He dashed it down with all his strength, but Menard sprang forward, and caught it on his outstretched arm. "No, Father," he said; "we will take it with us."

The priest smiled wearily, and lowered the picture to the ground; but when Menard said, "You have broken it," he raised it hastily, and examined it. One corner of the wooden frame was loosened, but the canvas was not injured.

"I can mend it," he said.

Then they walked to the camp together, without talking; and Menard helped him repair the frame, and pack the picture carefully.

"How is it that it was not ruined in the capsize at Coteau des Cedres?" Menard asked.

"It was preserved by a miracle, M'sieu. This bundle did not leave the canoe."

The _voyageurs_, still lounging in the clearing, were laughing and talking noisily. The Captain, after he had prepared the maid's couch, and bade her good-night, called to them to be quiet. For a time the noise ceased, but a little later, as he was spreading his blanket on the ground, it began again, and one of the transport men sang the opening strain of a ribald song. Menard strode over to the group so quickly that he took them by surprise. Colin was slipping something behind him, but he could not escape Menard's eye. In a moment he was sprawling on his face, and a brandy flask was brought to light. Menard dashed it against a tree, and turned to the frightened men.

"Go to your blankets, every man of you. There are Iroquois on this river. You have already made enough noise to draw them from half a league away. The next man that is caught drinking will be flogged." He thought of the maid lying under her frail shelter, for whose life he was responsible. "If it occurs twice, he will be shot. Perrot, I want you to join the sentry. From now on we shall have two men on guard all night. See that there is no mistake about this. At the slightest noise, you will call me."

The men slunk to their blankets, and soon the camp was still.

The river sang as it rushed down its zigzag channel through the rocks,--a song that seemed a part of the night, and yet was distinct from the creeping, rustling, dropping, all-pervading life and stir of the forest. Every leaf, every twig and root, every lump of sod and rock-held pool of stagnant water, had its own miniature world, where living things were fighting the battle of life. In the far distance, perhaps, an owl hooted; or near at hand a flying squirrel alighted on a bending elm-twig. Deer and moose followed their beaten tracks to the streams that had been theirs before ever Frenchman pierced the forest; beaver dove into their huts above the dams their own sharp teeth had made; moles nosed under the rich soil, and left a winding track behind; frogs croaked and bellowed from some backset of the river,--and all blended, not, perhaps, so much into a sound, as into a sense of movement,--an even murmur in a low key, to which the lighter note of the water was apart and distinct.

To a man trained as Menard had been, this was companionship. He was never alone in the forest, never without his millions of friends, who, though they seldom came into his thoughts, were yet a part of him, of his sense of life and strength. And through all these noises, even to the roar of Niagara itself, he could sleep like a child, when the slightest sound of a moccasined foot on a dry leaf would have aroused him at the instant to full activity. To-night he lay awake for a long time. With every day that he drew nearer the frontier came graver doubts of the feasibility of the plan which had been intrusted to him.

The wretched business of La Grange's treachery and the stocking of the King's galleys had probably alienated the Onondagas for all time.

Their presence on the St. Lawrence pointed to this. He felt safe enough, personally, for the very imprudence of the Governor's campaign, which had made it known so early to all the Iroquois, was an element in his favour. The Iroquois, unlike many of the roaming western tribes, had their settled villages, with lodges and fields of grain to defend from invasion. One secret of the campaign had been well kept; no one save the Governor's staff and Menard knew that the blow was to fall on the Senecas alone. And Menard was certain enough in his knowledge of Iroquois character to believe that each tribe, from the Mohawks on the east to the Senecas on the west, would call in its warriors, and concentrate to defend its villages. Therefore there could be no strong force on the St. Lawrence, where the French could so easily cut it off. As for the Long Arrow and his band, eight good fighting men and a stout-hearted priest could attend to them.

No, the danger would begin after the maid was safe at Frontenac, and he and Danton and Father Claude must set out to win the confidence of the Onondagas. The Oneidas and Mohawks must not be slighted; but the Onondagas and Cayugas, being the nearest to the Senecas, and between them and the other nations, would likely prove to be the key to the situation.

The night was black when he awoke. Clouds had spread over the sky, hiding all but a strip in the west where a low line of stars peeped out. This strip was widening rapidly as the night breeze carried the clouds eastward. At a little distance some of the men were whispering together and laughing softly. A hand was feeling his arm, and a voice whispered,--

"Quick, M'sieu; something has happened!"

"Is that you, Colin?"

"Yes. Guerin was on guard with me, and he fell. I thought I heard an arrow, but could not be sure. I looked for him after I heard him fall, but could not find him in the dark."

Menard sprang to his feet, with his musket, which had lain at his side every night since leaving Montreal.

"Where was Guerin, Colin?"

"Straight back from the river, a few rods. He had spoken but a moment before. It must have told them where to shoot."

"Call the men, and draw them close in a circle." Menard felt his way toward the fire, where a few red embers showed dimly, and roused Danton with a light touch and a whispered caution to be silent.

Already he could hear the low stir of the _engages_ as they slipped nearer the fire. He walked slowly toward the river, with one hand stretched out in front, to find the canoe. It was closer than he supposed, and he stumbled over it, knocking one end off its support.

The maid awoke with a gasp.

"Mademoiselle, silence!" he whispered, kneeling beside her. "I fear we are attacked. You must come with me." He had to say it twice before she could fully understand, and just then an arrow sang over them, and struck a tree with a low _thut_. He suddenly rose and shouted, "Together, boys! They will be on us in a moment. Close in at the bank, and save your powder. Perrot, come here and help me with the canoe."

There was a burst of yells from the dark in answer to his call, and a few shots flashed. Danton was rallying the men, and calling to them to fall back, where they could take cover among the rocks and trees of the bank.

The maid was silent, but she reached out her hand, and Menard, catching her wrist, helped her to her feet, and fairly carried her down the slope of the bank, laying her behind the tangled roots of a great oak. Already the sky was clearer, and the trees and men were beginning to take dim shape. The river rushed by, a deeper black than sky and woods, with a few ghostly bits of white where the foam of the rapids began.

"Stay here," he whispered. "Don't move or speak. I shall not be far."

She clung to his hand in a dazed manner, but he gently drew his away, and left her crouching on the ground.

The men were calling to one another as they dodged back from tree to tree toward the river, shooting only when a flash from the woods showed the position of an Indian. Some of them were laughing, and as Menard reached the canoe Perrot broke into a jeering song. It was clear that the attacking party was not strong. Probably they had not taken into account the double guard, relying on the death of the sentry to clear the way for a surprise.

"Perrot!" called the Captain. "Why don't you come here?"

The song stopped. There was a heavy noise as the _voyageur_ came plunging through the bushes, drawing a shower of arrows and musket b.a.l.l.s.

"Careful, Perrot, careful."

"They can't hit me," said Perrot, laughing. He stumbled against the Captain, stepped back, and fell over the canoe, rolling and kicking.

Menard sprang toward him and jerked him up. He smelled strongly of brandy.

Menard swore under his breath.

"Pick up your musket. Take hold of that canoe,--quick!"

Perrot was frightened by his stern words, and he succeeded in holding up an end of the canoe, while Menard pushed him down the slope to the water's edge. They rushed back, and in a few trips got down most of the stores. By this time Perrot was sobering somewhat, and with the Captain he took his place in the line. The men were shooting more frequently now, and by their loose talk showed increasing recklessness. Calling to Danton, Menard finally made them understand his order to fall back. Before they reached the bank, Colin dropped, with a ball through the head, and was dragged back by Danton.

They dropped behind logs and trees at the top of the slope. It began to look as if the redmen were to get no closer, in spite of the drunken condition of all but one or two of the men. Though the night was now much brighter, they were in the shadow, and neither the Captain nor Danton observed that the brandy which the transport men had supplied was pa.s.sing steadily from hand to hand. They could not know that the boy Guerin lay on his back amid the attacking Onondagas, an arrow sticking upright in his breast, one hand lying across his musket, the other clasping a flask.

The maid had not moved. She could be easily seen now in the clearer light, and Menard went to her, feeling the need of giving her some work to occupy her mind during the strain of the fight.

"Mademoiselle," he whispered.

She looked up. He could see that she was shivering.

"I must ask you to help me. We must get the canoe into the water. They will soon tire of the a.s.sault and withdraw; then it will be safe to take to the canoe. They cannot hurt you. We are protected by the bank."

He helped her to rise, and she bravely threw her weight on the canoe, which Menard could so easily have lifted alone, and stood at the edge of the beach, pa.s.sing him the bundles, which he, wading out, placed aboard. But suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation, peering into the canoe.

The maid, dreading each moment some new danger, asked in a dry voice, "What is it, M'sieu?"

For reply he seized the bundles, one at a time, and tossed them ash.o.r.e, hauling the canoe after, and running his hand along the bark.

The maid stepped to his side. There was a gaping hole in the side of the canoe. She drew her breath in quickly, and looked up at him.

"It was Perrot," he muttered, "that fool Perrot." He stood looking at it, as if in doubt what to do. Up on the bank the men, Danton and Father Claude among them, were popping away at the rustling bushes.

Suddenly he turned and gazed down at the maid's upturned face.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I do not think there is danger, but whatever happens you must keep close to me, or to Danton and Father Claude. It may be that there will be moments when we cannot stop and explain to you as I am doing now, but you must trust us, and believe that all will come out well. The other men are not themselves to-night--"

He stopped. It was odd that he should so talk to a maid while his men were fighting for their lives; but the Menard who had the safety of this slender girl in his hands was not the Menard of a hundred battles gone by. So he lingered, not knowing why, save that he hoped for some word from her lips of confidence in those who wished to protect her.

And, as he waited, she smiled with trembling lips, and said:--

"It will come out well, M'sieu. I--I am not afraid."

Then Menard went up the bank with a bound, and finding one man already in a stupor, and another struggling for a flask, which Father Claude was trying to take away from him, he laid about him with his hard fists, and shortly had the drunkards as near to their senses as they were destined to be during the short s.p.a.ce they had yet to live.