"No, I suppose not."

The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face the prospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard upon the maid's heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some manner give way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. The broad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lying upon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, and many strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who piped gently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that their notes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlit world, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs, while the brave Captain—she could not face the thought.

The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out the flowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully, placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.

An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside his blanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket and leggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his waist. He came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a glance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod; Father Claude, too, was silent.

"The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart," said the Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him. She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionless in the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watching the little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting on the ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees. Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. "He feels the love of a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him," he went on. "It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of the hunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became a captive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warrior because he believed in the White Chief. He has lost—" his voice grew tremulous with the emotion that lay underneath the words—"He has lost his sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and his squaw."

"My brother speaks strangely," said Menard, looking up at him half suspiciously.

"Yes, it is strange." His voice was louder, and in his excitement he dropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an older warrior, would have concealed his feelings. "It is strange that you should send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the white brave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed by my side."

Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched them narrowly.

"My son is mistaken," said Father Claude, quietly. "His sister has wandered away. It may be that she has even now returned."

"No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her."

Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.

"Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is a young warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escaped against my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to be patient. He went alone, my brother. He has gone forever from my camp. It cannot be that she—"

"The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave's bonds? Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lover might go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the father that—" Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.

Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shock could sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hear what more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. Father Claude touched his arm.

"If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the Big Buffalo never speaks lies."

The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and raised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spread out his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought, and dropped his hand.

"Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies," he said. "He will come back before the sun has come again."

He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.

Menajd leaned against the wall. "Poor boy!" he said, "poor boy!"

The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leaned against the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing out all the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth. Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and under the protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, instead of a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,—firmer, with greater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.

"I suppose that there is nothing, M'sieu—nothing that we can do?"

Menard shook his head. "No; nothing."

"And the Indian,—he says that he will come back?"

"Yes. I don't know what he means. It doesn't matter."

"No, I suppose it doesn't."

They were silent for a moment. The maid leaned forward. "What was that, M'sieu?"

"Loungers, on the path."

"No, they are coming here."

Menard rose, but she stepped to the door. "Let me go, M'sieu. Ah, I see them. It is my little friends." She went out, and they could hear her laughing with the two children, and trying to coax them toward the door.

"Danton will never get away," said the Captain, in a low tone to the priest.

"I fear not, M'sieu."

"He has lost his head, poor boy. I thought him of better stuff. And the girl—Ah, if he had only gone alone! I could forgive his rashness, Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clear name."

"There is still doubt," said the priest, cautiously. "We know only what Tegakwita said."

"I'm afraid," Menard replied, shaking his head, "I'm afraid it's true. You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girl is gone. I wish—Well, there is no use. I hoped for something better, that is all."

Just outside the door the maid was talking gaily with the two children, who now and then raised their piping voices. Then it was evident that they were going away, for she was calling after them. She came into the hut, smiling, and carrying a small willow basket full of corn.

"See," she said, "even now it is something to have made a friend. We shall not go hungry to-day, after all. Will you partake, Father? And M'sieu?"

She paused before the Captain. He had stepped forward, and was staring at her.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"The children? They are wandering along the path."

"Quick, Mademoiselle! Call them back."

She hesitated, in surprise; then set the basket on the ground and obeyed. Menard paced the floor until she returned.

"They are outside, M'sieu, too frightened to come near."

"Give me that birch cup, outside the door." He was speaking in quick, low tones. "They must not see me. It would frighten them."

She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor, tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his sleeve. He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of the floor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, "A piece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again—see that they have not gone."

"They are waiting, M'sieu."

He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which she brought from her bundle.

"We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale. Find something quickly,—something that will please them. No, wait—Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fifty leagues for a mirror."

She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a small glass.

"Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the Big Throat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have it before the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone would punish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them do it. They cannot fail."

Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervous eagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him with kindling eyes. She took the roll and the mirror, and ran out the door. In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, and the shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. He caught the priest's hand.

"Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenant as that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care."

At last she came back, and sank, with a nervous, irresponsible little laugh, on the bench. And then, for the moment, they all three laughed together.

In the silence that followed, Father Claude moved toward the door.

"I must go out again, M'sieu. It may be that there is further word."

"Very well, Father. And open your ears for news of the poor boy."

The priest bowed, and went out. Menard stood in the door watching him, as he walked boldly along the path. After a little he turned. The maid was looking at him, still flushed and smiling.

"Well, Mademoiselle, we can take hope again."

"You are so brave, M'sieu."

He smiled at her impulsiveness, and looked at her, hardly conscious that he was causing her to blush and lower her eyes.

"And so I am brave, Mademoiselle? It may be that Major Provost and Major d'Orvilliers will not feel so."

"But they must, M'sieu."

"Do you know what they will say? They will speak with sorrow of Captain Menard, the trusted, in whose hands Governor Denonville placed the most important commission ever given to a captain in New France. They will regret that their old friend was not equal to the test; that he—ah, do not interrupt, Mademoiselle; it is true—that his failure lost a campaign for New France. You heard Father Claude; you know what these Indians plan to do."

"You must not speak so, M'sieu. It is wicked. He would be a coward who could blame you. It was not your fault that you were captured. When I return I shall go to them and tell them how you fought, and how you faced them like—like a hero. When I return—" She stopped, as if the word were strange.

"Aye, Mademoiselle, and God grant that you may return soon. But your good heart leads you wrong. It was my fault that I did not bring a force strong enough to protect myself,—and you. To fight is not a soldier's first duty. It is to be discreet; he must know when not to fight as well as when to draw his sword; he must know how many men are needed to defend his cause. No; I was overconfident, and I lost. And there we must leave it. Nothing more can be said."

He stood moodily over the heap of ashes. When he looked at her again, she had risen.

"The flowers, M'sieu," she said, "you—you threw them away."

He glanced down. They lay at his feet. Silently he knelt and gathered them.

"Will you help me, Mademoiselle? We will make another cup. And these two large daisies,—did you see how they rested side by side on the ground when I would have trampled on them? You will take one and I the other; and when this day shall be far in the past, it may be that you will remember it, and how we two were here together, waiting for the stroke that should change life for us."

He held it out, and she, with lowered eyes, reached to take it from his hand, but suddenly checked the motion and turned to the door.

"Will you take it, Mademoiselle?"

She did not move; and he stood, the soldier, helpless, waiting for a word. He had forgotten everything,—the low, smoke-blackened hut, the responsibility that lay on his shoulders, the danger of the moment,—everything but the slender maid who stood before him, who would not take the flower from his hand. Then he stepped to her side, and, taking away the other flowers from the lace beneath her throat, he placed the single daisy in their stead. Her eyes were nearly closed, and she seemed hardly to know that he was there.

"And it may be," he whispered softly, "that we, like the flowers, shall be spared."

She turned slowly away, and sank upon the bench. Menard, with a strange, new lightness in his heart, went out into the sunlight.

The day wore on. The warm sunbeams, that slipped down through the foliage, lengthened and reached farther and farther to the east. The bright spots of light crept across the grass, climbed the side of the hut and the tree-trunks, lingered on the upreaching twigs, and died away in the blue sky. The evening star shot out its white spears, glowing and radiant, long before the light had gone, or the purple and golden afterglow had faded into twilight. Menard's mind went back to another day, just such a glorious, shining June day as this had been, when he had sat not a hundred yards from this spot, waiting, as now, for the end. He looked at his fingers. They were scarred and knotted; one drunken, frenzied squaw had mangled them with her teeth. He had wondered then how a man could endure such torture as had come to him, and still could live and think, could even struggle back to health. The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert than since the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of help from the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid as she bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,—something had entered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, He wondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, why the priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green and bright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.

"What news, Father?"

The priest shook his head. "Little, M'sieu."

"Has the feast begun?"

"Not yet. They are assembling before the Long House."

"Are they drinking?"

"Yes."

There was no need for talk, and so the two men sat before the hut, with only an idle word now and then, until the dark came down. The quiet of the village was broken now by the shouts of drinking warriors, with a chanting undertone that rose and swelled slowly into the song that would continue, both men knew, until the break of day, or until none was left with sober tongue to carry the wavering air. A great fire had been lighted, and they could see the glare and the sparks beyond a cluster of trees and huts. Later, straggling braves appeared, wandering about, bottle or flask in hand, crazed by the raw brandy with which the English and Dutch of New York and Orange and the French of the province alike saw fit to keep the Indians supplied.

A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward the hut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One had an arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertain hands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the white men sitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at his heels.

"Move nearer the door," whispered Menard. "They must not get in."

The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat with their backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yards away, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidently wished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoning in thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could make it right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.

The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and the sound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking his eyes from the Indians:—

"Step back, Mademoiselle, behind the wall. You must not stand here."

The warrior broke away from the hands that held him, staggering a rod across the grass before he could recover his balance. The others went after him, but he quickly rested the piece and fired. The ball went over their heads through the doorway, striking with a low noise against the rear wall. Menard rose, jerking away from the priest's restraining hand.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are not hurt?"

"No, M'sieu."

"Thank God!" He stood glaring at the huddled band of warriors, who were trying to reload the arquebuse; then he bounded forward, broke into the group with a force that sent two to the ground, snatched the weapon, and, with a quick motion, drew out the flint. He threw the gun on the ground, and walked back to his seat.

Two of the guards came running forward. They had not been drinking, and one of them ordered the loafers away. This did not strike them amiss. They started off, trying to reload as they walked, evidently not missing the flint.

The maid came again to the doorway, and asked timidly:—

"Is there danger for you, M'sieu? Will they come back?"

"No. It is merely a lot of drunken youths. They have probably forgotten by now. Can you sleep, Mademoiselle?—have you tried?"

"No, I—I fear that I could not."

"It would be well to make the effort," he said gently, looking over his shoulder at her as she leaned against the doorpost. "We do not know what may happen. At any rate, even if you escape, you will need all your strength on the morrow. A fallen captain may not command, Mademoiselle, but—"

"If it is your command, M'sieu, I will try. Good night."

There was a long stillness, broken only by the distant noises of the dance.

"You, too, will sleep, M'sieu?" said Father Claude. "I will watch."

"No, no, Father."

"I beg it of you. At the least you will let me divide the night with you?"

"We shall see, we shall see. There is much to be said before either of us closes his eyes. Hello, here is a runner."

An Indian was loping up the path. He turned in toward the hut.

"Quiet," said the priest. "It is Tegakwita."

The warrior had run a long way. He was breathing deeply, and the sweat stood out on his face and caught the shine of the firelight.

"My brother has been far," said Menard, rising.

"The White Chief is not surprised? He heard the word of Tegakwita, that he would return before another sun. He has indeed been far. He has followed the track of the forest wolf that stole the child of the Onondagas. He has found the bold, the brave white warrior, who stole away in the night, robbing Tegakwita of what is dearer to him than the beating of his heart."

The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, and leaning forward with startled eyes.

"He has found—he has found him—" she faltered.

The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast of his shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard's feet. Then, with broken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.

Father Claude stooped, and picked up the object. Dimly in the firelight they could see it,—two warm human scalps, the one of brown hair knotted to the other of black. Menard took them in his hand.

"Poor boy!" he said, over and over. "Poor boy!"

He looked toward the door, but the maid had gone inside.



CHAPTER X.

A NIGHT COUNCIL.

The night crept by, as had the day, wearily.

The two men sat in the doorway or walked slowly back and forth across the front of the hut, saying little. The Captain was calling to mind every incident of their capture, and of the original trouble between La Grange and the hunting party. He went over the conversation with Major Provost at Quebec word by word, until he felt sure in his authority as the Governor's representative; although the written orders in the leather bag that hung from his neck were concerned only with his duties in preparing Fort Frontenac for the advancing column,—duties that he had not fulfilled.

A plan was forming in his mind which would make strong demands on the good faith of Major Provost and the Governor. He knew, as every old soldier knows, that governments and rulers are thankless, that even written authority is none too binding, if to make it good should inconvenience those who so easily give it. He knew further that if he should succeed now in staying the Onondagas and Cayugas by pledges which, perchance, it might not please Governor Denonville to observe, the last frail ties that held the Iroquois to the French would be broken, and England would reign from the Hudson to the river of the Illinois. And he sighed, as he had sighed many times before, for the old days under Frontenac, under the only Governor of New France who could hold these slippery redskins to their obligations.

"Father," he said finally, "I begin to see a way."

"The Big Throat?"

"He must help, though to tell the truth I fear that he will be of little service. He may come in time to give us a stay; but, chief though he is, he will hardly dare overrule the Long Arrow on a matter so personal as this."

"What is the Long Arrow's family—the Beaver?"

"Yes."

"But, M'sieu, that is the least of the eight families. If it were the Tortoise or the Bear against us, we should have greater cause for fear."

"True, Father, but to each family belongs its own quarrels, its own revenge. If the Big Throat should interfere too deeply, it would anger the other small families, who might fear the same treatment at some other time. And with Beaver, Snipe, Deer, and Potato united against us,—well, it is a simple enough problem."

They were walking by the door, and Menard, as he spoke, sat on the stone which he had rolled there in the afternoon. The priest stood before him.

"I hope we may succeed, my son. I have seen this anger before, and it has always ended in the one way."

"Of course," the Captain replied, "it does depend on the Big Throat. He must reach here in time."

"God grant that he may!"

"In that case, Father, I look for a delay. Unless his heart has hardened rapidly, he still thinks of me. Together we will go to him, and ask a hearing in the war council."

"Oratory will not release us, I fear, M'sieu."

"We shall not ask to be released, Father. Don't you understand? It is more than that we shall demand,—it is peace with New France, the safety of the column—"

The priest's eyes lighted. "Do you think, M'sieu—"

"We can do it. They have not heard all the truth. They do not want a long war which will kill their braves and destroy their homes and their corn. It is this attack on the Senecas that has drawn them out."

"You will tell them that the Governor fights only the Senecas?"

"More than that. The La Grange affair has stirred them up. It has weakened their faith in the Governor,—it has as good as undone all the work of twenty years past. Our only hope is to reestablish that faith."

"I hope that we may," said the priest, slowly. "But they have reached a state now where words alone will hardly suffice. I have tried it, M'sieu. Since we came, I have talked and reasoned with them."

"Well, Father, I am going to try it. The question is, will the Governor make good what I shall have to promise? It may be that he will. If not,—then my life will not be worth a box of tinder if I stray a league from Quebec without a guard." He looked down at the daisy on his coat. "But the maid will be safe, Father. She will be safe."

"I do not believe that they would harm her, even as it is."

"No, I trust not—I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; and not until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily at night."

"But your plan, M'sieu,—you have not told me."

"Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there, d'Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was awaiting orders,—I had just returned from the Huron Country and Michillimackinac,—and d'Orvilliers called me to his rooms and showed me the order. 'Now,' he said, 'who in the devil is meddling at Quebec?' I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions to wait until some offence should give him an excuse."

"I know the rest, M'sieu."

"Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,—how La Grange was drinking, and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do, Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to release them, for the harm was done. If d'Orvilliers had refused to carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him his commission."

"And you, M'sieu?"

"I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D'Orvilliers could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them."

"You will tell them this?"

"This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be punished before we can have their good faith. Don't you understand?"

Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands clasped before him.

"Don't you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois, it is revenge that will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has wronged them; let them have their revenge."

"Is that the right view, M'sieu?"

"Not for us, Father,—for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But justice,—that is not the word with which to reach an Indian."

"But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What then?"

"You do not seem to understand me yet, Father." Menard spoke slowly and calmly. "This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings, and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,—well, would you have me such a soldier?"

The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once he seemed to have nothing to offer.

"It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier's work easy? First I must make these Indians believe me,—and you know how hard that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if they will not release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I will stay here until La Grange has got his dues."

"Let us suppose," said the priest,—"let us suppose that you did not do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the Governor should do nothing."

"Then," said Menard, "the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered, and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all."

"You are sure of this?"

"It points that way, Father."

"Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at the council, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaim responsibility, should—"

"Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean to pledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means."

"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He seemed puzzled and unsettled by some thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking at the ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone and tossed away the pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.

"They are singing again," he said, listening to the droning chant that came indistinctly through the dark. "One would think they would long ago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the King sends over to us would envy them their stomachs."

The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that led the Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.

"I suppose the doctors are dancing now," Menard continued. "It may be that they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it."

"We will hope not, M'sieu."

"If they should, Father,—well, it is hard to know just what to do."

"You were thinking—?"

"Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk run away with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning. Maybe we could do it."

"Yes, it might seem best."

"But if—if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed, then it would have been better that I had submitted."

"You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you to go without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. I will do my part."

"It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not come,—there is the maid. They would not spare her then."

The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.

"True," he said; "true."

Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely. Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:—

"If they come, Father,—if they harm her,—God! if they even wake her, I will kill them."

Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.

"There are some things which I could not talk over with you," said the priest, finally. "It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know what is the right thing for me to do, or to say."

"What troubles you?"

"When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,—until our last moment of choice,—I must ask one favour, M'sieu. You will not decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of other ways; you will—"

"What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way."

"But you will not decide yet?"

"No. We need not, to-night."

The priest seemed relieved.

"M'sieu," came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, "may I not sit with you?"

"You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?"

"No, I could not. I—I have not heard you, M'sieu,—I have not listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they are not the best of company to-night."

"Come." Menard rose and got one of the priest's blankets, folding it and laying it on the ground against the wall. "I fear that we may be no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service of Mademoiselle."

She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap. Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night had brought,—fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight; but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that now and then reached above the huts.

"How strange their song is, M'sieu."

"Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing, another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting, and do not recover for hours."

"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas—there were but a few of them—had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement."

"They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when there is no hunt to occupy them."

Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away, leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with bowed head.

"The Father is sad, M'sieu."

"Yes. But it is not for himself."

"Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?"

"I think he will come."

The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,—the firelight was dancing on her face and hair,—and again the danger seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.

"You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle."

She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes dropped again.

"See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should be here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought—"

"You thought, M'sieu?"

Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you what I think now, and that would—be—"

He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.

"I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Or it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it not be strange if I were but now to find myself,—or if you were to find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for bringing it to me,—it would be a long lifetime."

Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting, musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was another madness.

"It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and I do not care,—no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow they should—" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.

"You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all the rest goes out."

"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't."

Father Claude came slowly toward them.

"My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with you."

She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them, puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and then the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who had risen and stood by the door.

"Come, M'sieu, let us walk."

Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.

"It is about the speech to the council—and Captain la Grange. It may be that you are right, M'sieu."

"Right? I do not understand."

"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it."

"Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?"

"You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong. If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully. There is none too much time."

"Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest's arm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I am!"

"No, no, M'sieu."

"You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come to me. It will pain her."

"Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have been thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of. You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that first angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is our duty."

They paced back and forth in silence. Menard's heavy breathing and his quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:—

"I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to this act if—if she—"

"No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart, but she cannot see you now."

"She asked you,—" said the Captain, slowly. "She asked you—I cannot think. I do not know what to say."

The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he came back and stood before Father Claude.

"Well, M'sieu?"

Menard spoke shortly, "Yes, Father, you are right."

That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally settled. He had seen the look in the Captain's eyes when the truth had come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the soldier's heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.

"You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their best, I fear."

"Willingly, M'sieu. And the presents,—we must think of that."

"True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to these people. Of course I have nothing. But you—you have your bale. And Mademoiselle—together you should find something."

"I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not value. One moment—" He stepped to the door, and spoke softly, "Mademoiselle."

"Yes, Father." She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain that she had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.

"We shall need your help, Mademoiselle. Anything in your bale that would please the chiefs must be used."

She was puzzled.

"It is the custom," continued the priest, "at every council. To the Indians a promise is not given, a statement is not true, a treaty is not binding, unless there is a present for each clause. We have much at stake, and we must give what we have."

"Certainly, Father."

She stepped back into the darkness, and they could hear her dragging the bundle. Menard sprang to help.

"Mademoiselle, where are you?"

"Here, M'sieu."

He walked toward the sound with his hands spread before him. One hand rested on her shoulder, where she stooped over the bale. She did not shrink from his touch. For a moment he stood, struggling with a mad impulse to take her slender figure in his arms, to hold her where a thousand Indians could not harm her save by taking his own strong life; to tell her what made this moment more to him than all the stern years of the past. It may be that she understood, for she was motionless, almost breathless. But in a moment he was himself.

"I will take it," he said.

He stooped, took up the bundle, and carried it outside. She followed to the doorway.

"You will look, Mademoiselle."

She nodded, and knelt by the bundle, while the two men waited.

"There is little here, M'sieu. I brought only what was necessary. Here is a comb. Would that please them?"

She reached back to them, holding out a high tortoise-shell comb. They took it and examined it.

"It is beautiful," said Menard.

"Yes; my mother gave it to me."

"Perhaps, Mademoiselle,—perhaps there is something else, something that would do as well."

"How many should you have, M'sieu?"

"Five, I had planned. There will be five words in the speech."

"Words?" she repeated.

"To the Iroquois each argument is a 'word.'"

"I have almost nothing else, not even clothing of value. Wait—here is a small coat of seal."

"And you, Father?" asked Menard.

"I have a book with highly coloured pictures, M'sieu,—'The Ceremonies of the Mass applied to the Passion of Our Lord.'"

"Splendid! Have you nothing else?"

"I fear not."

Menard turned to the maid, who was still on her knees by the open bundle, looking up at them.

"I am afraid that we must take your coat and the comb," he said. "I am sorry."

She answered in a low tone, but firmly: "You know, M'sieu, that it would hurt me to do nothing. It hurts me to do so little."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle. Well, Father, we must use our wits. It may be that four words will be enough, but I cannot use fewer. We have but three presents."

"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He walked slowly by them, and about in a circle, repeating the word. The maid leaned back and watched him, wondering. He paused before the Captain and seemed about to speak. Then abruptly he went into the hut, and they could hear him moving within. Menard and the maid looked at each other, the soldier smiling quietly. He understood.

Father Claude came out holding the portrait of Catharine, the Lily of the Onondagas, in his hands.

"It may be that this could be used for the fourth present," he said.

Menard took it without a word, and laid it on the ground by the fur coat. The maid looked at it curiously.

"Oh, it is a picture," she said.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," the Captain replied. "It is the portrait of an Onondaga maiden who is to them, and to the French, almost a saint. They will prize this above all else."

The maid raised it, and looked at the strangely clad figure. Father Claude quietly walked away, but Menard went after and gripped his hand.



CHAPTER XI.

THE BIG THROAT SPEAKS.

The light of the rising sun struggled through the mist that lay on the Onondaga Valley. The trees came slowly out of the gray air, like ships approaching through a fog. As the sun rose higher, each leaf glistened with dew. The grass was wet and shining.

Menard had seized a few hours of sleep. He awoke with the first beam of yellow light, and rose from his bed on the packed, beaten ground before the door. Father Claude was sitting on a log, at a short distance, with bowed head. The Captain stretched his stiff limbs, and walked slowly about until the priest looked up.

"Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, M'sieu."

"It was a selfish thought that led me to choose the earlier watch. These last hours are the best for sleeping."

"No, I have rested well."

"And Mademoiselle?"

"I have heard no sound. I think that she still sleeps."

"Softly, then. There has been no disturbance?"

"None. The singing has died down during the last hour. There, you can hear it, M'sieu."

"Yes. But it is only a few voices. It must be that the others are sleeping off the liquor. They will soon awaken."

"Listen."

A musket was fired, and another.

"That is the signal."

The song, which one group after another had taken up all through the night, rose again and grew in volume as one at a time the sleepers aroused and joined the dance. The only sign of the fire was a pillar of thin smoke that rolled straight upward in the still air.

"Father," said Menard, "are the guards about?"

"I have not seen them. I suppose they are wandering within call."

"Then, quickly, before we are seen, help me with this log."

"I do not understand, M'sieu."

"Into the hut with it, and the others, there. If a chance does come,—well, it may be that we shall yet be reduced to holding the hut. These will serve to barricade the door."

They were not disturbed while they rolled the short logs within and piled them at one side of the door, where they could not be seen from the path.

"Quietly, Father," whispered the Captain. He knew that the maid lay sleeping, back among the shadows. "And the presents,—you have packed them away?"

"In my bundle, M'sieu. They will not be harmed."

They returned to the open air, and looked about anxiously for signs of a movement toward the hut; but the irregular street was silent. Here and there, from the opening in the roof of some low building of bark and logs, rose a light smoke.

"They are all at the dance," said Menard. His memory supplied the picture: the great fire, now sunk to heaps of gray ashes, spread over the ground by the feet of those younger braves who had wished to show their hardihood by treading barefoot on the embers; the circle of grunting figures, leaning forward, hatchet and musket in hand, moving slowly around the fire with a shuffling, hopping step; the outer circle of sitting or lying figures, men, women, and children, drunken, wanton, quarrelsome, dreaming of the blood that should be let before the sun had gone; and at one side the little group of old men, beating their drums of wood and skin with a rhythm that never slackened.

The song grew louder, and broke at short intervals into shouts and cries, punctuated with musket-shots.

"They are coming, M'sieu."

The head of the line, still stepping in the slow movement of the dance, appeared at some distance up the path. The Long Arrow was in front, in full war-paint, and wearing the collar of wampum beads. Beside him was the Beaver. The line advanced, two and two, steadily toward the lodge of the white men.

Menard leaned against the door-post and watched them. His figure was relaxed, his face composed.

"Here are the doctors, Father."

A group of medicine men, wildly clad in skins of beasts and reptiles, with the heads of animals on their shoulders, came running along beside the line, leaping high in the air, and howling.

Menard turned to the priest. "Father, which shall it be,—shall we fight?"

"I do not know, M'sieu. We have no weapons, and it may be, yet, that the Big Throat—"

"Yes, I know."

"And there is the maid, M'sieu."

For the first time since the sunrise the quiet expression left the Captain's face. He was silent for a moment. Then he said:—

"I will go, Father. You must protect her. If anything—if they should dare to touch her, you will—?"

"I will fight them, M'sieu."

"Thank you." Menard held out his hand. They gripped in silence, and turned again toward the Indians, who were now but a hundred yards away.

"They will stop in a moment," said Menard, "and form for the gantlet. Yes,—see, the Long Arrow holds up his hands." He stood irresolute, looking at the fantastic picture; then he stepped back into the hut.

The maid lay in her blanket on the bench. He stood over her, looking at the peaceful face that rested on her outstretched arm. He took her hand, and said gently:—

"Mademoiselle."

She stirred, and slowly opened her eyes; she did not seem surprised that he should be there clasping tightly her slender hand. He wondered if he had been in her dreams.

"Good-bye, Mademoiselle."

"You—you are going, M'sieu?"

"Yes."

She looked up at him with half-dazed eyes. She was not yet fully awake.

"You must not fear," he said. "They cannot hurt you. You will soon be safe at—at Frontenac."

She was beginning to understand. Then all at once the light came into her eyes, and she clung to his arm, which was still wet with the dew.

"You are not going? They will not take you? Oh, M'sieu, I cannot—you must not!"

She would have said more, but he bent down and kissed her forehead. Then, with his free hand he unclasped her fingers and went away. At the door he turned. She was sitting on the bench, gazing after him with a look that he never forgot. For all of the unhappiness, the agony, that came to him from those eyes, it was with a lighter heart that he faced the warriors who rushed to seize him.

Every brave, woman, and child that the village could supply was in the double line that stretched away from a point on the path not a hundred yards distant to the long council house, which stood on a slight rise of ground. They were armed with muskets, clubs, knives,—with any instrument which could bruise or, mutilate the soldier as he passed, and yet leave life in him for the harder trials to follow. Five warriors, muskets in hand, had come to the hut. They sprang at Menard as he stepped out through the doorway, striking him roughly and holding his elbows behind his back.

A shout went up from the waiting lines, and muskets and clubs were waved in the air. The Captain stepped forward briskly with head erect, scorning to glance at the braves who walked on either side. He knew that they would not kill him in the gantlet; they would save him for the fire. He had passed through this once, he could do it again, conscious that every moment brought nearer the chance of a rescue by the Big Throat. Perhaps twenty paces had been covered, and his guardians were prodding him and trying to force him into a run, when he heard a shout from the priest, and then the sounds of a struggle at the hut. He turned his head, but a rude hand knocked it back. Again he heard the priest's voice, and this time, with it, a woman's scream.

The Captain hesitated for a second. The warriors prodded him again, and before they could raise their arms he had jerked loose, snatched a musket from one, and swinging it around his head, sent the two to the ground, one with a cracked skull. Before those in the lines could fairly see what had happened, he was running toward the hut with two captured muskets and a knife. In front of the hut the three other Indians were struggling with Father Claude, who was fighting in a frenzy, and the maid. She was hanging back, and one redskin had crushed her two wrists together in his hand and was dragging her.

Menard was on them with a leap. They did not see him until a musket whirled about their ears, and one man fell, rolling, at the maid's feet.

"Back into the hut!" he said roughly, and she obeyed. As he turned to aid the priest he called after her, "Pile up the logs, quick!"

She understood, and with the strength that came with the moment, she dragged the logs to the door.

Menard crushed down the two remaining Indians as he would have crushed wild beasts, without a glance toward the mob that was running at him, without a thought for the gash in his arm, made first by an arrow at La Gallette and now reopened by a knife thrust. The Father, too, was wounded, but still he could fight. There was but a second more. The Captain threw the four muskets into the hut, and after them the powder-horns and bullet-pouches which he had barely time to strip from the dead men. Then he crowded the priest through the opening above the logs, and came tumbling after. Another second saw the logs piled close against the door, while a shower of bullets and arrows rattled against them.

"Take a musket, Father. Now, fire together! Quick, the others! Can you load these, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes." She reached for them, and poured the powder down the barrels.

"Not too much, Mademoiselle. We may run short."

"Yes, M'sieu."

To miss a mark in that solid mob would have been difficult. The first four shots brought down three men, and sent another limping away with a bleeding foot.

"Keep it up, Father! Don't wait an instant. Fast, Mademoiselle, fast! Ah, there's one more. See, they are falling back. Take the other wall, Father. See that they do not come from the rear."

The priest ran about the hut, peering through the chinks.

"I see nothing," he called.

"You had better stay there, then. Keep a close watch."

The maid laid two loaded muskets at the Captain's side.

"Can we hold them off, M'sieu?"

His eye was pressed to an opening, and he did not turn.

"I fear not, Mademoiselle. A few minutes more may settle it. But we can give them a fight."

"If they come again, will you let me shoot, M'sieu?"

He turned in surprise, and looked at her slight figure.

"You, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes; I can help. I have shot before."

He laughed, with the excitement of the moment, and nodded. Then they were silent. She knelt by his side and looked through another opening. The women and children had retreated well up the path. The warriors were crowded together, just out of range, talking and shouting excitedly. A moment later a number of these slipped to the rear and ran off between the huts.

"What does that mean, M'sieu? Will they come around behind?"

"Yes. Watch out, Father. You will hear from them soon."

"Very well, M'sieu. It will be hard. There are trees and bushes here for cover."

Menard shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. Time was all he wished.

"If the Big Throat started with the first light, he should be here before another hour," he said to the maid, who was watching the Indians.

"Yes," she replied.

"Is there any corn in the basket, Mademoiselle?"

"I think so. I had forgotten."

"We shall need it. Wait; I will look."

He got the basket, and brought it to her.

"There is no time for cooking, but you had better eat what you can. And keep a close watch."

"Here, M'sieu." She spread her skirt, and he poured out half of the corn.

"You give me too much. You must not."

He laughed, and crossed to the priest, saying over his shoulder:—

"Mademoiselle is our new recruit. And the recruit must not complain of her food. I cannot allow it."

The moments passed with no sign of action along the line of redskins on the path. They were quieter since the flanking party had started. To Menard it was evident that a plan had been settled upon. In a like position, a dozen Frenchmen would have stormed the hut, knowing that only two or three could fall before they were under the shelter of the walls; but even a large force of Indians was unwilling to take the chance.

"Father," called the Captain, "it may be better for you to take the doorway. Mademoiselle and I will watch the forest."

"Very well, M'sieu."

The exchange was made rapidly.

"Will you look out at the sides, as well?" Menard said to her. "Keep moving about, and using all the openings. There are too many chances for approach here."

"If I see one, shall I shoot, M'sieu?"

He smiled. "You had better tell me first."

She stepped briskly about, peering through the chinks with an alert eye. Menard found it hard to keep his own watch, so eager were his eyes to watch her. But he turned resolutely toward the woods.

"M'sieu!" she whispered. They had been silent for a long time. "To the left in the bushes! It looks like a head."

"Can you make sure?"

"Yes. It is a head. May I shoot?"

Menard nodded without looking. She rested her musket in the opening between two logs, and fired quickly.

"Did you hit him?"

"Yes, I think so."

She was breathless with excitement, but she reloaded at once. A moment later Menard fired, and then the priest.

"On all sides, eh?" the Captain muttered. He called to the others: "Waste no powder. Shoot only when you are sure of hitting. They will fall back again. Two dead Indians will discourage the wildest charge."

The firing went on at intervals, but still the warriors kept at it, creeping up from bush to bush and tree to tree. Menard's face grew more serious as the time went by. He began to realize that the Long Arrow was desperate, that he was determined on vengeance before the other chiefs could come. It had been a typical savage thought that had led him to bring Menard to this village, where he had once lived, rather than to the one in which the chief held greater permanent authority; the scheme was too complete and too near its end for delay or failure to be considered. Still the attacking party drew nearer, swelled every moment by a new group. Then Menard saw their object. They would soon be near enough to dash in close to the wall, where their very nearness would disable the white men's muskets.

"Work fast!" he said suddenly. "They must not get nearer!"

"Yes," panted the maid. Her shoulder was bruised by the heavy musket, her arms ached with the quick ramming and lifting, but she loaded and fired as rapidly as she could.

"Father," called the Captain. "Quick! come here. They are too many for me!"

The priest ran across the floor, half blinded by the smoke, cocking his musket as he came. "Where, M'sieu?"

"There—at the oak! They are preparing for a rush!"

He fired, at the last word, and one warrior sprawled on his face. The priest followed.

"That will check them. Now back to the door!"

Father Claude turned. The light was dim and the smoke heavy. His eyes smarted and blurred, so that he heard, rather than saw, the logs come crashing back into the hut. Menard heard it also; and together the two men dashed forward. They met the rush of Indians with blows that could not be stayed, but there was a score pushing behind the few who had entered. Slowly, the two backed across the hut. The stock of Menard's musket broke short off against the head of the Beaver. His foot struck another, and he snatched it up and fought on.

"Mademoiselle," he called, "where are you?"

"Here, M'sieu!"

The voice was behind him. Then he felt a weight on his shoulder. The wearied maid, for want of another rest for her musket, fired past his face straight into the dark mass of Indians. She tried to reload, but Menard was swept back against her. With one arm he caught and held her tight against him, swinging the musket with his free hand. She clung to him, hardly breathing. They reached the rear wall. One tall warrior bounded forward and struck the musket from his hand. That was the end of the struggle. They were torn apart, and dragged roughly out into the blinding sunlight.

Among the Iroquois, the torture was a religious rite, which nothing, once it was begun, could hasten. It may have been that the younger warriors would have rushed upon the captives to kill them; but if so, their elders held them back. The long lines formed again, and the doctors ran about the little group before the hut door, leaping and singing. Menard lay on his face, held down by three warriors. He tried to turn his head to see what had been done with the maid, but could not. He would have called to her, but to make a sound now would be to his captors an admission of weakness.

A great clamour came from the lines. Menard wondered at the delay. He heard a movement a few yards away. Warriors were grunting, and feet shuffled on the ground. He heard the priest say, in a calm voice, "Courage, Mademoiselle"; and for a moment he struggled desperately. Then, realizing his mistake, he lay quiet. When at last he was jerked to his feet, he saw that the priest and the maid had been forced to take the two first places in the line. The maid was struggling in the grasp of two braves, one of whom made her hold a war club by closing his own hand over hers. Menard understood; his friends were to strike the first blows.

The guards tried to drag him forward, but he went firmly with them, smiling scornfully. There was a delay, as the line was reached, for the maid could not be made to hold the club. Another man dropped out of the line to aid the two who held her.

"Strike me, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "It is best."

She shook her head. Father Claude spoke:—

"M'sieu is right."

It was then that she first looked at the Captain. When she saw the straight figure and the set face, a sense of her own weakness came to her, and she, too, straightened. Menard stepped forward; and raising the club she let it fall lightly on his shoulders. A shout went up.

"Hard, Mademoiselle, hard," he said. "You must."

She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and swung the club with all her strength. Then her muscles gave way, and she sank to the ground, not daring to look after the Captain as he passed on between the two rows of savages. She heard the shouts and the wild cries, but dimly, as if they came from far away. The confusion grew worse, and then died down. From screaming the voices dropped into excited argument. She did not know what it meant,—not until Father Claude bent over her and spoke gently.

"What is it?" she whispered, not looking up. "What have they done?"

"Nothing. The Big Throat has come."

She raised her eyes helplessly.

"He has come?"

"Yes. I must go back. Take heart, Mademoiselle."

He hurried away and slipped through the crowd that had gathered about Menard and the chief. She sat in a little heap on the ground, not daring to feel relieved, wondering what would come next. She could not see the Captain, but as the other voices dropped lower and lower, she could catch now and then a note of his voice. In a few moments, the warriors who were pressing close on the outskirts of the crowd were pushed aside, and he came out. She looked at him, then at the ground, shuddering, for there was blood on his forehead. Even when he stood over her she could not look up or speak.

"There is hope now, Mademoiselle. He is here."

"Yes—Father Claude told me. Is—are you to be released?"

"Hardly that, but we shall at least have a little time. And I hope to get a hearing at the council."

"He will let you?"

"I have not asked him yet." He sat beside her, wearily. "There will be time for that. He is talking now with the Long Arrow and the old warriors. He is not fond of the Long Arrow." In the excitement he had not seen that she was limp and exhausted, but now he spoke quickly, "They have hurt you, Mademoiselle?"

"No, I am not hurt. But you—your head—"

"Only a bruise." He drew his sleeve across his forehead. "I had rather a bad one in the arm."

He rolled up his sleeve in a matter-of-fact way. Her eyes filled.

"Oh, M'sieu, you did not tell me. I can help you. Wait, I will be back."

She rose, and started toward the spring, but he sprang to her side.

"You must not trouble. It is not bad. There will be time for this."

"No. Come with me if you will."

She ran with nervous steps; and he strode after. At the side of the bubbling pool she knelt, and looked up impatiently.

"It will not do to let this go, M'sieu. Can you roll your sleeve higher?"

He tried, but the heavy cloth was stiff.

"If you will take off the coat—"

He unlaced it at the breast, and drew it off. She took his wrist, and plunged his arm into the pool, washing it with quick, gentle fingers, drying it on his coat. Then she leaned back, half perplexed, and looked around.

"What is it?"

"A cloth. No,"—as he reached for his coat;—"that is too rough. Here, M'sieu,—" she tore a strip from her skirt, and wrapped it around the forearm. "Hold it with your other hand, just a moment."

She hurried to the hut, and returning with needle and thread, stitched the bandage. Then she helped him on with his coat, and they walked slowly to the hut.

"Where is Father Claude?" she asked.

He pointed to a thicket beyond the hut. There, kneeling by the body of a dying Indian, was the priest, praying silently. He had baptized the warrior with dew from the leaves at his side, and now was claiming his soul for the greater King in whose service his own life had been spent.

The Captain sat beside the maid, their backs to the logs, and watched the shifting groups of warriors. He told her of the arrival of the Big Throat, and of the confusion that resulted. Then for a time they were silent, waiting for the impromptu council to reach a conclusion. The warriors finally began to drift away, though the younger and more curious ones still hung about. A group of braves came slowly toward the hut.

"That is the Big Throat in front," said Menard. "The broad-shouldered warrior beside him is the Talking Eagle, the best-known chief of the clan of the Bear. They are almost here. We had better stand. Are you too tired?"

"No, indeed."

Father Claude had seen the group approaching, and he joined Menard. The Big Throat stood motionless and looked at the Captain.

"My brother, the Big Buffalo, has asked to speak with the Big Throat," he said at length.

Menard bowed, but did not reply.

"He asks for his release,—and for the holy man and the squaw?"

"The Big Buffalo asks nothing save what the chiefs of the Onondagas would give to a chief taken in battle. The Long Arrow has lied to the Big Buffalo. He has soiled his hands with the blood of women and holy Fathers. The Big Buffalo was told by Onontio, whom all must obey, to come to the Onondagas and give them his word. The Long Arrow was impatient. He would not let him journey in peace. He wished to injure him; to let his blood. Now the Big Buffalo is here. He asks that he may be heard at the council, to give the chief the word of Onontio. That is all."

The Big Throat's face was inscrutable. He looked at Menard without a word until the silence grew tense, and the maid caught her breath. Then he said, with the cool, diplomatic tone that concealed whatever kindness or justice may have prompted the words:—

"The Big Buffalo shall be heard at the council to-night. The chiefs of the Onondagas never are deaf to the words of Onontio."



CHAPTER XII.

THE LONG HOUSE.

The council-house was a hundred paces or more in length. The frame was of tall hickory saplings planted in the ground in two rows, with the tops bent over and lashed together in the form of an arch. The building was not more than fifteen yards wide. The lower part of the outer wall was of logs, the upper part and the roof of bark. Instead of a chimney there was a narrow opening in the roof, extending the length of the building.

A row of smouldering fires reached nearly from end to end of the house. The smoke struggled upward, but failing, for the greater part, to find the outlet overhead, remained inside to clog the air and dim the eyes. The chiefs sat in a long ellipse in the central part of the house, some sitting erect with legs crossed, others half reclining, while a few lay sprawling, their chins resting on their hands. The Big Throat sat with the powerful chiefs of the nation at one end. The lesser sachems, including the Long Arrow, sat each before his own band of followers. The second circle was made up of the older and better-known warriors. Behind these, pressing close to catch every word of the argument, were braves, youths, women, and children, mixed together indiscriminately. A low platform extended the length of the building against the wall on each side, and this held another crowding, elbowing, whispering mass of redskins. Every chief and warrior, as well as most of the women, held each a pipe between his teeth, and puffed out clouds of smoke into the thick air.

The maid's eyes smarted and blurred in the smoke. It reached her throat, and she coughed.

"Lie down, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "Breathe close to the ground and it will not be so bad."

She hesitated, looking at the Big Throat, who sat with arms folded, proud and dignified. Then she smiled, and lay almost flat on the ground, breathing in the current of less impure air that passed beneath the smoke. They had been placed in the inner circle, next to the chiefs of the nations, where Menard's words would have the weight that, to the mind of the Big Throat, was due to a representative of the French Governor, even in time of war. Father Claude, sitting on the left of the maid, was looking quietly into the fire. He had committed the case into the hands of Providence, and he was certain that the right words would be given to the Captain.

It was nearing the close of the afternoon. A beam of sunlight slipped in at one end of the roof-opening, and slanted downward, clearing a shining way through the smoke. A Cayuga chief was speaking.

"The corn is ripening in the fields about the Onondaga village. As I came down the hills of the west to-day I saw the green tops waving in the wind, and I was glad, for I knew that my brothers would feast in plenty, that their Manitous have been kind. The Cayugas, too, have great fields of corn, and the Senecas. Their women have worked faithfully that the land might be plentiful.

"But a storm is breaking over the cornfields of the Senecas. It is a great cloud that has come down from the north, with the flash of fire and the roar of thunder, and with hailstones of lead that will leave no stalk standing. My brothers know the strength of the north wind. They have not forgotten other storms that would have laid waste the villages of the Senecas and the Mohawks. And they have not forgotten their Manitous, who have whispered to them when the clouds appeared in the northern sky, 'Rise up, Mohawks and Oneidas and Onondagas and Cayugas and Senecas, and stand firmly against this storm, and your homes and your fields shall not be destroyed.'"

The house was silent with interest. The maid raised her head and watched the stolid faces of the chiefs in the inner circle. Not an expression changed from beginning to end of the speech. Beyond, she could see other, younger faces, some eager, some bitter, some defiant, some smiling, and all showing the flush of excitement,—but these grim old chiefs had long schooled their faces to hide their thoughts. They held their blankets close, and puffed deliberately at their pipes with hardly a movement of the lips.

The Cayuga went on:—

"Messengers have come to the Cayugas from their brothers, the Senecas, telling of the storm that is rushing on them. The Cayugas know the hearts of the Five Nations. When the Mohawks have risen to defend their homes, the hearts of the Cayugas have been warm, and they have taken up the hatchet with their brothers. When the Onondagas have gone on the war-path, Senecas and Cayugas have gone with them, and the trouble of one has been the trouble of all."

"The good White Father is no longer the war chief of the white men. The Great Mountain, who knew the voice of the forest, who spoke with the tongue of the redman, has been called back to his Great-Chief-Across-the-Water. His word was the word of kindness, and when he spoke our hearts were warm. But another mountain is now the war chief, a mountain that spits fire and lead, that speaks with a double tongue. The Five Nations have never turned from a foe. The enemy of the Senecas has been the enemy of the Mohawks. If the storm strikes the fields of the Senecas, their brothers will not turn away and stop their ears and say they do not hear the thunder, for they remember the storms of other seasons, and they know that the hail that destroys one field will destroy other fields. And so this is the word of the Cayugas:—Let all the warriors of the Five Nations take up the hatchet; let them go on the war-path to tell this white chief with the double tongue that the Five Nations are one nation; that they are bolder than thunder, swifter than fire, stronger than lead."

The maid found it hard, with her imperfect knowledge of the language, to follow his metaphors. She had partly risen, heedless of the smoke, and was leaning forward with her eyes fixed on the stern face of the speaker. Menard bent down, and half smiled at her excitement.

"What is it?" she whispered. "He is for war?"

"Yes; he naturally would be." There was a stir about the house, as the speech ended, and they could speak softly without drawing notice. "The Cayugas are nearer to the Senecas than the other nations, and they fear that they too may suffer."

"Then you do not think they all feel with him?"

"No; the Oneidas and Mohawks, and even the Onondagas, are too far to the east to feel in danger. They know how hard it would be for the Governor to move far from his base in this country. It may be that the younger warriors will be for fighting, but the older heads will think of the corn."

"Will the Big Throat speak?"

"Yes; but not like these others. He talks simply and forcibly. That is the way when a chief's reputation is made. The Big Throat won his name, as a younger brave, by his wonderful oratory."

"And you, M'sieu,—you will be heard?"

"Yes; I think so. We must not talk any more now. They will not like it."

The Cayuga was followed by a wrinkled old chief of the Oneidas, called the Hundred Skins. He stepped forward and stood near the fire, his blanket drawn close about his shoulders, where the red light could play on his face. A whisper ran around the outer circle, for it was known that he stood for peace.

"My Cayuga brother has spoken wisely," he began, in a low but distinct voice. He looked slowly about the house to command attention. "The Oneidas have not forgotten the storms of other seasons; they have not forgotten the times of starving, when neither the Manitous of the redman nor the God of the white man came to help. The grain stood brown in the fields; the leaves hung dead from the trees; there was no wind to cool the fever that carried away old men and young men, squaws and children. And when the wind came, and the cold and snow of the winter, there was no food in the lodges of the Five Nations. My brothers have heard that the corn is rising to a man's height—they have seen it to-day in the fields of the Onondagas. They know that this corn must be cared for like the children of their lodges, if they wish food to eat when the winter comes and the fields are dead. They know what it will cost them to take the war-path.

"Twelve moons have not gone since the chiefs of the Senecas rose in this house and called on the warriors of the Five Nations to take up the hatchet against the white men of the north. The skins of the beaver were talking in their ears. They saw great canoes on the white man's rivers loaded with skins, and their hands itched and their hearts turned inward. Then the wise chiefs of the Oneidas and Cayugas and Onondagas and Mohawks spoke well. They were not on the war-path; the hatchet was deep in the ground, and young trees were growing over it. Then the Oneidas said that the White Chief would not forget if the Senecas heeded their itching hands and listened to the bad medicine of the beaver skins in their ears. But the Senecas were not wise, and they took up the hatchet.

"This is the word of the Oneidas to the chiefs of the Long House:—The Seneca has put his foot in the trap. Then shall the Oneida and Onondaga and Cayuga and Mohawk rush after, that they too may put in their feet where they can get away only by gnawing off the bone? Shall the wise chiefs of the Long House run into fight like the dogs of their village? The Oneidas say no! The Senecas took up the hatchet; let them bury it where they can. And when the winter comes, the Oneidas will send them corn that they may not have another time of starving."

Menard was watching the Oneida with eyes that fairly snapped. The low voice stopped, and another murmur ran around the outer circles. The Hundred Skins had spoken boldly, and the Cayuga young men looked stern. The chief stepped slowly back and resumed his seat, and then, not before, did Menard's face relax. He looked about cautiously to see if he was observed, then settled back and gazed stolidly into the fire. The old Oneida had played directly into his hand; by letting slip the motive for the Seneca raid of the winter before, he had strengthened the one weak point in the speech Menard meant to make.

The next speaker was one of the younger war chiefs of the Onondagas. He made an effort to speak with the calmness of the older men, but there was now and then a flash in his eye and an ill-controlled vigour in his voice that told Menard and the priest how strong was the war party of this village. The Onondaga plunged into his speech without the customary deliberation.

"Our brothers, the Senecas, have sent to us for aid. We have been called to the Long House to hear the voice of the Senecas,—not from the lips of their chiefs, for they have fields and villages to guard against the white man, and they are not here to stand before the council and ask what an Iroquois never refuses. The Cayuga has spoken with the voice of the Seneca. Shall the chiefs and warriors of the Long House say to the Cayuga, 'Go back to your village and send messengers to the Senecas to tell them that their brothers of the Long House have corn and squaws and children that are more to them than the battles of their brothers—tell the Senecas that the Oneidas must eat and cannot fight'? There is corn in the fields of the Oneidas. But there is food for all the Five Nations in the great house on the Lake."

The speaker paused to let his words sink in. Menard whispered to the maid, in reply to an inquiring look. "He means the Governor's base of supplies at La Famine."

The Onondaga's voice began to rise.

"When the Oneida thinks of his corn, is he afraid to leave it to his squaws? Does he hesitate because he thinks the white warriors are strong enough to turn on him and drive him from his villages? This is not the speech that young warriors are taught to expect from the Long House. When has the Long House been guided by fear? No. If the Oneida is hungry, let him eat from the stores of the white man, at the house on the Lake. The Cayugas and Onondagas will draw their belts tighter, that the Oneida may be filled."

The young chief looked defiantly around. There was a murmur from the outer circle, but the chiefs were grave and silent. The Hundred Skins gazed meditatively into the fire as if he had not heard, slowly puffing at his pipe. The taunt of cowardice had sprung out in the heat of youth; his dignity demanded that he ignore it. The speech had its effect on the Cayugas and the young men, but the older heads were steady.

Other chiefs rose, talked, and resumed their places, giving all views of the situation and of the relations between the Iroquois and the French,—but still little expression showed on the inner circle of faces. The maid after a time grew more accustomed to the smoke, and sat up. She was puzzled by the conflicting arguments and the lack of enthusiasm. Fully two hours had passed, and there was no sign of an agreement. The eager spectators, in the outer rows, gradually settled down.

During a lull between two speeches, Menard spoke to the maid, who was beginning to show traces of weariness.

"It may be a long sitting, Mademoiselle. We must make the best of it."

"Yes." She smiled. "I am a little tired. It has been a hard day."

"Too hard, poor child. But I hope to see you safe very soon now. I am relying on the Big Throat. He, with a few of the older chiefs, sees farther than these hot-heads. He knows that France must conquer in the end, and is wise enough to make terms whenever he can."

"But can he, M'sieu? Will they obey him?"

"Not obey, exactly; he will not command them. Indians have no discipline such as ours. The chiefs rely on their judgment and influence. But they have followed the guidance of the Big Throat for too many years to leave it now."

Another chief rose to speak. The sun had gone, and the long building was growing dark rapidly. A number of squaws came through the circle, throwing wood on the fires. The new flames shot up, and threw a flickering light on the copper faces, many of which still wore the paint of the morning. The smoke lay over them in wavering films, now and again half hiding some sullen face until it seemed to fade away into the darkness.

At last the whole situation lay clear before the council. Some speakers were for war, some for peace, others for aiding the Senecas as a matter of principle. The house was divided.

There was a silence, and the pipes glowed in the dusk; then the Long Arrow rose. The listless spectators stirred and leaned forward. The maid, too, was moved, feeling that at last the moment of decision was near. She was surprised to see that he had none of the savage excitement of the morning. He was as quiet and tactful in speech as the Big Throat himself.

Slowly the Long Arrow drew his blanket close about him and began to speak. The house grew very still, for the whole tribe knew that he had, in his anger of the morning, disputed the authority of the Big Throat. There had been hot words, and the great chief had rebuked him contemptuously within the hearing of half a hundred warriors. Now he was to stand before the council, and not a man in that wide circle but wondered how much he would dare to say.

He seemed not to observe the curious glances. Simply and quietly he began the narrative of the capture of the hunting party at Fort Frontenac. At the first words Menard turned to Father Claude with a meaning look. The maid saw it, and her lips framed a question.

"It is better than I hoped," Menard whispered. "He is bringing it up himself."

"Not two moons have waned," the Long Arrow was saying, "since five score brave young warriors left our village for the hunt. They left the hatchet buried under the trees. They took no war-paint. The Great Mountain had said that there was peace between the redman and the white man; he had asked the Onondagas to hunt on the banks of the Great River; he had told them that his white sons at the Stone House would take them as brothers into their lodges. When the Great Mountain said this, through the mouths of the holy Fathers, he lied."

The words came out in the same low, even tone in which he had begun speaking, but they sank deep. The house was hushed; even the stirring of the children on the benches died away.

"The Great Mountain has lied to his children,"—Menard's keen ears caught the bitter, if covered, sarcasm in the last two words; they had been Governor Frontenac's favourite term in addressing the Iroquois—"and his children know his voice no longer. There is corn in the fields? Let it grow or rot. There are squaws and children in our lodges? Let them live or die. It is not the Senecas who ask our aid; it is the voice of a hundred sons and brothers and youths and squaws calling from far beyond the great water,—calling from chains, calling from fever, calling from the Happy Hunting Ground, where they have gone without guns or corn or blankets, where they lie with nothing to comfort them." The Long Arrow stood erect, with head thrown back and eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "Our sons and brothers went like children to the Stone House of the white man. Their hands were stretched before them, their muskets hung empty from their shoulders, their bowstrings were loosened; the calumet was in their hands. But the sons of Onontio lied as their fathers had taught them. They took the calumet; they called the Onondagas into their great lodge; and in the sleep of the white man's fire-water they chained them. Five score Onondagas have gone to be slaves to the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children and is kind to them, and would take them all under his arm where no storm can harm them. My brothers of the Long House have heard the promises of Onontio, and they have seen the fork in his tongue. And so they choose this time to speak of corn and squaws and children." The keen, closely set eyes slowly lowered and swept around the circle. "Is this the time to speak of corn? Our Manitou has sent this Great Mountain into our country. He has placed him in our hands so that we may strike, so that we may tell the white man with our muskets that our Manitou is stern and just, and that no Iroquois will listen to the idle words of a double tongue."

He paused, readjusted his blanket, and then stood motionless, that all might digest his words. Then, after a long wait, he went on:—

"There are children to-day in our lodges who can remember the Big Buffalo, who can remember our adopted son who shared our fires and food, who shared our hunts, who lived with us as freely as an Onondaga. We saw him every day, and we forgot that his heart was as white as his skin, for his tongue was the tongue of an Onondaga. We forgot that the white man has two tongues. It has not been long, my brothers,—not long enough for an Onondaga to forget. But the Big Buffalo is a mangy dog. He forgot the brothers of his lodge. He it was who took the Onondaga hunters and carried them away to be slaves. But the Manitou did not forget. He has put this Big Buffalo into our hands, that we may give him what should be given to the dog who forgets his master."

Again the Long Arrow paused.

"No; this is not the time to speak of corn. It is not the Senecas who call us, it is our brothers and their squaws and children. The Iroquois have been the greatest warriors of the world. They have driven the Hurons to the far northern forests; the Illinois to the Father of Waters, two moons' travel to the west; the Delawares to the waters of the south. They have told the white man to stay within his boundaries, and he has stayed. They have been kind to the white man; they have welcomed the holy Fathers into their villages. But now the Great Mountain makes slaves of the Onondagas. He brings his warriors across the Great Lake to punish the Senecas and destroy their lodges. Shall the Long House of the Five Nations turn a white face to this Great Mountain? Shall the Long House call out in a shaking voice, 'See, Onontio, there are no heads on our arrows, no flints in our muskets! our hatchets are dull, our knives nicked and rusted! come, Onontio, and strike us, that we may know you are our master and our father'?"

The Long Arrow's voice had risen only slightly, but now it dropped; he went on, in a tone that was keen as a knife, but so low that those at the farther end of the house leaned forward and sat motionless.

"It has been said to-day to the Long House that we shall close our ears to the thunder of the Great Mountain, that we should think of our corn and our squaws, and leave the Senecas to fight their own battles. But the Long House will not do this. The Long House will not give up the liberty that has been the pride of the Iroquois since first the rivers ran to the lake, and the moss grew on the trees, and the wind waved the tops of the long grass. The Great Mountain has come to take this liberty. He shall not have it. No; he shall lose his own—we will leave his bones to dry where the Seneca dogs run loose. The Big Buffalo shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois never forgets; the Great Mountain shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois is free."



CHAPTER XIII.

THE VOICE OF THE GREAT MOUNTAIN.

There was no lack of interest now in the council. The weariness left the maid's eyes as she followed the speeches that came in rapid succession. There was still the disagreement, the confusion of a dozen different views and demands; but the speech of the Long Arrow had pointed the discussion, it had set up an opinion to be either defended or attacked.

"Will the Big Throat speak now?" asked Mademoiselle, leaning close to Menard.

"I hardly think so. I don't know what will come next."

"When will you speak, M'sieu?"

"Not until word from the Big Throat. It would be a breach of courtesy."

One warrior, a member of the Beaver family, and probably a blood relative of the Beaver who had been killed in the fight of the morning, took advantage of the pause to speak savagely for war and vengeance. He counted those who had fallen since the sun rose, and appealed to their families to destroy the man who had killed them. He was not a chief, but his fiery speech aroused a murmur of approval from scattered groups of the spectators. This sympathy from those about him, with the anger which was steadily fed by his own hot words, gradually drove from his mind the observance of etiquette which was so large a part of an important council. Still speaking, he left his place, and walking slowly between two of the fires and across the circle, paused before Menard.