The Indian made a cautious gesture and crept slowly through the yielding bushes. One by one they followed, the Captain lingering until the maid was close to him and he could whisper to her to keep her courage. They paused at the bank of the lake. The water lay sparkling in the moonlight. Menard looked grimly out; this light added to the danger. He found a short log close at hand and carried it to the water.

"Come, Mademoiselle," he whispered, "and Father Claude. This will support you. Teganouan and I will swim. Keep low in the water, and do not splash or speak. The slightest noise will travel far across the lake."

Slowly they waded out, dropping into the water before it was waist deep. Teganouan's powder-horn and musket lay on the log, and the maid herself steadied it so that they should not be lost.



CHAPTER XVII.

NORTHWARD.

Weak and chilled from the long swim through the cold water they dragged themselves across the narrow beach to the bushes that hung over the bank. Menard and Father Claude supported the maid, who was trembling and clinging to them. At the bank she sank to the ground.

"It is hard, Mademoiselle, but we must not stop. It is better to be weary than to rest in this condition. It would mean sickness."

"Yes," she said; "I know. In a moment I can go on." She looked up and tried to smile. "It is so cold, M'sieu."

Menard turned to Teganouan.

"How far is it to the villages of the Cayugas?"

"Not far. Half a sleep."

"Is there a trail?"

"The trail is far. It passes the end of the Long Lake." He raised his head and looked at the stars, then pointed to the southwest. "The nearest village lies there. If we go through the forest toward the setting sun, we shall meet the trail."

"You think it will be wise to go to the Cayugas, M'sieu?" asked Father Claude.

"I think so. The chiefs must have returned before this time, or at least by the morrow." He dropped into the Iroquois tongue. "Is not this so, Teganouan? Would the chiefs of the Cayugas linger among the Onondagas after the close of the council?"

"The Cayuga warriors await the word of the Long House. They know that their chiefs would hasten to bring it back to them."

"Yes. It must be so, Father. And we can trust them to aid us. Perhaps they will give us a canoe. Teganouan must tell them he is our guide, sent by the Big Throat and the chiefs of the Onondagas to take us safely to Frontenac."

The maid was struggling to keep awake, but her lids were heavy. Menard came to her and stood, hesitating. She knew that he was there; she could hear the rustle of his wet clothes, and his heavy breathing, but she did not look up.

"Come," he said, lightly touching her shoulder, "we cannot wait here. We must go."

She did not reply, and he hesitated again. Then he stooped and lifted her in his arms.

"You will go ahead, Teganouan," he said, "and you, too, if you will, Father Claude. Choose an easy trail if you can, and be careful that no twig flies back."

They set out slowly through the forest. The priest and the Indian laboriously broke a way, and Menard followed, holding the maid tenderly, and now and then, in some lighter spot where a beam of moonlight fell through the foliage, looking down at her gentle, weary face. She was sleeping; and he prayed that no sad dreams might come to steal her rest. His arms ached and his knees gave under him, but he had hardly a thought for himself. At last, after a long, silent march, the priest stopped, and said, supporting himself with one thin hand against a tree:—

"You are weary, M'sieu. You must let me take Mademoiselle."

"No, Father, no. I have been thinking. I am afraid it is not right that she should sleep now. Even though she fail in the effort, exercise of her muscles is all that will prevent sickness. And yet I cannot,"—he looked again at her face as it rested against his shoulder,—"I cannot awaken her now."

The Father saw the sorrow in the Captain's eyes, and understood.

"I will take her, M'sieu."

Carefully Menard placed her in Father Claude's arms and turned away.

"Teganouan," he said, trying to recover his self-possession, "should we not be near the trail?"

"Yes, more than half the way."

"Can we reach it more quickly by heading a little to the north?"

"We would reach the trail, yes; but the way would be longer."

"Never mind; once on the trail it will be easier than in this forest. Turn to the north, Teganouan."

He could hear the maid's voice, protesting sleepily, and Father Claude talking quietly to her. He looked around. The priest said in a low tone:—

"Come, M'sieu, it is hard to awaken her."

"We must frighten her, then."

He caught her shoulders and shook her roughly. Slowly her eyes opened, and then the two men dragged her forward. At first she thought herself back among the Onondagas, and she begged them not to take her away, hanging back and forcing them almost to carry her. It cut Menard to the heart, but he pushed steadily forward. Later she yielded, and with a dazed expression obeyed. Once or twice she stumbled, and would have fallen but for the strong hands that held her. Father Claude rested his hand on her forehead as they walked, and Menard gave him an anxious, questioning glance. The priest shook his head.

"No," he said, "there is no fever. I trust that it is nothing worse than exhaustion."

Menard went on with relief in his eyes.

In less than half an hour after reaching the trail, they came upon the outlying huts of the village. Over the hills to the east the dawn was breaking, and all the sleeping birds and beasts and creeping things of the forest were stirring into life and movement. Teganouan went ahead of the party and soon roused a member of the Cayuga branch of his clan, the family of the Bear. Through the yawning services of this warrior they were guided to an unused hut. Teganouan searched farther, and returned with a heap of blankets for the maid, who had dropped to the ground before the hut. Menard carried her within and made her as comfortable as possible, then withdrew and closed the door.

"Have the chiefs returned from the council at the village of the Onondagas?" he asked of the warrior, who stood at one side watching them with curiosity in his gaze.

The Cayuga bowed.

"Will my brother carry a message from the White Chief, the Big Buffalo, to his chiefs? Will he tell them, as soon as the sun has risen, that the Big Buffalo has come to talk with them?"

The warrior bowed and walked away.

"We are safe now, I think, Father. We must get what little sleep we can between now and sunrise."

"Should not one of us watch, M'sieu?"

"We are not fit for it. We have hard work before us, and many a chance yet to run."

"Teganouan will watch," said the Indian.

Menard's face showed surprise, but Father Claude whispered, "He has learned at the mission to understand our language."

They lay on the ground before the hut, in their wet clothes, and in a moment were asleep. Teganouan built a fire close at hand, and sat by it without a motion, excepting the alert shifting glances of his bead-like eyes, until, when the colours in the east had faded into blue and the sun was well above the trees, he saw the chiefs of the village coming slowly toward him between the huts, a crowd of young men following behind them, and a snarling pack of dogs running before. He aroused Menard and Father Claude.

The chiefs sat in a circle about the fire, the two white men among them. The other Indians sat and stood in a wider circle, just within earshot, and waited inquisitively for the White Chief to state his errand.

"My brothers, the white men, have asked to speak with the chiefs of the Cayugas," said the spokesman, a wrinkled old warrior, whom Menard recognized as one of the speakers at the Long House.

"The Big Buffalo is on his way to the stone house of Onontio. He is far from the trail. His muskets and his knives and hatchets were taken from him by the Onondagas and were not returned to him. He asks that the chiefs of the Cayugas permit him to use one of their many canoes, that he may hasten to carry to Onontio the word of the Long House."

"The White Chief comes to the Cayugas, who live two sleeps away from their brothers, the Onondagas, to ask for aid. Have the Onondagas then refused him? Why is my brother so far from the trail?"

"The chiefs of the Cayugas sat in the Long House; they heard the words of the great council, that the Big Buffalo and the holy Father and the white maiden should be set free. They know that what is decided in the council is the law of the nation, that no warrior shall break it."

The little circle was silent with attention, but none of the chiefs replied.

"It was still in the dark of the night when the Big Throat came to the lodge of the Big Buffalo, and gave him the pledge of the council that he should be free with the next sun. The Big Buffalo once learned to believe the pledge of the Iroquois. When the mighty Big Throat said that he was free, he believed. He did not set a guard to sit with wakeful eyes through the night in fear that the pledge was not true. No, the Big Buffalo is a warrior and a chief; he is not a woman. He trusted his red brothers, and rested his head to sleep. Then in the dark came a chief, a dog of a traitor, and took away his white brother and his white sister while their eyes were still heavy with sleep, and carried them far over the hills to the lake of the Cayugas. Here they hid like serpents in the long grass, and thought that they would kill them. But the Big Buffalo is a warrior. Without a knife or a musket or a hatchet he killed the Long Arrow and came across the Long Lake. He knew that the Cayugas were his brothers, that they would not break the pledge of the Long House."

The grave faces of the Indians showed no surprise, save for a slight movement of the eyes on the part of one or two of the younger men, when the Long Arrow was mentioned. Most of them had lighted their pipes before sitting down, and now they puffed in silence.

"The White Chief speaks strangely," the spokesman said at last. "He tells the Cayugas that their brothers, the Onondagas, have broken the pledge of the council."

"Yes."

"He asks for aid?"

"No," said Menard, "he does not ask for aid. He asks that the Iroquois nation restore to him what the dogs of the Long Arrow have taken away. He has spoken to the Long House in the voice of the Great Mountain. He has the right of a free man, of a chief honoured by the council, to go freely and in peace. What if those who do not respect the law of the council shall rob him of his rights? Must he go on his knees to the chiefs? Must he ask that he be allowed to live? Must he go far back on his trail to seek aid of the Onondagas, because the Cayugas will not hold to the law?"

One of the great lessons learned during Menard's work under Governor Frontenac had been that the man who once permits himself to be lowered in the eyes of the Indians has forever lost his prestige. Now he sat before the chiefs of a great village, weak from the strain of the long days and nights of distress and wakefulness and hunger, his clothing still wet and bedraggled, with no weapon but a knife, no canoe, not to speak of presents,—with none of the equipment which to the Indian mind suggested authority,—and yet made his demands in the stern voice of a conqueror. He knew that these Indians cared not at all whether the word of the council to him had been broken or kept, unless he could so impress them with his authority that they would fear punishment for the offence.

"The Big Buffalo is a mighty warrior," said the spokesman. "His hard hands are greater than the muskets and hatchets of the Cayugas. He fights with the strength of the winter wind; no man can stand where his hand falls. He speaks wisely to the Cayugas. They are sorry that their brothers, the Onondagas, have so soon forgotten the word of the great council, Let the Big Buffalo rest his arms. The warriors of the Cayugas shall be proud to offer him food."

They all rose, and after a few grunted words of friendship, filed away to go over the matter in private council. Menard saw that they were puzzled; perhaps they did not believe that he had killed the Long Arrow. He turned to Teganouan, who had been sitting a few yards away.

"Teganouan, will you go among the braves of the village and tell them that the Big Buffalo is a strong fighter, that he killed the Long Arrow with his hands? It may be that they have not believed."

This was the kind of strategy Teganouan understood. He walked slowly away, puffing at his pipe, to mingle among the people of the village and boast in bold metaphors the prowess of his White Chief.

"They will give us a canoe," said Father Claude.

"Yes, they must. Now, let us sleep again."

They dropped to the ground, and Menard looked warningly at the circle of young boys who came as close as they dared to see this strange white man, and to hear him talk in the unpronounceable language. Father Claude's eyes were first to close. The Captain was about to join him in slumber when a low voice came from the door.

"M'sieu."

He started up and saw the maid holding the door ajar and leaning against it, her pale face, framed in a tangle of soft hair, showing traces of the wearing troubles of the days just passed.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, you must not waken. You must sleep long, and rest, and grow bright and young again."

She smiled, and looked at him timidly.

"I have been dreaming, M'sieu," she said, and her eyes dropped, "such an unpleasant dream. It was after we had crossed the lake—We did cross it, M'sieu, did we not? That, too, was not a dream? No—see, my hair is wet."

"No," he said, "that was not a dream."

"We were on the land, and I was so tired, and you talked to me—something good—I cannot remember what it was, but I know that you were good. And I thought that I—that I said words that hurt you, unkind words. And when I wished and tried to speak as I felt, only the other words would come. That was a dream, M'sieu, was it not? It has been troubling me. You have been so kind, and I could not sleep thinking that—that—"

"Yes," he said, "that was a dream."

She looked at him with relief, but as she looked she seemed to become more fully awake to what they were saying. Her eyes lowered again, and the red came over her face.

"I am glad," she said, so low that he hardly heard.

"And now you will rest, Mademoiselle?"

She smiled softly, and drew back within the hut, closing the heavy door. And Menard turned away, unmindful of the wide-eyed boys who were staring from a safe distance at him and at the door where the strange woman had appeared. He sat with his back against the logs of the hut, and looked at the ants that hurried about over the trampled ground.

The sun was high when he was aroused by Teganouan, who had spent the greater part of the morning among the people of the village.

"Have you any word, Teganouan?"

"Yes. The warriors have learned of the strength of the Big Buffalo, and his name frightens them. They bow to the great chief who has killed the Long Arrow without a hatchet. They say that the Onondagas should be punished for their treachery."

"Good."

"Teganouan has been talking long with a runner of the Seneca nation."

"Ah, he brings word of the fight?"

"Yes. The Senecas have suffered under the iron hand of the Great Mountain. A great army takes up the hatchet when he goes on the war-path, more than all the Senecas and Cayugas and Onondagas together when every brave who can hold in his hand a bow or a musket has come to fight with his brothers. There were white warriors so many that the runner could not have counted them with all the sticks in the Long House. There were men of the woods in the skins and beads of the redmen; there were Hurons and Ottawas and Nipissings, and even the cowardly Illinois and the Kaskaskias and the Miamis from the land where the Great River flows past the Rock Demons. The Senecas fought with the strength of the she-bear, but their warriors were killed, their corn was trampled and cut, their lodges were burned."

"Did the Great Mountain pursue them?"

"He has gone back to his stone house across the great lake, leaving the land black and smoking. The Senecas have come to the western villages of the Cayugas."

"There are none in this village?"

"No. But the chiefs have sent blankets to their brothers, and as much corn as a hundred braves could carry over the trail. They have taken from their own houses to give to the Senecas."

A few moments later two young men came with baskets of sagamity and smoked meat. Menard received it, and rising, knocked gently at the door.

"Yes, M'sieu,—I am not sleeping."

He hesitated, and she came to the door and opened it.

"Ah, you have food, M'sieu! I am glad. I have been so hungry."

"Come, Father," said the Captain, and they entered and sat on the long bench, eating the smoky, greasy meat as eagerly as if it had been cooked for the Governor's table. Their spirits rose as the baskets emptied, and they found that they could laugh and joke about their ravenous hunger.

The chiefs returned shortly after, and came stooping into the hut in the free Indian fashion. The old chief spoke:—

"The Big Buffalo has honoured the lodges of the Cayugas; he has made the village proud to offer him their corn and meat. It would make their hearts glad if he would linger about their fires, with the holy Father and the squaw, that they might tell their brothers of the great warrior who dwelt in their village. But the White Chief bears the word of the Long House. He goes to the stone house to tell his white brothers, who fight with the thunder, that the Cayugas and the Onondagas are friends of the white men, that they have given a pledge which binds them as close as could the stoutest ropes of deerskin. And so with sad hearts they come to say farewell to the Big Buffalo, and to wish that no dog may howl while he sleeps, that no wind may blow against his canoe, that no rains may fall until he rests with his brothers at the great stone house beyond the lake."

"The Big Buffalo thanks the mighty chiefs of the Cayugas," replied Menard. "He is glad that they are his friends. And when his mouth is close to the ear of the Great Mountain, he will tell him that his Cayuga sons are loyal to their Father."

The chief had lighted a long pipe. After two deliberate puffs, the first upward toward the roof of the hut, the second toward the ground, he handed it to Menard, who followed his example, and passed it to the chief next in importance. As it went slowly from hand to hand about the circle, the Captain turned to the maid, who sat at his side.

"Do they mean it, M'sieu?" she whispered.

For an instant a twinkle came into his eye; she saw it, and smiled.

"Careful," he whispered.

Before she could check the smile, a bronze hand reached across to her with the pipe. She started back and looked down at it.

"You must smoke it," Menard whispered. "It is a great honour. They have admitted you to their council."

"Oh, M'sieu—I can't—" she took the pipe and held it awkwardly; then, with an effort, raised it to her mouth. It made her cough, and she gave it quickly to the Captain.

The Indians rose gravely and filed out of the hut.

"Come, Mademoiselle, we are to go."

The smoke had brought tears to her eyes, and she was hesitating, laughing in spite of herself.

"Oh, M'sieu, will—will it make me sick?"

He smiled, with a touch of the old light humour.

"I think not. We must go, or they will wonder."

They found the chiefs waiting before the hut, Father Claude and Teganouan among them. As soon as they had appeared, the whole party set out through the village and over a trail through the woods to the eastward. The ill-kept dogs played about them, and plunged, barking, through the brush on either side. Behind, at a little distance, came the children and hangers-on of the village, jostling one another to keep at the head where they could see the white strangers.

When they reached the bank of the lake, they found two canoes drawn up on the narrow strip of gravel, and a half-dozen well-armed braves waiting close at hand. The chief paused and pointed toward the canoes.

"The Cayugas are proud that the White Chief will sail in their canoes to the land of the white men. The bravest warriors of a mighty village will go with them to see that no Onondaga arrow flies into their camp by night."

He signalled to a brave, who brought forward a musket and laid it, with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, at the Captain's feet.

"This musket is to tell the Big Buffalo that no wild beast shall disturb his feast, and that meat in plenty shall hang from the smoking-pole in his lodge."

The canoes were carried into the water and they embarked,—Menard, the maid, and two braves in one, Father Claude and four braves in the other. They swung out into the lake, the wiry arms and shoulders of the canoemen knotting with each stroke of the paddles; and the crowd of Indians stood on the shore gazing after until they had passed from view beyond a wooded point.

A few hours should take them to the head of the lake. They had reached perhaps half the distance, when Menard saw that two of his canoemen had exchanged glances and were looking toward the shore. He glanced along the fringe of trees and bushes, a few hundred yards distant, until his eyes rested on three empty canoes. He called to Father Claude's canoe, and both, at his order, headed for the shore. As they drew near, half a score of Indians came from the brush.

"Why," said the maid, "there are some of the men who brought us to the lake."

"Yes," replied Menard, "it is the Long Arrow's band."

He leaped out of the canoe before it touched the beach, and walked sternly up to the group of warriors. He knew why they were there. It was what he had expected. When they had discovered the death of the Long Arrow there had been rage and consternation. Disputes had followed, the band had divided, and a part had crossed the lake to hunt the trail of the Big Buffalo. He folded his arms and gave them a long, contemptuous look.

"Why do the Onondagas seek the trail of the Big Buffalo? Do they think to overtake him? Do they think that all their hands together are strong enough to hold him? Did they think that they could lie to the White Chief, could play the traitor, and go unpunished?"

Only one or two of the Onondagas had their muskets in their hands. They all showed fright, and one was edging toward the wood. The Cayugas in the canoes, at a word from Father Claude, had raised their muskets. Menard saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and for the moment doubted the wisdom of the action. It was a question whether the Cayugas could actually be brought to fire on their Onondaga brothers. Still, this band had defied the law of the council, and might, in the eyes of the Indians, bring down another war upon the nation by their act. While he spoke, the Captain had been deciding on a course. He now walked boldly up to the man who was nearest the bushes, and snatched away his musket. There was a stir and a murmur, but without heeding, he took also the only other musket in the party, and stepped between the Indians and the forest.

"Stand where you are, or I will kill you. One man"—he pointed to a youth—"will go into the forest and bring your muskets to the canoes."

They hesitated, but Menard held his piece ready to fire, and the Cayugas did the same. At last the youth went sullenly into the bushes and brought out an armful of muskets.

"Count them, Father," Menard called in French.

The priest did so, and then ran his eye over the party on the beach.

"There are two missing, M'sieu."

Menard turned to the youth, who, though he had not understood the words, caught their spirit and hurried back for the missing weapons. Then the Captain walked coolly past them, and took his place in the canoe. For a long time, as they paddled up the lake, they could see the Onondagas moving about the beach, and could hear their angry voices.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ONLY WAY.

When at last the canoe slipped from the confines of river and hills and forest out upon the great Lake Ontario, where the green water stretched flat, east and north and west to the horizon, the Cayuga warriors said farewell and turned again to their own lands. It was at noon of a bright day. The water lay close to the white beach, with hardly a ripple to mar the long black scallops of weed and drift which the last storm had left on the sand. The sky was fair and the air sweet.

In the one canoe which the Cayugas had left to them, the little party headed to the east, now skimming close to the silent beach, now cutting a straight path across some bay from point to point, out over the depths where lay the sturgeon and the pickerel and trout and whitefish. The gulls swooped at them; then, frightened, soared away in wide, rushing circles, dropping here and there for an overbold minnow. The afternoon went by with hardly the passing of a word. Each of them, the Captain, the maid, the priest, looked over the burnished water, now a fair green or blue sheet, now a space of striped yellow and green and purple, newly marked by every phase of sun and cloud; and to each it meant that the journey was done. Here was solitude, with none of the stir of the forest to bring companionship; but as they looked out to the cloud-puffs that dipped behind the water at the world's end, they knew that far yonder were other men whose skins were white, for all of beard and tan, whose tongue was the tongue of Montreal, of Quebec, of Paris,—and neither tree nor rock nor mountain lay between. The water that bore them onward was the water that washed the beach at Frontenac. Days might pass and find them still on the road; but they would be glorious days, with the sun overhead and the breeze at their backs, and at evening the wonder of the western sky to make the water golden with promise. As they swung their paddles, the maid with them, their eyes were full of dreams,—all save Teganouan. His eyes were keen and cunning, and when they looked to the north it was not with thoughts of home. It may be that he was dreaming of the deed which might yet win back his lost name as an Onondaga warrior.

The sun hung over the lake when at last the canoe touched the beach. They ate their simple meal almost in silence, and then sat near the fire watching the afterglow that did not fade from the west until the night was dark and the moon high over the dim line that marked the eastern end of the lake. The sense of relief that had come to them with the first sight of the lake was fading now. They were thinking of Frontenac, and of what might await them there,—the priest soberly, the maid bravely, the Captain grimly. Later, when the maid had said good-night, and Father Claude had wandered down the beach to the water's edge, Menard dragged a new log to the fire and threw it on, sending up the flame and sparks high above the willows of the bank. He stretched out and looked into the flames.

Teganouan, who had been lying on the sand, heard a rustle far off in the forest and raised his head. He heard it again, and rose, standing motionless; then he took his musket and came toward the fire. The Captain lay at full length, his chin on his hands. He was awake, for his eyes were open, but he did not look up. The Indian hesitated, and stood a few yards away looking at the silent figure, as if uncertain whether to speak. Finally he stepped back and disappeared among the willows.

Half an hour went by. Father Claude came up the beach, walking slowly.

"It is growing late, M'sieu, for travellers."

Menard glanced up, but did not reply. The priest was looking about the camp.

"Where is Teganouan, M'sieu? Did you give him permission to go away?"

"No; he is here,—he was here." Menard rose. "You are right, he has gone. Has he taken his musket?"

"I think so. I do not see it."

"He left it leaning against the log. No; it is not there. Wait,—do you hear?"

They stood listening; and both caught the faint sound of a body moving between the bushes that grew on the higher ground, close to the line of willows. Menard took up his musket and held it ready, for they had not left the country of the Iroquois.

"Here he comes," whispered Father Claude. "Yes, it is Teganouan."

The Indian was running toward them. He dropped his musket, and began rapidly to throw great handfuls of sand upon the fire. The two white men sprang to aid him, without asking an explanation. In a moment the beach was lighted only by the moon. Then Menard said:—

"What is it, Teganouan?"

"Teganouan heard a step in the forest. He went nearer, and there were more. They are on the war-path, for they come cautiously and slowly."

"Father, will you keep by the maid? We must not disturb her now. You had better heap up the sand about the canoe so that no stray ball can reach her."

The priest hurried down the beach, and Menard and the Indian slipped into the willows, Menard toward the east, Teganouan toward the west, where they could watch the forest and the beach on all sides. The sound of an approaching party was now more distinct. There would be a long silence, then the crackle of a twig or the rustle of dead leaves; and Menard knew that the sound was made by moccasined feet. He was surprised that the invaders took so little caution; either they were confident of finding the camp asleep, or they were in such force as to have no fear. While he lay behind a scrub willow conjecturing, Father Claude came creeping up behind him.

"I will watch with you, M'sieu. It will make our line longer."

"Is she safe?"

"Yes. I have heaped the sand high around the canoe, even on the side toward the water."

"Good. You had better move off a little nearer the lake, and keep a sharp eye out. It may be that they are coming by water as well, though I doubt it. The lake is very light. I will take the centre. You have no musket?"

"No; but my eyes are good."

"If you need me, I shall be close to the bushes, a dozen yards farther inland."

They separated, and Menard took up his new position. Apparently the movement had stopped. For a long time no sound came, and then, as Menard was on the point of moving forward, a branch cracked sharply not twenty rods away. He called in French:—

"Who are you?"

For a moment there was silence, then a rush of feet in his direction. He could hear a number of men bounding through the bushes. He cocked his gun and levelled it, shouting this time in Iroquois:—

"Stand, or I will fire!"

"I know that voice! Drop your musket!" came in a merry French voice, and in another moment a sturdy figure, half in uniform and half in buckskin, bearded beyond recognition, had come crashing down the slope, throwing his arms around the Captain's neck so wildly that the two went down and rolled on the sand. Before Menard could struggle to his feet, three soldiers had followed, and stood laughing, forgetting all discipline, and one was saying over and over to the other:—

"It is Captain Menard! Don't you know him? It is Captain Menard!"

"You don't know me, Menard, I can see that. I wish I could take the beard off, but I can't. What have you done with my men?"

Now Menard knew; it was Du Peron.

"I left them at La Gallette," he said.

"I haven't seen them—oh, killed?"

Menard nodded.

"Come down the beach and tell me about it. What condition are you in? Have you anybody with you?" Before Menard could answer, he said to one of the soldiers:—

"Go back and tell the sergeant to bring up the canoes."

They walked down the beach, and the other soldiers set about building a new fire.

"Perhaps I'd better begin on you," Menard said. "What are you doing here? And what in the devil do you mean by coming up through the woods like a Mohawk on the war-path?"

The Lieutenant laughed.

"My story isn't a long one. I'm cleaning up our base of supplies at La Famine. We've got a small guard there. The main part of the rear-guard is back at Frontenac."

"Where is the column?"

"Gone to Niagara, Denonville and all, to build a fort. They'll give it to De Troyes, I imagine. It's a sort of triumphal procession through the enemy's country, after rooting up the Seneca villages and fields and stockades until you can't find an able-bodied redskin this side of the Cayugas. Oh, I didn't answer your other question. What do you think of these?" He held out a foot, shod in a moccasin. "You'd never know the King's troops now, Menard. We're wearing anything we can pick up. I've got a dozen canoes a quarter of a league down the lake. I saw your fire, and thought it best to reconnoitre before bringing the canoes past." He read the question in Menard's glance. "We are not taking out much time for sleep, I can tell you. It's all day and all night until we get La Famine cleared up. There is only a handful of men there, and we're expecting every day that the Cayugas and Onondagas will sweep down on them."

"They won't bother you," said Menard.

"Maybe not, but we must be careful. For my part, I look for trouble. The nations stand pretty closely by each other, you know."

"They won't bother you now."

"How do you know?"

"What did I come down here for?"

"They didn't tell me. Oh, you had a mission to the other nations? But that can't be,—you were captured."

Menard lay on his side, and watched the flames go roaring upward as the soldiers piled up the logs.

"I could tell you some things, Du Peron," he said slowly. "I suppose you didn't know,—for that matter you couldn't know,—but when the column was marching on the Senecas, and our rear-guard of four hundred men—"

"Four hundred and forty."

"The same thing. You can't expect the Cayugas to count so sharply as that. At that time the Cayugas and Onondagas held a council to discuss the question of sending a thousand warriors to cut off the rear-guard and the Governor's communications."

The Lieutenant slowly whistled.

"How did they know so much about it, Menard?"

"How could they help it? Our good Governor had posted his plans on every tree. You can see what would have happened."

"Why, with the Senecas on his front it would have been—" He paused, and whistled again.

"Well,—you see. But they didn't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I spoke at that council."

"You spoke—but you were a prisoner, weren't you?"

"Yes."

The Lieutenant sat staring into the fire. Slowly it came to him what it was that the Captain had accomplished.

"Why, Menard," he said, "New France won't be able to hold you, when this gets out. How you must have gone at them. You'll be a major in a week. You're the luckiest man this side of Versailles."

"No, I'm not. And I won't be a major. I'm not on the Governor's pocket list. But I don't care about that. That isn't the reason I did it."

"Why did you do it then?"

"I—That's the question I've been asking myself for several days, Du Peron."

The Lieutenant was too thoroughly aroused to note the change in the Captain's tone.

"You don't see it right now, Menard. Wait till you've reached the city, and got into some clothes and a good bed, and can shake hands with d'Orvilliers and Provost and the general staff,—maybe with the Governor himself. Then you'll feel different. You're down now. I know how it feels. You're all tired out, and you've got the Onondaga dirt rubbed on so thick that you're lost in it. You wait a few weeks."

"Did the Governor have much trouble with the Senecas?"

"Oh, he had to fight for it. He was—My God, Menard, what about the girl? I was so shaken up at meeting you like this that it got away from me. The column had hardly got to the fort on their way up from Montreal before everyone was asking for you. La Grange had a letter from her father saying that she was with you, and he's been in a bad way. He says that he was to have married her, and that you've got away with her. It serves him right, the beast. One night, at La Famine, he was drunk, and he came around to all of us reading that letter at the top of his voice and swearing to kill you the moment he sees you. He's been talking a good deal about that."

"She is here, asleep."

"Thank God."

"Where is La Grange now?"

"He's over at Frontenac. He got into trouble before we left La Famine. He's drinking hard now, you know. He had command of a company that was working on the stockades, and he made such a muss of it that his sergeant had to take hold and handle it to get the work done at all. You can imagine what bad feeling that made in his company. Played the devil with his discipline. Well, he took it like a child. But that night, when he got a little loose on his legs, he hunted up the sergeant and made him fight. The fellow wouldn't until La Grange came at him with his sword, but then he cracked his head with a musket."

"Hurt him?"

"Yes. They took him up to Frontenac. He's in the hospital now, but it's pretty generally understood that d'Orvilliers won't let him go out until the Governor gets back from Niagara. He's well enough already, they say. It's hard on the sergeant, too; no one blames him."

Du Peron looked around and saw Teganouan lying near.

"Who's this Indian?" he asked in a low tone.

"He is with me. A mission Indian."

"Does he know French? Has he understood us?"

"I don't know. I suppose so. Here is Father Claude de Casson. You remember him, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed."

The Lieutenant rose to greet the priest, and then the three sat together.

"You asked me about the fight, didn't you, Menard? I don't seem able to hold to a subject very long to-night. We struck out from La Famine on the morning of the twelfth of July. You know the trail that leads south from La Famine? We followed that."

Menard smiled at the leaping fire.

"Don't laugh, Menard; that was no worse than what we've done from the start. The Governor never thought but what we'd surprise them as much on that road as on another. And after all, we won, though it did look bad for a while. There was a time, at the beginning of the fight,—well, I'm getting ahead of myself again. We were in fairly good order. Callieres had the advance with the Montreal troops. He threw out La Durantaye, with Tonty and Du Luth,—the coureurs de bois, you know,—to feel the way. La Durantaye had the mission Indians, from Sault St. Louis and the Montreal Mountain, on his left, and the Ottawas and Mackinac tribes on his right."

"How did the Ottawas behave?"

"Wretchedly. They ran at the first fire. I'll come to that. The others weren't so bad, but there was no holding them. They spread through the forest, away out of reach. Perrot had the command, but he could only follow after and knock one down now and then."

"The Governor took command of the main force?"

"Yes. And he carried his bale like the worst of us; I'll say that for him. It was hot, and we all drooped a bit before night. And he made a good fight, too, if you can forgive him that bungling march. When we bivouacked, some of Du Luth's boys scouted ahead. They got in by sunrise. They'd been to the main village of the Senecas on the hill beyond the marsh,—you know it, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And they saw nothing but a few women and a pack of dogs. The Governor was up early,—he's not used to sleeping out doors in the mosquito country,—sitting on a log at the side of the trail, talking with Granville and Berthier. I wasn't five yards behind them, trying to scrape the mud off my boots—you know how that mud sticks, Menard. Well, when the scouts came in with their story, the Governor stood up. 'Take my order to La Durantaye,' he said, 'that he is to move on with all caution, that the surprise may be complete. He will push forward, following the trail. You,' he said, to a few aides who stood by, 'will see that the command is aroused as silently as possible.' Well, I didn't know whether to laugh at the Governor or pity myself and the boys. Any man but the crowd of seigniors that he had about him would have foreseen what was coming. I knew that the devils were waiting for us, probably at one of the ravines where the trail runs through that group of hills just this side of the marsh. You know the place,—every one of us knows it. But what could we say? I'd have given a month's pay to have been within ear-shot of La Durantaye when he got the order. La Valterie told me about it afterward. 'What's this?' he says, 'follow the trail? I'll go to the devil first. There's a better place for my bones than this pest-ridden country.' He calls to Du Luth: 'Hear this, Du Luth. We're to "push forward, following the trail."' I can fairly hear him say it, with his eyes looking right through the young aide. 'Not I,' says Du Luth, 'I'm going around the hills and come into the village over the long oak ridge!' 'You can't do it. I have the Governor's order.' And then Du Luth drew himself up, La Valterie says, and looked the aide (who wasn't used to this kind of a soldier, and wished himself back under the Governor's petticoats) up and down till the fellow got red as a Lower Town girl. 'Tell your commanding officer,' says Du Luth, in his big voice, 'that the advance will "push forward, following the trail,"—and may God have mercy on our poor souls!'

"Well, Menard, they did it, nine hundred of them. And we came on, a quarter of a league after, with sixteen hundred more. We got into the first defile, and through it, with never a sound. Then I was sure of trouble in the second, but long after the advance had had time to get through, everything was still. There was still the third defile, just before you reach the marsh, and my head was spinning, waiting for the first shot and wondering where we were to catch it and how many of us were to get out alive. And then, all at once it came. You see the Senecas, three hundred of them at least, were in the brush up on the right slope of the third defile; and as many more were in the elder thickets and swamp grass ahead and to the left. They let the whole advance get through,—fooled every man of Du Luth's scouts,—and then came at them from all sides. We heard the noise—I never heard a worse—and started up on the run; and then there was the strangest mess I ever got into. They had surprised the advance, right enough,—we could see Du Luth and Tonty running about knocking men down and bellowing out orders to hold their force together,—but you see the Senecas never dreamed that a larger force was coming on behind, and we struck them like a whirlwind. Well, for nearly an hour we didn't know what was going on. Our Indians and the Senecas were so mixed together that we dared not shoot to kill. Our own boys, even the regulars, lost their heads and fell into the tangle. It was all yelling and whooping and banging and running around, with the smoke so thick that you couldn't find the trail or the hills or the swamp. I was crowded up to my arms in water and mud for the last part of the time. Once the smoke lifted a little, and I saw what I thought to be a mission Indian, not five yards away, in the same fix. I called to him to help me, and he turned out to be a Seneca chief. Our muskets were wet,—at least mine was, and I saw that he dropped his when he started for me,—so we had it out with knives."

"Did he get at you?"

"Once. A rib stopped it—no harm done. Well, I was tired, but I got out and dodged around through the smoke to find out where our boys were, but they were mixed up worse than ever. I was just in time to save a coureur from killing one of our Indians with his own hatchet. Most of the regulars scattered as soon as they lost sight of their officers. And Berthier,—I found him lying under a log all gone to pieces with fright.

"I didn't know how it was to come out until at last the firing eased a little, and the smoke thinned out. Then we found that the devils had slipped away, all but a few who had wandered so far into our lines—if you could call them lines—that they couldn't get out. They carried most of their killed, though we picked up a few on the edge of the marsh. It took all the rest of the day to pull things together and find out how we stood."

"Heavy loss?"

"No. I don't know how many, but beyond a hundred or so of cuts and flesh-wounds like mine we seemed to have a full force. We went on in the morning, after a puffed-out speech by the Governor, and before night reached the village. The Senecas had already burned a part of it, but we finished it, and spent close to ten days cutting their corn and destroying the fort on the big hill, a league or more to the east. Then we came back to La Famine, and the Governor took the whole column to Niagara,—to complete the parade, I suppose."

The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.

"I must look about my camp," Du Peron said at length. "Good-night."

"Good-night," said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark had left the scattered heap of charred wood.

The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the water. A figure, muffled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron's sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the maid. She was gazing out toward the pole-star and the dim clouds that lay motionless beneath it. The splash of the lake and the call of the locusts and tree-toads on the bank behind them were the only sounds. He went slowly forward and stood by her side. She looked up into his eyes, then turned to the lake. She had dropped the blanket to the sand, and he placed it again about her shoulders.

"I am not cold," she said.

"I am afraid, Mademoiselle. The air is chill."

They stood for a long time without speaking, while the northern clouds sank slowly beneath the horizon, their tops gleaming white in the moonlight. Once a sharp command rang through the night, and muskets rattled.

"What is that?" she whispered, touching his arm.

"They are changing the guard."

"You will not need to watch to-night, M'sieu?"

"No; not again. We shall have an escort to Frontenac." He paused; then added in uncertain voice, "but perhaps—if Mademoiselle—"

She looked up at him. He went on:

"I will watch to-night, and to-morrow night, and once again—then there will be no need: we shall be at Frontenac. Yes, I will watch; I will myself keep guard, that Mademoiselle may sleep safely and deep, as she slept at the Long Lake and in the forests of the Cayugas. And perhaps, while she is sleeping, and the lake lies still, I may dream again as I did then—I will carry on our story to the end, and then—"

He could not say more; he could not look at her. Even at the rustle of her skirt, as she sank to the beach and sat gazing up at him, he did not turn. He was looking dully at the last bright cloud tip, sinking slowly from his sight.

"Frontenac lies there," he said. "I told them I should bring you there. It has been a longer road than we thought,—it has been a harder road,—and they have said that I broke my trust. Perhaps they were not wrong—I would have broken it—once. But we shall be there in three days. I will keep my promise to the chiefs; and we—we shall not meet again. It will be better. But I shall keep watch, to-night and twice again. That will be all."

He looked down, and at sight of the mute figure his face softened.

"Forgive me—I should not have spoken. It has been a mad dream—the waking is hard. When I saw you standing here to-night, I knew that I had no right to come—and still I came. I have called myself a soldier"—his voice was weary—"see, this is what is done to soldiers such as I." One frayed strip of an epaulet yet hung from his shoulder. He tore it off and threw it out into the lake. A little splash, and it was gone. "Good-night, Mademoiselle,—good-night."

He turned away. The maid leaned forward and called. Her voice would not come. She called again and again. Then he heard, for he stood motionless.

"M'sieu!"

He came back slowly, and stood waiting. She was leaning back on her hands. Her hair had fallen over her face, and she shook it back, gazing up and trying to speak.

"You said—you said, the end—"

He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.

"You said—See," she fumbled hastily at her bosom, "see, I have kept it."

She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then, while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.

"Yes," he said, "yes—" His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair had fallen again, and she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. "We will go to Frontenac;" he said; "we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they shall not get you." He caught the hands that were braiding her hair, and held them in his rough grip. "It is too late. Let them break my sword, if they will, still they shall not get you."

Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly, close against him.

"See," he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, "see what a soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now—but now it is too late for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And God will be good to us. God grant that we are doing right. There is no other way."

"No," she whispered after him; "there is no other way."



CHAPTER XIX.

FRONTENAC.

The sun was dropping behind the western forests. From the lodges and cabins of the friendly Indians about the fort rose a hundred thin columns of smoke. Long rows of bateaux and canoes lined the beach below the log palisade; and others drew near the shore, laden with fish. There was a stir and bustle about the square within the stone bastions; orderlies hurried from quarters to barracks, bugles sounded, and groups of ragged soldiers sat about, polishing muskets and belts, and setting new flints. Men of the commissary department were carrying boxes and bales from the fort to a cleared space on the beach.

Menard walked across the square and knocked at the door of Major d'Orvilliers's little house. Many an eye had followed him as he hurried by, aroused to curiosity by his tattered uniform, rusted musket, and boot-tops rudely stitched to deerskin moccasins.

"Major d'Orvilliers is busy," said the orderly at the door.

"Tell him it is Captain Menard."

In a moment the Major himself appeared in the doorway.

"Come in, Menard. I am to start in an hour or so to meet Governor Denonville, but there is always time for you. I'll start a little late, if necessary."

"The Governor comes from Niagara?"

"Yes. He is two or three days' journey up the lake. I am to escort him back."

They had reached the office in the rear of the house, and the Major brushed a heap of documents and drawings from a chair.

"Sit down, Menard. You have a long story, I take it. You look as if you'd been to the Illinois and back."

"You knew of my capture?"

"Yes. We had about given you up. And the girl,—Mademoiselle St. Denis—"

"She is here."

"Here—at Frontenac?"

"Yes; in Father de Casson's care."

"Thank God! But how did you do it? How did you get her here, and yourself?"

Menard rose and paced up and down the room. As he walked, he told the story of the capture at La Gallette, of the days in the Onondaga village, of the council and the escape. When he had finished, there was a long silence, while the Major sat with contracted brows.

"You've done a big thing, Menard," he said at last, "one of the biggest things that has been done in New France. But have you thought of the Governor—of how he will take it?"

"Yes."

"It may not be easy. Denonville doesn't know the Iroquois as you and I do. He is elated now about his victory,—he thinks he has settled the question of white supremacy. If I were to tell him to-morrow that he has only made a bitter enemy of the Senecas, and that they will not rest until they wipe out this defeat, do you suppose he would believe it? You have given a pledge to the Iroquois that is entirely outside of the Governor's view of military precedent. To tell the truth, Menard, I don't believe he will like it."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't know the strength of the Five Nations. He thinks they would all flee before our regulars just as the Senecas did. Worse than that, he doesn't know the Indian temperament. I'm afraid you can't make him understand that to satisfy their hunger for revenge will serve better than a score of orations and treaties."

"You think he won't touch La Grange?"

"I am almost certain of it."

"Then it rests with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I gave another pledge, d'Orvilliers. If the Governor won't do this—I shall have to do it myself."

Save for a moment's hesitation Menard's voice was cool and even; but he had stopped walking and was looking closely at the commandant.

D'Orvilliers was gazing at the floor.

"What do you mean by that?" he said slowly, and then suddenly he got up. "My God, Menard, you don't mean that you would—"

"Yes."

"That can't be! I can't allow it."

"It may not be necessary. I hope you are mistaken about the Governor."

"I hope I am—but no; he won't help you. He's not in the mood for paying debts to a weakened enemy. And—Menard, sit down. I must talk plainly to you. I can't go on covering things up now. I don't believe you see the matter clearly. If it were a plain question of your mission to the Onondagas—if it were—Well, I want you to tell me in what relation you stand to Mademoiselle St. Denis."

The Captain was standing by the chair. He rested his arms on the high back, and looked over them at d'Orvilliers.

"She is to be my wife," he said.

D'Orvilliers leaned back and slowly shook his head.

"My dear fellow," he said, "when your story goes to Quebec, when the Chateau learns that you have promised the punishment of La Grange in the name of France, and then of this,—of Mademoiselle and her relations to yourself and to La Grange,—do you know what they will do?"

Menard was silent.

"They will laugh—first, and then—"

"I know," said the Captain, "I have thought of all that."

"You have told all this in your report?"

"Yes."

"So you would go on with it?"

"Yes; I am going on with it. There is nothing else I can do. I couldn't have offered to give myself up; they already had me. The fault was La Grange's. What I did was the only thing that could have been done to save the column; if you will think it over, you will see that. I know what I did,—I know I was right; and if my superiors, when I have given my report, choose to see it in another way, I have nothing to say. If they give me my liberty, in the army or out of it, I will find La Grange. If not, I will wait."

"Why not give that up, at least, Menard?"

"If I give that up, we shall have a war with the Iroquois that will shake New France as she has never been shaken before."

D'Orvilliers started to speak, but checked the words. Menard slung his musket behind his shoulders.

"Wait, Menard. I don't know what to say. I must have time to think. If you wish, I will not give notice of your arrival to the Governor. I will leave the matter of reporting in your hands." He rose, and fingered the papers on the table. "You see how it will look—there is the maid—La Grange seeks your life, you seek his—"

Menard drew himself up, his hat in his hand.

"It shall be pushed to the end, Major. You know me; you know Captain la Grange. There will be excitement, perhaps,—you may find it hard to avoid taking one side or the other. I must ask which side is to be yours."

D'Orvilliers winced, and for a moment stood biting his lip; then he stepped forward and took both Menard's hands.

"You shouldn't have asked that," he said. "God bless you, Menard! God bless you!"

Menard paused in the door, and turned.

"Shall I need a pass to enter the hospital?"

"Oh, you can't go there. La Grange is there."

"Yes; I will report to him. He shall not say that I have left it to hearsay."

"But he will attack you!"

"No; I will not fight him until I have an answer from the Governor."

"You can't get in now until morning."

"Very well, good-night."

"You will be careful, Menard?"

The Captain nodded and left the room. Wishing to settle his thoughts, he passed through the palisade gate and walked down the beach. The commissary men were loading the canoes, threescore of them, that were to carry the garrison on its westward journey. Already the twilight was deepening, and the lanterns of the officers were dimmed by the glow from a hundred Indian camp-fires.

From within the fort came a long bugle-call. There was a distant rattling of arms and shouting of commands, then the tramp of feet, and the indistinct line came swinging through the sally-port. They halted at the water's edge, broke ranks, and took to the canoes, paddling easily away along the shore until they had faded into shadows. A score of Indians stood watching them, stolidly smoking stone pipes and holding their blankets close around them.

It was an hour later when the Captain returned to the fort and started across the enclosure toward the hut which had been assigned to him. Save for a few Indians and a sentry who paced before the barracks, the fort seemed deserted. It was nearly dark now, and the lanterns at the sally-port and in front of barrack and hospital glimmered faintly. Menard had reached his own door, when he heard a voice calling, and turned. A dim figure was running across the square toward the sentry. There was a moment of breathless talk,—Menard could not catch the words,—then the sentry shouted. It occurred to Menard that he was now the senior officer at the fort, and he waited. A corporal led up his guard, halted, and again there was hurried talking. Menard started back toward them, but before he reached the spot all were running toward the hospital, and a dozen others of the home guard had gathered before the barracks and were talking and asking excited questions.

Menard crossed to the hospital. Two privates barred the door, and he was forced to wait until a young Lieutenant of the regulars appeared. The lanterns over the door threw a dim light on the Captain as he stood on the low step.

"What is it?" asked the Lieutenant. "You wished to see me?"

"I am Captain Menard. What is the trouble?"

The Lieutenant looked doubtfully at the dingy, bearded figure, then he motioned the soldiers aside.

"It is Captain la Grange," he said, when Menard had entered; "he has been killed."

The Lieutenant spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but his eyes were shining and he was breathing rapidly. Menard looked at him for a moment without a word, then he stepped to the door of a back room and looked in. Three flickering candles stood on a low table, and another on a chair at the head of the narrow bed. The light wavered over the log and plaster walls. A surgeon was bending over the bed, his assistant waiting at his elbow with instruments; the two shut off the upper part of the bed from Menard's view. The Lieutenant stood behind the Captain, looking over his shoulder; both were motionless. There was no sound save a low word at intervals between the two surgeons, and the creak of a bore-worm that sounded distinctly from a log in the wall.

Menard turned away and walked back to the outer door, the Lieutenant with him. There they stood, silent, as men are who have been brought suddenly face to face with death. At last the Lieutenant began to speak in a subdued voice.

"We only know that it was an Indian. He has been scalped."

"Oh!" muttered Menard.

"I think he is still breathing,—he was just before you came,—but there is no hope for him. He was stabbed in a dozen places. It was some time before we knew—the Indian came in by the window, and must have found him asleep. There was no struggle."

They stood again without speaking, and again the Lieutenant broke the silence.

"It is too bad. He was a good fellow." He paused, as if searching for a kind word for Captain la Grange. "He was the best shot at the fort when he—when—"

"Yes," said Menard. He too wished to speak no harsh word. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I think not. There is a strong guard about the fort, but I think the Indian had escaped before we learned of it. I will see you before we take further steps."

"Very well. I shall be at my quarters. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Menard walked slowly back across the enclosure. At the door of his hut he paused, and for a long time he stood there, looking up at the quiet sky. His mind was scattered for the moment; he could not think clearly.

He opened his door and stepped over the log threshold, letting the door close after him of its own weight. The hut was dark, with but a square of dim light at the window. He fumbled for the candle and struck a light.

There was a low rustle from the corner. Menard whirled around and peered into the shadows. The candle was blowing; he caught it up and shielded it with his hand. A figure was crouching in the corner, half hidden behind a cloak that hung there. The Captain sprang forward holding the candle high, tore down the cloak, and discovered Teganouan, the Onondaga, bending over feeling for his hatchet which lay on the floor at his feet. Menard caught his shoulders, and dragging him out of reach of the hatchet, threw him full length on the floor. The candle dropped and rolled on the floor, but before it could go out, Menard snatched it up.

Slowly Teganouan rose to his feet.

"Teganouan comes in a strange manner to the lodge of the white warrior," said Menard, scornfully. "He steals in like a Huron thief, and hides in dark corners."

The Indian looked at him defiantly, but did not answer.

"My Onondaga brother does not wish to show himself in the light. Perhaps there is some trouble on his mind. Perhaps he is governed by an evil Oki who loves the darkness." While Menard was speaking he was moving quietly toward the door. The Indian saw, but beyond turning slowly so as always to face his captor, made no movement. His face, except for the blazing eyes, was inscrutable. In a moment Menard stood between him and the door. "Perhaps it is best that I should call for the warriors of the fort. They will be glad to find here the slayer of their brother." His hand was on the latch.

"The Big Buffalo will not call to his brothers." The Indian's voice was calm. Menard looked closely at him. "He has not thought yet. When he has thought, he will understand."

"Teganouan speaks like a child."

"If Teganouan is a child, can the Big Buffalo tell why he came to the white man's lodge?"

"Because he has slain a great white warrior, he must hide his face like the outcast dog." Menard pointed to the scalp that hung at his waist. "He has slain a great warrior while the hatchet lies buried in the ground. He has broken the law of the white man and the redman. And so he must hide his face."

"Why did not Teganouan run to the woods? Why did he come to the lodge of the Big Buffalo?"

Menard looked steadily at him. He began to understand. The shrewd old warrior had chosen the one hiding-place where no searching party would look. Perhaps he had hoped for aid from the Captain, remembering his pledge to bring punishment on La Grange. If so, he should learn his mistake.

"Teganouan's words are idle." Menard moved the latch.

"The Big Buffalo will not open the door. Teganouan has not delivered his message. He is not an enemy to the Big Buffalo. He is his friend. He has come to this lodge, caring nothing for the safety of his life, that he might give his message. The Big Buffalo will not open the door. He will wait to hear the words of Teganouan; and then he may call to his brother warriors if he still thinks it would be wise."

Menard waited.

"Speak quickly, Teganouan."

"Teganouan's words are like the wind. He has brought them many leagues,—from the lodges of the Onondagas,—that he may speak them now. He has brought them from the Long House of the Five Nations, where the fires burn brightly by day and by night, where the greatest chiefs of many thousand warriors are met to hear the Voice of the Great Mountain, the father of white men and redmen. The Great Mountain has a strong voice. It is louder than cannon; it wounds deeper than the musket of the white brave. It tells the Onondagas and Cayugas and Oneidas and Mohawks that they must not give aid to their brothers, the Senecas, who have fallen, whose corn and forts and lodges are burned to ashes and scattered on the winds. It tells the Onondagas that the Great Mountain is a kind father, that he loves them like his own children, and will punish the man who wrongs them, let him be white or red. It tells the Onondagas that the white captain, who has robbed a hundred Onondaga lodges of their bravest hunters, shall be struck by the strong arm of the Great Mountain, shall be blown to pieces by the Voice that thunders from the great water where the seal are found to the farthest village of the Five Nations. And the chiefs hear the Voice; they listen with ears that are always open to the counsel of Onontio. They take his promises into their hearts and believe them. They know that he will strike down the dog of a white captain. They refuse aid to their dying brothers, the Senecas, because they know that the strong arm of Onontio is over them, that it will give them peace."

He paused, gazing with bright eyes at Menard. There was no reply, and he continued:—

"The Great Mountain has kept his word. The Onondagas shall know, in their council, that Onontio's promise has been kept, that the white brave, who lied to their hunters and sent them in chains across the big water, has gone to a hunting-ground where his musket will not help him, where the buffalo shall trample him and tear his flesh with their horns. Then the Onondagas shall know that the Big Buffalo spoke the truth to the Long House. And this word shall be carried to the Onondagas by Teganouan. He will go to the council with the scalp in his hand telling them that the white children of Onontio are their brothers. Teganouan sees the Big Buffalo stand with his strong hand at the door. He knows that the Big Buffalo could call his warriors to seize Teganouan, and bind him, and bid him stand before the white men's muskets. But Teganouan is not a child. He sees with the eye of the old warrior who has fought a battle for every sun in the year, who has known the white man as well as the redman. When the Big Buffalo stood in the Long House, Teganouan believed him; Teganouan knew that his words were true. And now the heart of Teganouan is warm with trust. He knows that the Big Buffalo is a wise warrior and that he has an honest heart."

There was a pause, and Menard, his hand still on the latch, stood motionless. He knew what the Indian meant. He had done no more than Menard himself had promised the council, in the name of Governor Denonville, should be done. The lodges of the allies near the fort sheltered many an Iroquois spy; whatever might follow would be known in every Iroquois village before the week had passed. To hold Teganouan for trial would mean war.

There was the tramp of feet on the beaten ground without, and a clear voice said:—

"Wait a moment, I must report to Captain Menard."

Menard raised the latch an inch, then looked sharply at Teganouan. The Indian stood quietly, leaning a little forward, waiting for the decision. The Captain was on the point of speaking, but no word came from his parted lips. The voices were now just outside the door. With a long breath Menard's fingers relaxed, and the latch slipped back into place. Then he motioned toward the wall ladder that reached up into the darkness of the loft.

Teganouan turned, picked up the hatchet and thrust it into his belt, took one quick glance about the room to make sure that no telltale article remained, and slipped up the ladder. There was a loud knock on the door, and Menard opened it. The Lieutenant came in.

"We have no word yet, Captain," he said. "Every building in the fort has been searched. I have so few men that I could not divide them until this was done, but I am just now sending out searching parties through the Indian village and the forest. None of the canoes are missing. Have I your approval?"

"Yes."

"You—you have been here since you left the hospital?"

"Yes."

"I think, then, that he must have had time to slip out before we knew of it. There are many Indians here who would help him; but a few of them can be trusted, I think, to join the search. Major d'Orvilliers left me with only a handful of men. It will be difficult to accomplish much until he returns. I will post a sentry at the sally-port; we shall have to leave the bastions without a guard. I think it will be safe, for the time."

"Very well, Lieutenant."

The Lieutenant saluted and hurried away. Menard closed the door, and turned to the table, where were scattered the sheets on which he had been writing his report. He collected them and read the report carefully. He removed one leaf, and rolling it up, lighted it at the candle, and held it until it was burned to a cinder. Then he read the other sheets again. The report now told of his capture, of a part of the council at the Long House, and of the escape; but no word was there concerning Captain la Grange. Another hand had disposed of that question. Menard sighed as he laid it down, but soon the lines on his face relaxed. It was not the first time in the history of New France that a report had told but half the truth; and, after all, the column had been saved.

He sharpened a quill with his sheath-knife, and began to copy the report, making further corrections here and there. Something more than an hour had passed before the work was finished. He rolled up the document and tied it with a thong of deerskin.

It was still early in the evening, but the fort was as silent as at midnight. Menard opened the door and walked out a little way. The lamps were all burning, but no soldiers were to be seen. The barrack windows were dark. He stepped back into the house, closed the door, and said in a low voice:—

"Teganouan."

There was a stir in the loft. In a moment the Indian came down the ladder and stood waiting.

"Teganouan, you heard what the Lieutenant said?"

"Teganouan has ears."

"Very well. I am going to blow out the candle."

The room was dark. The door creaked softly, and a breath of air blew in upon the Captain as he stood by the table. He felt over the table for his tinder-box and struck a light. The door was slowly closing; Teganouan had gone.

* * * * *

Another sun was setting. A single drum was beating loudly as the little garrison drew up outside the sally-port and presented arms. The allies and the mission Indians were crowding down upon the beach, silent, inquisitive,—puffing at their short pipes. For half a league, from the flat, white beach out over the rose-tinted water stretched an irregular black line of canoes and bateaux, all bristling with muskets. The Governor had come. He could be seen kneeling, all sunburned and ragged but with erect head, in the first canoe. His canoemen checked their swing, for the beach was close at hand, and then backed water. The bow scraped, and a dozen hands were outstretched in aid, but Governor Denonville stepped briskly out into the ankle-deep water and carried his own pack ashore. A cheer went up from the little line at the sally-port. Du Luth's voyageurs and coureur de bois caught it up, and then it swept far out over the water and was echoed back from the forest.

In the doorway of a hut near the Recollet Chapel stood Menard and Valerie. They watched canoe after canoe glide up and empty its load of soldiers, not speaking as they watched, but thinking each the same thought. At last, when the straggling line was pouring into the fort, and the bugles were screaming, and the drum rolling, Valerie slipped her hand through the Captain's arm and looked up into his face.

"It was you who brought them here," she said; and then, after a pause, she laughed a breathless little laugh. "It was you," she repeated.

THE END