"Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there, d'Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was awaiting orders,--I had just returned from the Huron Country and Michillimackinac,--and d'Orvilliers called me to his rooms and showed me the order. 'Now,' he said, 'who in the devil is meddling at Quebec?' I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions to wait until some offence should give him an excuse."

"I know the rest, M'sieu."

"Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,--how La Grange was drinking, and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do, Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to release them, for the harm was done. If d'Orvilliers had refused to carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him his commission."

"And you, M'sieu?"

"I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D'Orvilliers could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them."

"You will tell them this?"

"This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be punished before we can have their good faith. Don't you understand?"

Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands clasped before him.

"Don't you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois, it is revenge that will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has wronged them; let them have their revenge."

"Is that the right view, M'sieu?"

"Not for us, Father,--for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But justice,--that is not the word with which to reach an Indian."

"But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What then?"

"You do not seem to understand me yet, Father." Menard spoke slowly and calmly. "This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings, and thank your G.o.d, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,--well, would you have me such a soldier?"

The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once he seemed to have nothing to offer.

"It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier's work easy?

First I must make these Indians believe me,--and you know how hard that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if they will not release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I will stay here until La Grange has got his dues."

"Let us suppose," said the priest,--"let us suppose that you did not do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the Governor should do nothing."

"Then," said Menard, "the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered, and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all."

"You are sure of this?"

"It points that way, Father."

"Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at the council, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaim responsibility, should--"

"Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean to pledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means."

"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He seemed puzzled and unsettled by some thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking at the ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone and tossed away the pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.

"They are singing again," he said, listening to the droning chant that came indistinctly through the dark. "One would think they would long ago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the King sends over to us would envy them their stomachs."

The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that led the Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.

"I suppose the doctors are dancing now," Menard continued. "It may be that they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it."

"We will hope not, M'sieu."

"If they should, Father,--well, it is hard to know just what to do."

"You were thinking--?"

"Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk run away with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning.

Maybe we could do it."

"Yes, it might seem best."

"But if--if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed, then it would have been better that I had submitted."

"You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you to go without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. I will do my part."

"It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not come,--there is the maid. They would not spare her then."

The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.

"True," he said; "true."

Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely.

Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:--

"If they come, Father,--if they harm her,--G.o.d! if they even wake her, I will kill them."

Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.

"There are some things which I could not talk over with you," said the priest, finally. "It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know what is the right thing for me to do, or to say."

"What troubles you?"

"When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,--until our last moment of choice,--I must ask one favour, M'sieu. You will not decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of other ways; you will--"

"What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way."

"But you will not decide yet?"

"No. We need not, to-night."

The priest seemed relieved.

"M'sieu," came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, "may I not sit with you?"

"You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?"

"No, I could not. I--I have not heard you, M'sieu,--I have not listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they are not the best of company to-night."

"Come." Menard rose and got one of the priest's blankets, folding it and laying it on the ground against the wall. "I fear that we may be no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service of Mademoiselle."