Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting at the door of their hut. The irregular street was quiet, excepting for here and there a group of naked children playing, or a squaw pa.s.sing with a load of firewood on her back. An Indian girl came in from the woods toward them. She was of light, strong figure, with a full face and long hair, which was held back from her face by bright ribbons.

Her dress showed more than one sign of Mission life. She was cleaner than most of the Indians, and was not unattractive. She came to them without hesitation.

"I am Tegakwita's sister. My name is Mary; the Fathers at the Mission gave it to me."

Menard hardly gave her a glance, but Mademoiselle was interested.

"That is not your Indian name?" she asked.

"Yes,--Mary."

"Did you never have another?"

"My other name is forgotten."

"These Mission girls like to ape our ways," said Menard, in French.

The girl looked curiously at them, then she untied a fold of her skirt, and showed a heap of strawberries. "For the white man's squaw,"

she said.

Mademoiselle blushed and laughed. "Thank you," she replied, holding out her hands. The girl gave her the berries, and turned away. Menard looked up as a thought came to him.

"Wait, Mary. Do you know where the young white chief is?"

"Yes. He tried to run away. He cannot run away from our warriors."

"Are you afraid to go to him?"

"My brother, Tegakwita, is guarding him. I am not afraid."

Menard went to a young birch tree that stood near the hut, peeled off a strip of bark, and wrote on it:--

"If you try to escape again you will endanger my plans. Keep your patience, and I can save you."

"Will you take him some berries, and give him this charm with them?"

She took the note, rolled it up with a nod, and went away. Menard saw the question in Mademoiselle's eyes, and said: "It was a warning to be cool. Our hope is in getting the good-will of the chiefs."

"Will they--will they hurt him, M'sieu?"

"I hope not. At least we are still alive and safe; and years ago, Mademoiselle, I learned how much that means."

The maid looked into the trees without replying. Her face had lost much of its fulness, and only the heavy tan concealed the worn outlines. But her eyes were still bright, and her spirit, now that the first shock had pa.s.sed, was firm.

Father Claude returned, after a time, with a heavy face. He drew Menard into the hut, and told him what he had gathered: that the Long Arrow and his followers were planning a final vengeance against Captain Menard. All the braves knew of it; everywhere they were talking of it, and preparing for the feasting and dancing.

"They will wait until after the fighting, won't they?"

"No, M'sieu. It is planned to begin soon, within a day or two."

"Have you inquired for the Big Throat?"

"He is five leagues away, at the next village. We can hardly hope for help from him, I fear. All the tribes are preparing to join in fighting our troops."

Menard paused to think.

"It looks bad, Father." He walked up and down the hut. "The Governor's column must have followed up the river within a few days of us. Then much time was lost in getting us down here." He turned almost fiercely to the priest. "Why, the campaign may have opened already. Word may come to-morrow from the Senecas calling out the Onondagas and Cayugas.

Do you know what that means? It means that I have failed,--for the first time in my life, Father,--miserably failed. There must be some way out. If I could only get word to the Big Throat. I'm certain I could talk him over. I have done it before."

Father Claude had never before seen despair in Menard's eyes.

"You speak well, M'sieu. There must be some way. G.o.d is with us."

The Captain was again pacing the beaten floor. Finally he came to the priest, and took his arm. "I don't know what it is that gives me courage, Father, but at my age a man isn't ready to give up. They may kill me, if they like, but not before I've carried out my orders. The Onondagas must not join the Senecas."

"How"--began the priest.

Menard shook his head. "I don't know yet,--but we can do it." He went out of doors, as if the sunlight could help him, and during the rest of the day and evening he roamed about or lay motionless under the trees. The maid watched him until dark, but kept silent; for Father Claude had told her, and she, too, believed that he would find a way.

Late in the evening Father Claude began to feel disturbed. Menard was still somewhere off among the trees. He had come in for his handful of grain, at the supper hour, but with hardly a word. The Father had never succeeded, save on that one occasion when Danton was the subject, in carrying on a long conversation with the maid; and now after a few sorry attempts he went out of doors. He thought of going to the Captain, to cheer his soul and prepare his mind for whatever fate awaited him, but his better judgment held him back.

The village had no surface excitement to suggest coming butchery and war. The children were either asleep or playing in the open. Warriors walked slowly about, wrapped closely in blankets, though the night was warm. The gnats and mosquitoes were humming lazily, the trees barely stirring, and the voices of gossiping squaws or merry youths blended into a low drone. There was the smell in the air of wood and leaves burning, from a hundred smouldering fires. Father Claude stood for a long time gazing at the row of huts, and wondering that such an air of peace and happiness could hover over a den of brute savages, who were even at the moment planning to torture to his death one of the bravest sons of New France.

While he meditated, he was half conscious of voices near at hand. He gave it no attention until his quick ear caught a French word. He started, and hurried to the hut, pausing in the door. By the dim light of the fire, that burned each night in the centre of the floor, he could see Mademoiselle standing against the wall, with hands clasped and lips parted. Nearer, with his back to the door, stood an Indian.

The maid saw the Father, but did not speak. He came forward into the hut, and gently touched the Indian's arm.

"What is it?" he asked in Iroquois.

The Indian stood, without a reply, until the silence grew heavy.

Mademoiselle had straightened up, and was watching with fascinated eyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin and feathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. He turned sadly to the maid.

"I do not understand," he said.

She put her hands before her eyes. "I cannot talk to him," she said, in a broken voice. "Why does he come? Why must I--" Then she collected herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. "I am sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry."

The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the hut.

"How did you come here, Danton? Tell me."

Danton looked at him defiantly.

"What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?"

"It matters not where I got them. It is my affair."

"Who gave you these clothes?"

"It is enough that I have friends, if those whom I thought friends will not aid me."