"Now, Mademoiselle, we can gum the seams,--see? It is so easy. The cold water will harden it."

They went together to the spring and filled the cup, first drinking each a draught. He rolled a large stone to the hut door, and set the cup on it.

"Oh, Mademoiselle, it will not stand. I am not a good workman, I fear.

But then, it is not often in a woodsman's life that he keeps flowers at his door. We must have some smaller stones to prop it up."

"I will get them, M'sieu." In spite of his protests she ran out to the path and brought some pebbles. "Now we have decorated our home." She sat upon the ground, leaning against the log wall, and smiling up at him. "Sit down, M'sieu. I am tired of being solemn, we have been solemn so long."

Already the heaviness was coming back on the Captain. He wondered, as he looked at her, if she knew how serious their situation was. It hardly seemed that she could understand it, her gay mood was so genuine. She glanced up again, and at the sight of the settling lines about his mouth and the fading sparkle in his eyes, her own eyes, while the smile still hovered, grew moist.

"I am sorry," she said softly,--"very, very sorry."

He sat near by, and fingered the flowers in the birch cup. They were both silent. Finally she spoke.

"M'sieu."

He looked down.

"It may be that you think that--that I do not understand. It is not that, M'sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the Oneidas. I--I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest."

"I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude and--you." And under his breath he added, "Thank G.o.d."

"They will not dare to hurt you, M'sieu. They must not do it." She rose and stood before him. "When I think of that,--that you, who have done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would not have left me, on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I--if anything should happen, M'sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set free, and--without you--I could never put it from my thoughts. I should always feel that I--that you--no no, M'sieu. They cannot do it."

She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice without a thought of what she owed him.

"You forget," he said gently, "that it was not your fault. They could have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier's chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no complaint. It is the young man's mistake to be restless, impatient.

For the rest of us, why, it is our life."

"But, M'sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?"

"No, I have not given up." He rose and looked into her eyes. "I have come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall fight them till I drop. And then, I pray G.o.d, I may die like a soldier."

He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor's orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.

The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.

Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and called:--

"Mademoiselle." As she approached, he said gravely, "I should like it if you will come in with us. It is right that you should have a voice in our councils."

She followed him in, wondering.

"Father Claude has news," Menard said.

The priest told them all that he had been able to learn. Runners had been coming in during the night at intervals of a few hours. They brought word of the landing of the French column at La Famine. The troops had started inland toward the Seneca villages. The Senecas were planning an ambush, and meanwhile had sent frantic messages to the other tribes for aid. The Cayuga chiefs were already on the way to meet in council with the Onondagas. The chance that the attack might be aimed only at the Senecas, to punish them for their depredations of the year before, had given rise to a peace sentiment among the more prudent Onondagas and Cayugas, who feared the destruction of their fields and villages. Up to the present, none had known where the French would strike. But, nevertheless, said the priest, the general opinion was favourable to taking up the quarrel with the Senecas.

Further, the French were leaving a rearguard of four hundred men in a hastily built stockade at La Famine, and the more loose-tongued warriors were already talking of an attack on this force, cutting the Governor's communications, and then turning on him from the rear, leaving it to the Senecas to engage him in front.

CHAPTER IX.

THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA.

For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the three sat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. But when all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, or of getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash for liberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and the silence was eloquent. D'Orvilliers would know that only capture could have prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him to believe that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the men nor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reach them. As for the Governor's column, it would have its hands full before marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, he would have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that the chance was near to nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least to die fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and to suffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, she was likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should be disposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if he must, alone.

"I have not known whether to tell all," said Father Claude, after the silence. "And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know the truth now as later."

"You have not told me?" she said, with reproach in her voice. "Must I always be a child to you, Father? If G.o.d has seen it best to place me here, am I not to help bear the burden?"

"Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout hearts are better than two."

The priest looked gravely at the fire.

"The word has gone out," he said. "The Long Arrow, by his energy and his eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capture the Big Buffalo in the enemy's country with but a score of braves, now controls the village. To-morrow night the great council will begin.

The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawk villages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchet against the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power will last only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revenge before his day wanes."

"When?" asked the Captain.

"To-morrow morning, M'sieu. The feasting and dancing will begin to-night."

The maid was looking at the priest. "I do not understand," she said.

"What will he do?"

"He means me, Mademoiselle," said the Captain, quietly.

"Not--" she said, "not--"

"Yes," he replied. "They will bring us no food to-night. In the morning they will come for me."

"Oh, M'sieu, they cannot! They--" She gazed at him, not heeding the tears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks; and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. "Why do you not escape, M'sieu? There is yet time,--to-night! You are thinking of me, and I--I--Oh, I have been selfish--I did not know! We will stay here, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will not harm us--you told me that yourself, M'sieu. I should be in your way, but alone--it is so easy." She would have gone on, but Menard held up his hand.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "no."

Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the words died. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.

"I do not know," said Menard, slowly, "whether the heart of the Big Throat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father."

"He will not be here in time," Father Claude said. "He does not start from his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow."

The maid could not take her eyes from Menard's face. Now that the final word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, now only half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himself again, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard lines about the mouth told of his suffering.

"If we had a friend here," he was saying, quietly enough, "it may be that Tegakwita--But no, of course not. I had forgotten about Danton--"

"Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for allowing Lieutenant Danton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him."