His words seemed meaningless. "Ready! Are intoxicated men ready? We have drunk blood. Now we are drunk with words. I will not"----

A roar outside cut my words short. "The woman! The woman!" I heard the cry in several languages at once, but I could not comprehend it. I saw the crowd rise and surge toward me, making for the entrance of the tent. I turned and ran with them. Yet my mind was numb.

We reached the outside. I was in advance. A great canoe was at the sh.o.r.e and Onanguisse was directing his oarsmen. In the bow of the canoe sat the woman.

I reached her first; I caught her from the canoe. Yes, she was alive; she was unhurt. Her hands were warm. I heard her breathe. I dropped on my knees at her feet.

And then she bent over me and whispered, "Monsieur, monsieur, you are unhurt!" Her voice had all its old inflections, and I rose and looked at her in wonder. Yes, she was alive. She was grave-eyed and haggard, but she was alive. The hands that I held were warm and trembling, though my own were cold and leaden as my palsied tongue. She was dressed in skins, and I could see the brown hollow in her throat. I could not speak. I laid my lips upon her hand and trembled.

French and savages pressed around us in a gaping, silent ring.

Cadillac had given us the moment together, but he edged nearer, bewildered by my silence.

"Madame, we welcome you," he cried. "Your husband has not been like himself since he heard of your danger. Give him time to recover. We have been a camp of mourning for you. Tell us of your escape."

And then I spoke. I drew her hand through my arm and turned her to face the crowd. "They are your friends, madame," I said, as if it were the conclusion of a long talk between us. "Thank them, and tell them of your escape."

But she halted and turned again to me. She looked up with her face close to mine, and for the first time she met my eyes fully. We stood so a moment, and as she stood she flushed under what was in my look; a wave of deepening pink crept slowly up through her brown pallor, but she did not look away. I felt my face harden to iron. It was I who turned from her, and the faces before me swam in red. Up to that time I had grasped only the fact that she was alive, that she stood there, warm, beautiful, unscathed, that I could see her, touch her, hear the strange rise and fall of her voice. But with the clinging of her glance to mine I remembered more, and sweat poured out on my forehead.

She was my wife. I had forfeited the right to touch her hand.

The French began to murmur questions and she turned back toward them.

She stood close by my side with her hand in mine, and looked into the faces, French and savage, that hemmed her round. I think she saw tears in some eyes, for her voice suddenly faltered. She made a gesture of courtesy and greeting.

"I escaped days ago when we were traveling," she said in her slow-moving French, that all around might hear. "I made my way to the Pottawatamie Islands. Onanguisse had called me daughter, and I knew that if I could find his people I was safe."

The crowd breathed together in one exclamation. "You have not been in this camp at all?"

I felt her draw closer to me. "No, I have not been in this camp. You thought that I was here?" Her grasp on my hand tightened. "Then this is the Seneca camp. The battle is over," she said under her breath, and she turned to me. Her eyes were brave, but I knew from her trembling lips that she understood. "Where is my cousin?"

I took both her hands in mine. "He died in my arms. He died trying to send me to you. He forgot self. It was the death of a brave man, madame."

She stood and looked at me. She had forgotten the men around her.

"Monsieur," she said, and this time her eyes were soft with tears, "my cousin was not so bad as he seemed. He could not help being what he was."

"I understand."

"Monsieur, you conquered the Senecas?"

"Yes. We will forget it, madame."

She looked over the heads of the lines of soldiers and grew white to the lips. I knew that she saw rows of scalps, and I could not save her from it. Yet I implored.

"Do not think of it. It is all over, madame."

Her eyes came back to me. "And Pierre? Is Pierre safe?"

"Madame, he---- He died saving me."

Her hands grasped me harder. "And Labarthe?"

"I am all that is left, madame."

Still she held to me. "Where is Singing Arrow?"

I looked at Cadillac. He shook his head. "They found the Indian woman this morning," he said. "She was dead beside her husband. Do not grieve for her. Her face is more than happy; it is triumphant. My men called me to look. Will you see her now, madame?"

But she could not answer. The hands that held mine began to chill, and I saw the brown throat quiver. I turned to Cadillac. "I have no tent.

May I take madame to yours?"

He placed all that he had at her service. He was moved, for he did it with scant phrase.

"But one moment," he begged. "Montlivet, one word with your wife first. Madame, I beg you to listen. Will you look around you here?"

She stopped. "I have looked, monsieur."

"Madame, you see those Indians. They are war chiefs and picked braves.

The brawn and brain of six tribes are collected here before you. Do you know what that means?"

I saw her look at him gravely. "I should understand. I have lived in Indian camps, monsieur."

He looked back at her with sudden admiration that crowded the calculation out of his eyes. "Madame!" he exclaimed. "We know your spirit and knowledge; we wish that you could teach us some new way to show you homage. But do you understand your husband's power? You have never seen him in the field. Look at these war chiefs. They are arrogant and untamed, but they follow your husband like parish-school children. It is marvelous, madame."

She lifted her long deer's throat, and I felt her thrill. "Monsieur, I think that not even you can know half what I do of my husband's strength and power."

Her words were knives. I would have drawn her away, but Cadillac was before me. "Wait, Montlivet, wait! This is my time. I have more to say. Then, madame, to the point. These chiefs that you see are leaving. They would have been gone now if you had not come. They are leaving us because your husband said he would not lead them further.

Talk to him. I can hold the tribes here a few hours longer. If he comes back to sanity by night, there will still be time for him to undo his folly. Talk to him, madame."

Again I tried to interrupt, but the pressure of her hand begged me to be silent. "What would you have me say to my husband?" she asked Cadillac, and she stood close to me with her head high.

He drove his fists together. "I would have you bring him to reason,"

he groaned. "For three days he has lived in a trance. He planned the attack, and led it without a quiver, but since then he has tried to wash his hands of us and of the whole affair. It is a crucial time, and he is acting like a madman. His anxiety about you has unbalanced him. Bring him to reason, madame."

I saw her steal a glance at me as a girl might at her lover, and there was a strange, fierce pride in her look. She bowed to Cadillac. "I am glad you told me this, monsieur." Then she turned to me. "Shall we go?"

But I looked over her head at the commandant. "It will be useless to keep the tribes in waiting," I warned.

I went to Onanguisse, the woman on my arm. "My heart is at your feet,"

I said to him. "My blood belongs to you, and my sword!'"

He looked at the woman and at me, and he spoke thoughtfully. "When I found her in my lodge we had no speech in common, but I understood. I brought her to you. Now keep what you have. The best fisherman may let a fish slip once from his net by accident, but his wits are fat if he lets it go a second time."

I knew he was troubled. He saw no possession in my face, and he thought me weak.

And then I took the woman to Cadillac's tent.

CHAPTER x.x.xII