeering song. It was clear that the attacking party was not strong. Probably they had not taken into account the double guard, relying on the death of the sentry to clear the way for a surprise.

"Perrot!" called the Captain. "Why don't you come here?"

The song stopped. There was a heavy noise as the voyageur came plunging through the bushes, drawing a shower of arrows and musket balls.

"Careful, Perrot, careful."

"They can't hit me," said Perrot, laughing. He stumbled against the Captain, stepped back, and fell over the canoe, rolling and kicking. Menard sprang toward him and jerked him up. He smelled strongly of brandy.

Menard swore under his breath.

"Pick up your musket. Take hold of that canoe,—quick!"

Perrot was frightened by his stern words, and he succeeded in holding up an end of the canoe, while Menard pushed him down the slope to the water's edge. They rushed back, and in a few trips got down most of the stores. By this time Perrot was sobering somewhat, and with the Captain he took his place in the line. The men were shooting more frequently now, and by their loose talk showed increasing recklessness. Calling to Danton, Menard finally made them understand his order to fall back. Before they reached the bank, Colin dropped, with a ball through the head, and was dragged back by Danton.

They dropped behind logs and trees at the top of the slope. It began to look as if the redmen were to get no closer, in spite of the drunken condition of all but one or two of the men. Though the night was now much brighter, they were in the shadow, and neither the Captain nor Danton observed that the brandy which the transport men had supplied was passing steadily from hand to hand. They could not know that the boy Guerin lay on his back amid the attacking Onondagas, an arrow sticking upright in his breast, one hand lying across his musket, the other clasping a flask.

The maid had not moved. She could be easily seen now in the clearer light, and Menard went to her, feeling the need of giving her some work to occupy her mind during the strain of the fight.

"Mademoiselle," he whispered.

She looked up. He could see that she was shivering.

"I must ask you to help me. We must get the canoe into the water. They will soon tire of the assault and withdraw; then it will be safe to take to the canoe. They cannot hurt you. We are protected by the bank."

He helped her to rise, and she bravely threw her weight on the canoe, which Menard could so easily have lifted alone, and stood at the edge of the beach, passing him the bundles, which he, wading out, placed aboard. But suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation, peering into the canoe.

The maid, dreading each moment some new danger, asked in a dry voice, "What is it, M'sieu?"

For reply he seized the bundles, one at a time, and tossed them ashore, hauling the canoe after, and running his hand along the bark.

The maid stepped to his side. There was a gaping hole in the side of the canoe. She drew her breath in quickly, and looked up at him.

"It was Perrot," he muttered, "that fool Perrot." He stood looking at it, as if in doubt what to do. Up on the bank the men, Danton and Father Claude among them, were popping away at the rustling bushes. Suddenly he turned and gazed down at the maid's upturned face. "Mademoiselle," he said, "I do not think there is danger, but whatever happens you must keep close to me, or to Danton and Father Claude. It may be that there will be moments when we cannot stop and explain to you as I am doing now, but you must trust us, and believe that all will come out well. The other men are not themselves to-night—"

He stopped. It was odd that he should so talk to a maid while his men were fighting for their lives; but the Menard who had the safety of this slender girl in his hands was not the Menard of a hundred battles gone by. So he lingered, not knowing why, save that he hoped for some word from her lips of confidence in those who wished to protect her. And, as he waited, she smiled with trembling lips, and said:—

"It will come out well, M'sieu. I—I am not afraid."

Then Menard went up the bank with a bound, and finding one man already in a stupor, and another struggling for a flask, which Father Claude was trying to take away from him, he laid about him with his hard fists, and shortly had the drunkards as near to their senses as they were destined to be during the short space they had yet to live.



CHAPTER VII.

A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.

Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket flashed. "There are not many of them," said Menard to Danton, as they lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in an interval between shots. "Not a score, all told."

"Will they come closer?"

"No. You won't catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an assault. They'll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait for a better chance."

Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was nearly free of clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight, the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was loading and firing a long arquebuse a croc, had risen above this difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.

The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard's arm.

"What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe."

"I want to speak to you, M'sieu. If I could have your knife—for one moment—"

"What do you want of a knife, child? It is best that you—" There was a fusillade from the brush, and his voice was lost in the uproar. "You must wait below, on the beach. They cannot get to you."

"It is the canoe, M'sieu. The cloth about the bales is stout,—I can sew it over the hole."

Menard looked at her as she crouched by his side; her hair fallen about her face and shoulders; her hands, grimy with the clay of the bank, clinging to a wandering root. She was still trembling with excitement, but her eyes were bright and eager. Without a word he drew his knife from its sheath, and held it out. She took it, and was down the slope with a light spring, while the Captain poked the muzzle of his musket through the leaves. As he drew it back, after firing, he caught a glimpse of Danton's face, turned toward him with a curious expression. The boy laughed nervously, and wiped the sweat from his blackened forehead. "They don't give us much rest, Captain, do they?" Menard's reply was jerked out with the strokes of his ramrod: "They will—before long—and we can—take to the canoe. We're letting them have all they want." He peered through the leaves, and fired quickly. A long shriek came from the darkness. Menard laughed. "There's one more gone, Danton."

The fight went on slowly, wretchedly, shot for shot, Danton himself dragging up a bale of ammunition and serving it to the men. The maid, unaided, had overturned the canoe where it lay, and with quickened breath was pressing her needle through the tough bark. Danton lost the flint from his musket, and crept down the bank to set a new one. Suddenly he exclaimed, "There goes Perrot!"

The old voyageur had, in a fit of recklessness, raised his head for a long look about the woods. Now he was rolling slowly down the slope toward the canoe and the maid, clutching weakly at roots and bushes as he passed. There was a dark spot on his forehead. Menard sprang after, and felt of his wrists; the pulse was fluttering out. He looked up, to see the maid dipping up water with her hollowed hands, and waved her back.

"It is no use, Mademoiselle. Is the canoe ready? We may need it soon."

She stood motionless, slowly shaking her head, and letting the water spill from her hands a drop at a time.

"Go back there. Do what you can with it." He hurried up the bank and fell into his place.

"Do you see what they are doing?" asked Danton.

"Playing the devil. Anything else?"

The lieutenant pointed to an arrow that was sticking in a tree beside him, slanting downward. "They are climbing trees. Listen. You can hear them talking, and calling down. I've fired, but I don't get them."

Menard listened closely, and shot for the sound, but with no result.

"We've got to stop this, Danton. I don't understand it. It isn't like the Iroquois to keep at it after a repulse. Tell Father Claude; he is shooting too low." Menard glanced along the line at his men. The drunken transport man lay silent at his post; beyond him were his mate and one of the Montreal men, both of them reckless and frightened by turns, shooting aimlessly into the dark. The arrows were rattling down about them now. One grazed Father Claude's back as he stooped to take aim, and straightened him up with a jerk. A moment later a bullet sang close past Menard's head. He looked for the maid; she was sitting by the canoe, sewing, giving no heed to the arrows.

The Montreal man groaned softly, and flattened out, with an arrow slanting into the small of his back; which so unmanned the only other conscious engage that he sank by him, sobbing, and trying to pull out the arrow with his hands. Menard sprang up.

"My God, Danton! Father Claude! This is massacre. Run for the canoe. My turn, eh?"

"What is it?" asked Danton. "Did they get you?"

For reply, Menard tore an arrow from the flesh of his forearm and dashed down the bank, musket in hand. The maid was tugging at the canoe, struggling to move it toward the water. She did not look up to see the yellow, crimson, and green painted figures rise from the reeds that fringed the water but a few yards away; she did not hear the rush of moccasined feet on the gravel. Before she could turn, she was seized and thrown to the ground, surrounded by the Indians, who were facing about hastily to meet Menard. The Captain came among them with a whirl of his musket that sent one warrior to the ground and dropped another, half stunned, across the canoe. Danton was at his heels, and Father Claude, fighting like demons with muskets and knives.

"Quick, Mademoiselle!" Menard lifted her as he spoke, and swung her behind him; and then the three were facing the group of howling, jumping figures, which was increased rapidly by those who had followed the Frenchmen down the bank. "Come back here, Father. Protect the maid! They dare not attack you, if you drop your musket! Loose your hold, Mademoiselle." He caught roughly at the slender arms that held about his waist, parrying a knife stroke with his other hand. "They will kill you if you cling to me. Now, Danton! Never mind your arm. I have one in the hand. Fight for the maid and France!" Menard was shouting for sheer lust and frenzy of battle, "What is the matter with the devils? Why don't they shoot? God, Danton, they're coming at us with clubs!" He called out in the Iroquois tongue: "Come at us, cowards! Make an end of it! Where are your bows? your muskets? Where is the valour of the Onondagas—of my brothers?"

The last words brought forth a chorus of jeers and yells. The two officers stood side by side at the water's edge. Behind them, knee-deep in the water, was Father Claude, holding the maid in his arms. The Indians seemed to draw together, still with that evident effort to take their game alive, for two tall chiefs were rushing about, cautioning the warriors. Then, of a sudden, the whole body came forward with a rush, and Menard, Danton, Father Claude, and the maid went down; the three men fighting and splashing until they lay, bound with thongs, on the beach.

Menard turned his head and saw that Danton lay close to him.

"Mademoiselle?" he said. "What have they done with her?"

"She is here." The reply was in Father Claude's voice. It came from the farther side of Danton.

"Is she hurt?"

"No. But they have bound her and me."

"Bound you!" The Captain tried to sit up, but could not. "They would not do that, Father. It is a mistake."

A warrior, carrying a musket under his arm, walked slowly around the prisoners, making signs to them to be silent. The others had withdrawn to the shadow of the bank; the sound of their voices came indistinctly across the strip of shore. Indifferent to the pain in his arm, Menard struggled at his thongs, and called to them in Iroquois: "Who of my brothers has bound the holy Father? What new fear strikes the breasts of the sons of the night-wind that they must subdue with force the gentle spirit of their Father, who has given his years for his children? Is it not enough that you have broken the faith with your brother, the child of your own village, the son of your bravest chief? Need you other prey than myself?"

The guard stood over Menard, and lifted his musket. Menard laughed.

"Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then, why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita I have known."

Father Claude broke in on Menard, whose voice was savage in its defiance.

"Have patience, M'sieu. I will speak." He lifted his voice. "Teganouan! Father Claude awaits you." There was no reply from the knot of warriors at the bank, and the priest called again. Finally a chief came across and looked stolidly at the prisoners.

"My Father called?" he said.

"Your Father is grieved, Long Arrow, that you would bind him like a soldier taken in war." The priest's voice was gentle. "Is this the custom of the Onondagas? It was not so when I served you with Father de Lamberville."

"My Father fought against his children."

"You would have slain me, Long Arrow, had I not."

The Indian walked slowly back to his braves, and for some moments there was a consultation. Then the other chief came to them, and, without a word, himself cut the thongs that bound the priest's wrists and ankles. There was no look of recognition in his eyes as he passed Menard, though they had been together on many a long hunt. He was the Beaver.

As the Captain lay on his back, looking first at the kneeling Indian, then at the sky overhead, he was thinking of the Long Arrow, again with a half-memory of some other occasion when they had met. Then, slowly, it came to him. It was at the last council to decide on his release from captivity, five years before. The Long Arrow had come from a distant village to urge the death of the prisoner. He had argued eloquently that to release Menard would be to send forth an ungrateful son who would one day strike at the hand that had befriended him.

Father Claude was on his feet, chafing his wrists and talking with the Beaver. The Long Arrow joined them, and for a few moments the chiefs reasoned together in low, dignified tones. Then, at a word from the Beaver, and a grunt of disgust from the Long Arrow, Father Claude, with quick fingers, set the maid free, and took her head upon his knee.

"Have they hurt her, Father?" asked Menard, in French.

"No, M'sieu, I think not. It is the excitement. The child sadly needs rest."

"Will they release you? It is not far to Frontenac. It may be that you can reach there with Mademoiselle."

"No, my son." The priest paused to dip up some water, and to stroke the maid's forehead and wrists. "They have some design which has not been made clear to me. They have promised not to bind me or to injure what belongs to me among the supplies. But the Beaver threatens to kill us if we try to escape, Mademoiselle and I."

"Why do they hold you?"

"To let no word go out concerning your capture. I fear, M'sieu—"

"Well?"

The priest lowered his eyes to the maid, who still lay fainting, and said no more. A long hour went by, with only a commonplace word now and then between the prisoners. The maid revived, and sat against the canoe, gazing over the water that swept softly by. Danton lay silent, saying nothing. Once a groan slipped past the Captain's lips at a twitch of his wounded arm, and Father Claude, immediately cheered by the prospect of a moment's occupation, cleaned the wound with cool water, and bandaged it with a strip from his robe.

Preparations were making for a start. A half-dozen braves set out, running down the beach; and shortly returned by way of the river with two canoes. The others had opened the bales of supplies (excepting Father Claude's bundle, which he kept by him), and divided the food and ammunition among themselves. The two chiefs came to the prisoners, and seated themselves on the gravel. The Long Arrow began talking.

"My brother, the Big Buffalo, is surprised that he should be taken a prisoner to the villages of the Onondagas. He thinks of the days when he shared with us our hunts, our lodges, our food, our trophies; when he lived a free life with his brothers, and parted from them with sadness in his voice. He had a grateful heart for the Onondagas then. When he left our lodges he placed his hand upon the hearts of our chiefs, he swore by his strange gods to keep the pledge of friendship to his brothers of the forest. Moons have come and gone many times since he left our villages. The snow has fallen for five seasons between him and us, to chill his heart against those who have befriended him. Twice has he been in battle when we might have taken him a prisoner, but the hearts of our braves were warm toward him, and they could not lift their arms. When there have been those who have urged that the hatchet be taken up against him, many others have come forward to say, 'No; he will yet prove our friend and our brother.'"

Menard lay without moving, looking up at the stars. Danton, by his side, and the maid, sitting beyond, were watching him anxiously. Father Claude stood erect, with folded arms.

"And now," continued the chief, "now that Onontio, the greatest of war chiefs, thinks that he is strong, and can with a blow destroy our villages and drive us from the lands our gods and your gods have said to be ours by right, as it was our fathers',—now there is no longer need for the friendship of the Onondagas, whose whole nation is fewer than the fighting braves of the great Onontio. The war-song is sung in every white village. The great canoes take food and powder up our river, for those who would destroy us."

Menard was still looking upward. "My brother," he said, speaking slowly, "was once a young brave. When he was called before his great chief, and commanded to go out and fight to save his village and his brothers and sisters, did he say to his chief: 'No, my father, I will no longer obey your commands. I will no longer strive to become a famous warrior of your nation. I will go away into the deep forest,—alone, without a lodge, without a nation, to be despised alike by my brothers and my foes?' Or did he go as he was bid, obeying, like a brave warrior, the commands of those who have a right to command? Does not the Long Arrow know that Onontio is the greatest of chiefs, second only to the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, the father of red men and white men? If Onontio's red sons are disobedient, and he commands me to chastise them, shall I say to my father, 'I cannot obey your will, I will become an outcast, without a village or a nation?' The Long Arrow is a wise man. He knows that the duty of all is to obey the father at Quebec."

"The Big Buffalo speaks with wisdom. But it may be he forgets that our braves have passed him by in the battles of every season since he left our villages. He forgets that he met a band of peaceful hunters from our nation, who went into his great stone house because they believed that his white brothers, if not himself, would keep the word of friendship. He forgets that they were made to drink of the white man's fire water, and were chained together to become slaves of the great kind Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children, and would make them mighty in his land. Is this the father he would have us obey? Truly, he speaks with an idle tongue."

Menard lay silent. His part in La Grange's treachery, and in carrying out later the Governor's orders, would be hard to explain. To lay the blame on La Grange would not help his case, at least until he could consult with Father Claude, and be prepared to speak deliberately.

"My brother does not reply?"

"He will ask a question," replied Menard. "What is the will of the chiefs to do with the sons of Onontio?"

"The Big Buffalo has seen the punishment given by the Onondagas to those who have broken their faith."

"I understand. And of course we shall be taken to your villages before this death shall come?"

The Long Arrow bowed.

"Very well," said Menard, in his slow voice. "As the Long Arrow, brave as he is, is but a messenger, obeying the will of the nation, I will withhold my word until I shall be brought before your chiefs in council. I shall have much to say to them; it need be said only once. I shall be pleased to tell my truths to the Big Throat, whose eyes can see beyond the limits of his lodge; who knows that the hand of Onontio is a firm and strong hand. He shall know from my lips how kind Onontio wishes to be to his ungrateful children—" He paused. The Indians must not know yet that the Governor's campaign was to be directed only against the Senecas. The mention of the Big Throat would, he knew, be a shaft tipped with jealousy in the breast of the Long Arrow. The Big Throat, Otreouati, was the widest famed orator and chief of the Onondagas; and it was he who had adopted Menard as his son. Above all, the Long Arrow would not dare to do away with so important a prisoner before he could be brought before the council.

The maid was leaning forward, following their words intently. "Oh, M'sieu," she said, "I cannot understand it all. What will they do with you?"

Menard hesitated, and replied in French without turning his head: "They will take us to their villages below Lake Ontario. They will not harm you, under Father Claude's protection. And then it is likely that we may be rescued before they can get off the river."

"But yourself, M'sieu? They are angry with you. What will they do?"

"Lieutenant Danton and I must look out for ourselves. I shall hope that we may find a way out."

The Long Arrow was looking closely at them, evidently resenting a woman's voice in the talk. At the silence, he spoke in the same low voice, but Menard and Father Claude read the emotion underneath.

"It may be that the Big Buffalo has never had a son to brighten his days as his life reaches the downward years. It may be that he has not watched the papoose become a fleet youth, and the youth a tireless hunter. He may not have waited for the day when the young hunter should take his seat at the council and speak with those who will hear none but wise men. I had such a son. He went on the hunt with a band that never returned to the village." His voice rose above the pitch customary to a chief. It was almost cold in its intensity. "I found his body, my brother, the body of my son, at this place, killed by the white men, who talked to us of the love of their gods and their Chief-Across-the-Water. Here it was I found him, who died before he would become the slave of a white man; and here I have captured the man who killed him. It is well that we have not killed my brother to-night. It is better that we should take him alive before the council of the Onondagas, who once were proud in their hearts that he was of their own nation."

The maid's eyes, shining with tears, were fixed on the Indian's face. She had caught up with her hand the flying masses of her hair and braided them hastily; but still there were locks astray, touched by the light of the starlit sky. Menard turned his head, and watched her during the long silence. Danton was watching her too. He had not understood the chief's story, but it was clear from her face that she had caught it all. It was Father Claude who finally spoke. His voice was gentle, but it had the air of authority which his long experience had taught him was necessary in dealing with the Indians.

"The Big Buffalo has said wisely. He will speak only to the great chiefs of the nation, who will understand what may be beyond the minds of others. The heart of the Long Arrow is sad, his spirit cast down, and he does not see now what to-morrow he may,—that the hand of the Big Buffalo is not stained with the blood of his son. We will go to your village, and tell your chiefs many things they cannot yet know. For the Big Buffalo and his young brother, I shall ask only the justice which the Onondagas know best how to give. For myself and my sister, I am not afraid. We will follow your course, to come back when the chiefs shall order it."

The two Indians exchanged a few signs, rose, and went to the scattered group of braves, who were feasting on the white men's stores. In a moment these had thrown the bundles together, and were getting the canoes into the water. Two warriors cut Danton's thongs and raised him to his feet. He rubbed his wrists, where the thongs had broken the skin, and stepped about to get the stiffness from his ankles. Then he bent down to set Menard loose, but was thrown roughly back.

"What's this? What's the matter? Do you understand this, Menard?"

"I think so," replied the Captain, quietly.

"What is it?"

"A little compliment to me, that is all."

Danton stood looking at him in surprise, until he was hustled to the nearest canoe and ordered to take a paddle. He looked back and saw four warriors lift Menard, still bound hand and foot, and carry him to the other canoe, laying him in the bottom beneath the bracing-strips. Father Claude, too, was given a paddle. Then they glided away over the still water, into a mysterious channel that wound from one shadow-bound stretch to another, past islands that developed faintly from the blackness ahead and faded into the blackness behind. The lean arms of the Indians swung with a tireless rhythm, and their paddles slipped to and fro in the water with never a sound, save now and then a low splash.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE MAID MAKES NEW FRIENDS.

The prisoners were allowed some freedom in the Onondaga village. They were not bound, and they could wander about within call of the low hut which had been assigned to them. This laxity misled Danton into supposing that escape was practicable.

"See," he said to Menard, "no one is watching. Once the dark has come we can slip away, all of us."

Menard shook his head.

"Do you see the two warriors sitting by the hut yonder,—and the group playing platter among the trees behind us? Did you suppose they were idling?"

"They seem to sleep often."

"You could not do it. We shall hope to get away safely; but it will not be like that."

Danton was not convinced. He said nothing further, but late on that first night he made the attempt alone. The others were asleep, and suspected nothing until the morning. Then Father Claude, who came and went freely among the Indians, brought word that he had been caught a league to the north. The Indians bound him, and tied him to stakes in a strongly guarded hut. This much the priest learned from Tegakwita, the warrior who had guarded them on the night of their capture. After Menard's appeal to his gratitude he had shown a willingness to be friendly, and, though he dared do little openly, he had given the captives many a comfort on the hard journey southward.

Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting at the door of their hut. The irregular street was quiet, excepting for here and there a group of naked children playing, or a squaw passing with a load of firewood on her back. An Indian girl came in from the woods toward them. She was of light, strong figure, with a full face and long hair, which was held back from her face by bright ribbons. Her dress showed more than one sign of Mission life. She was cleaner than most of the Indians, and was not unattractive. She came to them without hesitation.

"I am Tegakwita's sister. My name is Mary; the Fathers at the Mission gave it to me."

Menard hardly gave her a glance, but Mademoiselle was interested.

"That is not your Indian name?" she asked.

"Yes,—Mary."

"Did you never have another?"

"My other name is forgotten."

"These Mission girls like to ape our ways," said Menard, in French.

The girl looked curiously at them, then she untied a fold of her skirt, and showed a heap of strawberries. "For the white man's squaw," she said.

Mademoiselle blushed and laughed. "Thank you," she replied, holding out her hands. The girl gave her the berries, and turned away. Menard looked up as a thought came to him.

"Wait, Mary. Do you know where the young white chief is?"

"Yes. He tried to run away. He cannot run away from our warriors."

"Are you afraid to go to him?"

"My brother, Tegakwita, is guarding him. I am not afraid."

Menard went to a young birch tree that stood near the hut, peeled off a strip of bark, and wrote on it:—

"If you try to escape again you will endanger my plans. Keep your patience, and I can save you."

"Will you take him some berries, and give him this charm with them?"

She took the note, rolled it up with a nod, and went away. Menard saw the question in Mademoiselle's eyes, and said: "It was a warning to be cool. Our hope is in getting the good-will of the chiefs."

"Will they—will they hurt him, M'sieu?"

"I hope not. At least we are still alive and safe; and years ago, Mademoiselle, I learned how much that means."

The maid looked into the trees without replying. Her face had lost much of its fulness, and only the heavy tan concealed the worn outlines. But her eyes were still bright, and her spirit, now that the first shock had passed, was firm.

Father Claude returned, after a time, with a heavy face. He drew Menard into the hut, and told him what he had gathered: that the Long Arrow and his followers were planning a final vengeance against Captain Menard. All the braves knew of it; everywhere they were talking of it, and preparing for the feasting and dancing.

"They will wait until after the fighting, won't they?"

"No, M'sieu. It is planned to begin soon, within a day or two."

"Have you inquired for the Big Throat?"

"He is five leagues away, at the next village. We can hardly hope for help from him, I fear. All the tribes are preparing to join in fighting our troops."

Menard paused to think.

"It looks bad, Father." He walked up and down the hut. "The Governor's column must have followed up the river within a few days of us. Then much time was lost in getting us down here." He turned almost fiercely to the priest. "Why, the campaign may have opened already. Word may come to-morrow from the Senecas calling out the Onondagas and Cayugas. Do you know what that means? It means that I have failed,—for the first time in my life, Father,—miserably failed. There must be some way out. If I could only get word to the Big Throat. I'm certain I could talk him over. I have done it before."

Father Claude had never before seen despair in Menard's eyes.

"You speak well, M'sieu. There must be some way. God is with us."

The Captain was again pacing the beaten floor. Finally he came to the priest, and took his arm. "I don't know what it is that gives me courage, Father, but at my age a man isn't ready to give up. They may kill me, if they like, but not before I've carried out my orders. The Onondagas must not join the Senecas."

"How"—began the priest.

Menard shook his head. "I don't know yet,—but we can do it." He went out of doors, as if the sunlight could help him, and during the rest of the day and evening he roamed about or lay motionless under the trees. The maid watched him until dark, but kept silent; for Father Claude had told her, and she, too, believed that he would find a way.

Late in the evening Father Claude began to feel disturbed. Menard was still somewhere off among the trees. He had come in for his handful of grain, at the supper hour, but with hardly a word. The Father had never succeeded, save on that one occasion when Danton was the subject, in carrying on a long conversation with the maid; and now after a few sorry attempts he went out of doors. He thought of going to the Captain, to cheer his soul and prepare his mind for whatever fate awaited him, but his better judgment held him back.

The village had no surface excitement to suggest coming butchery and war. The children were either asleep or playing in the open. Warriors walked slowly about, wrapped closely in blankets, though the night was warm. The gnats and mosquitoes were humming lazily, the trees barely stirring, and the voices of gossiping squaws or merry youths blended into a low drone. There was the smell in the air of wood and leaves burning, from a hundred smouldering fires. Father Claude stood for a long time gazing at the row of huts, and wondering that such an air of peace and happiness could hover over a den of brute savages, who were even at the moment planning to torture to his death one of the bravest sons of New France.

While he meditated, he was half conscious of voices near at hand. He gave it no attention until his quick ear caught a French word. He started, and hurried to the hut, pausing in the door. By the dim light of the fire, that burned each night in the centre of the floor, he could see Mademoiselle standing against the wall, with hands clasped and lips parted. Nearer, with his back to the door, stood an Indian.

The maid saw the Father, but did not speak. He came forward into the hut, and gently touched the Indian's arm.

"What is it?" he asked in Iroquois.

The Indian stood, without a reply, until the silence grew heavy. Mademoiselle had straightened up, and was watching with fascinated eyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin and feathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. He turned sadly to the maid.

"I do not understand," he said.

She put her hands before her eyes. "I cannot talk to him," she said, in a broken voice. "Why does he come? Why must I—" Then she collected herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. "I am sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry."

The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the hut.

"How did you come here, Danton? Tell me."

Danton looked at him defiantly.

"What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?"

"It matters not where I got them. It is my affair."

"Who gave you these clothes?"

"It is enough that I have friends, if those whom I thought friends will not aid me."

The priest was pained by the boy's rough words.

"I am sorry for this, my son,—for this strange disorder. Did you not receive a message from your Captain?"

Danton hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "I received a message,—an order to lie quiet, and let these red beasts burn me to death. Menard is a fool. Does he not know that they will kill him? Does he not know that this is his only chance to escape? He is a fool, I say."

"You forget, my son."

"Well, if I do? Must I stay here for the torture because my Captain commands? Why do you hold me here? Let me go. They will be after me."

"Wait, Danton. What have you said to Mademoiselle?"

The boy looked at him, and for a moment could not speak.

"Do you, too, throw that at me, Father? It was all I could do. I thought she cared for her life more than for—for Menard. No, let me go on. I have risked everything to come for her, and she—she—I did not know it would be like this."

"But what do you plan?" The priest's voice was more gentle. "Where are you going? You cannot get to Frontenac alone."

"I don't know," replied Danton wearily, turning away. "I don't care now. I may as well go to the devil."

Without a word of farewell he walked boldly off through the trees, drawing his blanket about his shoulders. Father Claude stood watching him, half in mind to call Menard, then hesitating. Already the boy was committed: he had broken his bonds, and to make any effort to hold him meant certain death for him. Perhaps it was better that he should take the only chance left to him. The hut was silent. He looked within, and saw the maid still standing by the wall. Her eyes were on him, but she said nothing, and he turned away. He walked slowly up and down under the great elms that arched far up over his head. At last he looked about for the Captain, and finding him some little way back in the woods, told him the story.

Menard's face had aged during the day. His eyes had a dull firmness in place of the old flash. He heard the account without a word, and, at the close, when the priest looked at him questioningly for a reply, he shook his head sadly. His experiment with Danton had failed.

"He didn't tell you who had helped him?"

"No, M'sieu. It is very strange."

"Yes," said Menard, "it is."

The night passed without further incident. Early in the morning, Father Claude went out to find Tegakwita, and learn what news had come in during the night of the French column. Runners were employed in passing daily between the different villages, keeping each tribe fully informed.

Menard sat before the hut. The clearing showed more life than on the preceding day. Bands of warriors, hunting and scouting parties, were coming in at short intervals, scattering to their shelters or hurrying to the long building in the centre of the village. The growing boys and younger warriors ran about, calling to one another in eager, excited voices. As the morning wore along, grave chiefs and braves, wrapped in their blankets, walked by on their way to the council house.

The maid, after Father Claude had gone, watched the Captain for a long time through the open door. The conversation with the Long Arrow, on the night of their capture, had been burned into her memory; and now, as she looked at Menard's drawn face and weary eyes, the picture came to her again of the Long Arrow sitting by the river in the dim light of the stars,—and of the white man who had fought for her, lying before him, gazing upward and speaking with a calm voice to the stern chief who wished to kill him. Then, in spite of the excitement, the danger, and exhaustion of the fight, it had seemed that the Captain could not long be held by this savage. His stern manner, his command, had given her a confidence which had, until this moment, strengthened her. But now, of a sudden, she saw in his eyes the look of a man who sees no way ahead. This quarrel with the Long Arrow was no matter of open warfare, even of race against race; it was an eye for an eye, the demand of a crazed father for the life of the slayer of his son. That she could do nothing, that she must sit feebly while he went to his death, came to her with a dead sense of pain.

With a restless spirit she went out of doors, passing him with a little smile; but he did not look up. A group of passing youths stopped and jeered at him, but he did not give them a glance. She shrank back against the building until they had gone on.

"Do not mind them, Mademoiselle," said Menard, quietly. "They will not harm you."

She hesitated by his side, half in mind to speak to him, to tell him that she knew his trouble, and had faith in him, but his bowed head was forbidding in its solitude. All about the hut, under the spreading trees, was a stretch of coarse green sod, dotted with tiny yellow flowers and black-centred daisies. She wandered over the grass, gathering them until her hands were full. Two red boys came by, and paused to cry at her, taunting her as if she, too, were to meet the fate of a war captive. The thought made her shudder, but then, on an impulse, she called to them in their own language. They looked at each other in surprise. She walked toward them, laying down the flowers, and holding out her hand. A little later, when Menard looked up, he saw her sitting beneath a gnarled oak, a boy on either side eagerly watching her. She was talking and laughing with them, and teaching them to make a screeching pipe with grass-blades held between the thumbs. He envied her her elastic spirits.

"You have made two friends," he called in French.

She looked up and nodded, laughing. "They are learning to make the music of the white brothers."

The boys' faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked at him doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowly toward them.

"I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle," he said, smiling. "We have none too many here."

Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out his hands, saying, "Your father would be friends with his children." But they began to retreat, a step at a time.

"Come, my children," said the maid, smiling at the words as she uttered them. "The white father is good. He will not hurt you."

They kept stepping backward until he had reached the maid's side; then, with a shout of defiance, they scampered away. In the distance they stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whom they taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightened glance toward Menard and the maid.

"There," he said, at length, "you may see the advantage of a reputation."

She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words, could not, for the moment, reply.

"I once had a home in this village," he added. "It stood over there, in the bare spot near the beech tree." His eyes rested on the spot for a moment, then he turned back to the hut.

"M'sieu," she said shyly.

The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. "Won't you take them?"

He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand.

"Why,—thank you. I don't know what I can do with them."

They walked back together.

"You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look well."

She looked down at her torn, stained dress, and laughed softly; but took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a tattered bit of lace on her breast.

Menard was plainly relieved by the incident. He had been worn near to despair, facing a difficulty which seemed every moment farther from a solution; and now he turned to her fresh, light mood as to a refuge.

"We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon lose their bloom."

"If we had a cup—?"

"A cup? A woodsman would laugh at your question. There is the spring, here is the birch; what more could you have?"

"You mean—?"

"We will make a cup,—if you will hold the flowers. They are beautiful, Mademoiselle. No nation has such hills and lakes and flowers as the Iroquois. The Hurons boast of their lake country,—and the Sacs and Foxes, too, though they have a duller eye for the picturesque. See—the valley yonder—" He pointed through a rift in the foliage to the league-long glimpse of green, bound in by the gentle hills that rose beyond—"even to the tired old soldier there is nothing more beautiful, more peaceful."

He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it into a cup. "Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,—if they have not taken them."

"No; I have everything here."

She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of the bark.

"But it will leak, M'sieu."

He laughed. "The tree is the Indian's friend, Mademoiselle. Now it is a pine tree that we need. The guards will tell me of one."

He walked over to the little group of warriors still at their game of platter,—the one never-ceasing recreation of the Onondagas, at which they would one day gamble away blankets, furs, homes, even squaws, only to win them back on the next. They looked at him suspiciously when he questioned them; but he was now as light of heart as on the day, a few weeks earlier, when he had leaned on the balcony of the citadel at Quebec, idly watching the river. He smiled at them, and after a parley the maid saw one tall brave point to a tree a few yards farther in the wood. They followed him closely with their eyes until he was back within the space allowed him.

"Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the seams,—see? It is so easy. The cold water will harden it."

They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinking each a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set the cup on it.

"Oh, Mademoiselle, it will not stand. I am not a good workman, I fear. But then, it is not often in a woodsman's life that he keeps flowers at his door. We must have some smaller stones to prop it up."

"I will get them, M'sieu." In spite of his protests she ran out to the path and brought some pebbles. "Now we have decorated our home." She sat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up at him. "Sit down, M'sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have been solemn so long."

Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, as he looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. It hardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was so genuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling lines about his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes, while the smile still hovered, grew moist.

"I am sorry," she said softly,—"very, very sorry."

He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They were both silent. Finally she spoke.

"M'sieu."

He looked down.

"It may be that you think that—that I do not understand. It is not that, M'sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the Oneidas. I—I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest."

"I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude and—you." And under his breath he added, "Thank God."

"They will not dare to hurt you, M'sieu. They must not do it." She rose and stood before him. "When I think of that,—that you, who have done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would not have left me, on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I—if anything should happen, M'sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set free, and—without you—I could never put it from my thoughts. I should always feel that I—that you—no no, M'sieu. They cannot do it."

She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice without a thought of what she owed him.

"You forget," he said gently, "that it was not your fault. They could have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier's chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no complaint. It is the young man's mistake to be restless, impatient. For the rest of us, why, it is our life."

"But, M'sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?"

"No, I have not given up." He rose and looked into her eyes. "I have come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall fight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like a soldier."

He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor's orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.

The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.

Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and called:—

"Mademoiselle." As she approached, he said gravely, "I should like it if you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voice in our councils."

She followed him in, wondering.

"Father Claude has news," Menard said.

The priest told them all that he had been able to learn. Runners had been coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. They brought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. The troops had started inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas were planning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to the other tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way to meet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack might be aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations of the year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the more prudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of their fields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where the French would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the general opinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.

Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in a hastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tongued warriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting the Governor's communications, and then turning on him from the rear, leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.



CHAPTER IX.

THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA.

For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the three sat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. But when all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, or of getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash for liberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and the silence was eloquent. D'Orvilliers would know that only capture could have prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him to believe that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the men nor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reach them. As for the Governor's column, it would have its hands full before marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, he would have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that the chance was near to nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least to die fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and to suffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, she was likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should be disposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if he must, alone.

"I have not known whether to tell all," said Father Claude, after the silence. "And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know the truth now as later."

"You have not told me?" she said, with reproach in her voice. "Must I always be a child to you, Father? If God has seen it best to place me here, am I not to help bear the burden?"

"Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout hearts are better than two."

The priest looked gravely at the fire.

"The word has gone out," he said. "The Long Arrow, by his energy and his eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capture the Big Buffalo in the enemy's country with but a score of braves, now controls the village. To-morrow night the great council will begin. The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawk villages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchet against the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power will last only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revenge before his day wanes."

"When?" asked the Captain.

"To-morrow morning, M'sieu. The feasting and dancing will begin to-night."

The maid was looking at the priest. "I do not understand," she said. "What will he do?"

"He means me, Mademoiselle," said the Captain, quietly.

"Not—" she said, "not—"

"Yes," he replied. "They will bring us no food to-night. In the morning they will come for me."

"Oh, M'sieu, they cannot! They—" She gazed at him, not heeding the tears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks; and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. "Why do you not escape, M'sieu? There is yet time,—to-night! You are thinking of me, and I—I—Oh, I have been selfish—I did not know! We will stay here, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will not harm us—you told me that yourself, M'sieu. I should be in your way, but alone—it is so easy." She would have gone on, but Menard held up his hand.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "no."

Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the words died. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.

"I do not know," said Menard, slowly, "whether the heart of the Big Throat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father."

"He will not be here in time," Father Claude said. "He does not start from his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow."

The maid could not take her eyes from Menard's face. Now that the final word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, now only half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himself again, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard lines about the mouth told of his suffering.

"If we had a friend here," he was saying, quietly enough, "it may be that Tegakwita—But no, of course not. I had forgotten about Danton—"

"Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for allowing Lieutenant Danton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him."