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

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

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

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

"Good-night."

Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest.

Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already rolled in his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a tree a few rods away.

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

"Yes, M'sieu. He is up there." Colin pointed through the trees that fringed the river. "I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see.

He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,--and I should have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep."

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

CHAPTER VI.

THE FIGHT AT LA GALLETTE.

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

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

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

"I have decided to do rather an unusual thing, Danton," he said slowly, "in offering to talk it over with you as a friend, and not as an officer. In one thing you must understand me: Mademoiselle St.

Denis has been intrusted to my care, and until she has safely reached those who have a right to share the direction of her actions, I can allow nothing of this sort to go on. You must understand that. If you will talk with me frankly, and try to control yourself for the present, it may be that I can be of service to you later on."

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

Menard looked at him curiously.

"What did you plan to do?"

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

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

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

"And now?"

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

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

"I will walk."

Menard shook his head.

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

"So much the better, M'sieu, so--"

"Wait. That is only one reason. I cannot spare you. I have realized within the last day that I should have brought more men. The Iroquois know of our campaign; they are watching us. A small party like this is to their liking. I will tell you, Danton, we may have a close rub before we get to Frontenac. I wish I could help you, but I cannot.

What reason could I give for sending you alone down the river to Montreal? You forget, boy, that we are not on our own pleasure; we are on the King's errand. For you to go now would be to take away one of our six fighting men,--to imperil Mademoiselle. And that, I think," he looked keenly at Danton, "is not what you would wish to do."

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

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

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

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

"Danton."

The boy half turned his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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