He paused, but I uttered no word, conscious that my cheeks were burning hotly, and afraid to lift my eyes to his face.

"You know the rest. I have made the whole journey; I have borne insult, the charge of crime, merely that I might remain, and serve you. Why do I say this? Because tonight--if we succeed in getting through the Indian lines--I shall be again among my old comrades, and shall be no longer a servant to Francois Cassion. I shall stand before him a man, an equal, ready to prove myself with the steel--"

"No, Monsieur," I burst forth, "that must not be; for my sake you will not quarrel!"

"For your sake? You would have me spare him?"

"Oh, why do you put it thus, Monsieur! It is so hard for me to explain. You say you love me, and--and the words bring me joy. Ay, I confess that. But do you not see that a blow from your hand struck at Francois Cassion would separate us forever? Surely that is not the end you seek. I would not have you bear affront longer, yet no open quarrel will serve to better our affairs. Certainly no clash of swords. Perhaps it cannot be avoided, for Cassion may so insult you when he sees us together, as to let his insolence go beyond restraint.

But I beg of you, Monsieur, to hold your hand, to restrain your temper--for my sake."

"You make it a trial, a test?"

"Yes--it is a test. But, Monsieur, there is more involved here than mere happiness. You must be cleared of the charge of crime, and I must learn the truth of what caused my marriage. Without these facts the future can hold out no hope for either of us. And there is only one way in which this end can be accomplished--a confession by Cassion. He alone knows the entire story of the conspiracy, and there is but one way in which he can be induced to talk."

"You mean the same method you proposed to me back on the Ottawa?"

I faced him frankly, my eyes meeting his, no shade of hesitation in my voice.

"Yes, Monsieur, I mean that. You refused me before, but I see no harm, no wrong in the suggestion. If the men we fought were honorable I might hesitate--but they have shown no sense of honor. They have made me their victim, and I am fully justified in turning their own weapons against them. I have never hesitated in my purpose, and I shall not now. I shall use the weapons which God has put into my hands to wring from him the bitter truth--the weapons of a woman, love, and jealousy.

Monsieur, am I to fight this fight alone?"

At first I thought he would not answer me, although his hand grip tightened, and his eyes looked down into mine, as though he would read the very secret of my heart.

"Perhaps I did not understand before," he said at last, "all that was involved in your decision. I must know now the truth from your own lips before I pledge myself."

"Ask me what you please; I am not too proud to answer."

"I think there must be back of this choice of yours something more vital than hate, more impelling than revenge."

"There is, Monsieur."

"May I ask you what?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and I feel no shame in answering; I love you! Is that enough?"

"Enough! my sweetheart--"

"Hush!" I interrupted, "not now--Barbeau returns yonder."

CHAPTER XXIV

WE ATTACK THE SAVAGES

It was already so dark that the soldier was almost upon us before I perceived his shadow, but it was evident enough from his first words that he had overheard none of our conversation.

"There are no Indians in the village," he said gruffly, leaning on his gun, and staring at us. "I got across to a small island, along the trunk of a dead tree, and had good view of the whole bank yonder. The tepees stand, but not a squaw, nor a dog is left."

"Were there any canoes in sight along the shore?"

"Only one, broken beyond repair."

"Then, as I read the story, the tribe fled down the stream, either to join the others on the Illinois, or the whites at the fort. They were evidently not attacked, but had news of the coming of the Iroquois, and escaped without waiting to give battle. 'Tis not likely the wolves will overlook this village long. Are we ready to go forward?"

"Ay, the venture must be made, and it is dark enough now."

De Artigny's hand pressed my shoulder.

"I would that I could remain with you, Madame," he said quietly, "but as I know the way my place is in advance. Barbeau must be your protector."

"Nor could I ask for a braver. Do not permit any thought of me to make you less vigilant, Monsieur. You expect to gain the fort unseen?"

"'Tis merely a chance we take--the only one," he explained briefly. "I cannot even be certain the fort is in state of siege, yet, without doubt those warriors who went down the river would be in position to prevent our approaching the rock by canoe. There is a secret path here, known only to La Salle's officers, which, however, should give us entrance, unless some wandering Iroquois has discovered it by accident. We must approach with the utmost caution, yet I do not anticipate great peril. Barbeau, do not become separated from Madame, but let me precede you by a hundred paces--you will have no trouble following the trail."

He disappeared in the darkness, vanishing silently, and we stood motionless waiting our turn to advance. Neither spoke, Barbeau leaning forward, his gun extended, alert and ready. The intense darkness, the quiet night, the mystery lurking amid those shadows beyond, all combined to arouse within me a sense of danger. I could feel the swift pounding of my heart, and I clasped the sleeve of the soldier's jacket merely to assure myself of his actual presence. The pressure of my fingers caused him to glance about.

"Do not be frightened, Madame," he whispered encouragingly. "There would be firing yonder if the Iroquois blocked our path."

"Fear not for me," I answered, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. "It is the lonely silence which makes me shrink; as soon as we advance I shall have my nerve again. Have we not waited long enough?"

"Ay, come; but be careful where you place your feet."

He led the way, walking with such slow caution, that, although I followed step by step, not a sound reached my ears. Dark as the night was, our eyes, accustomed to the gloom, were able to distinguish the marks of the trail, and follow its windings without much difficulty.

Many a moccasined foot had passed that way before us, beating down a hard path through the sod, and pressing aside the low bushes which helped to conceal the passage. At first we followed rather closely the bank of the stream; then the narrow trail swerved to the right, entering a gap between two hills, ever tending to a higher altitude.

We circled about large rocks, and up a ravine, through which we found barely room for passage, the walls rising steep and high on either side. It was intensely dark down there, yet impossible for us to escape the trail, and at the end of that passage we emerged into an open space, enclosed with woods, and having a grit of sand under foot.

Here the trail seemed to disappear, but Barbeau struck straight across, and in the forest shade beyond we found De Artigny waiting.

"Do not shoot," he whispered. "I was afraid you might misjudge the way here, as the sand leaves no clear trace. The rest of the passage is through the woods, and up a steep hill. You are not greatly wearied, Madame?"

"Oh, no; I have made some false steps in the dark, but the pace has been slow. Do we approach the fort?"

"A half league beyond; a hundred yards more, and we begin the climb.

There we will be in the zone of danger, although thus far I perceive no sign of Indian presence. Have you, Barbeau?"

"None except this feather of a war bonnet I picked up at the big rock below."

"A feather! Is it Iroquois?"

"It is cut square, and no Algonquin ever does that."

"Ay, let me see! You are right, Barbeau; 'twas dropped from a Tuscarora war bonnet. Then the wolves have been this way."

"Could it not be possible," I asked, "that the feather was spoil of war dropped by some Miami in flight?"

He shook his head.