She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap.

Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night had brought,--fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight; but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not forgotten to catch up the ma.s.ses of hair that were struggling to be free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that now and then reached above the huts.

"How strange their song is, M'sieu."

"Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing, another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting, and do not recover for hours."

"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas--there were but a few of them--had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amus.e.m.e.nt."

"They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when there is no hunt to occupy them."

Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away, leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with bowed head.

"The Father is sad, M'sieu."

"Yes. But it is not for himself."

"Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?"

"I think he will come."

The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,--the firelight was dancing on her face and hair,--and again the danger seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him.

"You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle."

She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes dropped again.

"See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should be here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought--"

"You thought, M'sieu?"

Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you what I think now, and that would--be--"

He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply.

"I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Or it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it not be strange if I were but now to find myself,--or if you were to find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for bringing it to me,--it would be a long lifetime."

Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting, musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was another madness.

"It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and I do not care,--no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow they should--" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.

"You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all the rest goes out."

"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't."

Father Claude came slowly toward them.

"My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with you."

She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them, puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and then the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who had risen and stood by the door.

"Come, M'sieu, let us walk."

Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.

"It is about the speech to the council--and Captain la Grange. It may be that you are right, M'sieu."

"Right? I do not understand."

"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it."

"Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?"

"You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong.

If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully.

There is none too much time."

"Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest's arm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I am!"

"No, no, M'sieu."

"You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come to me. It will pain her."

"Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have been thinking. I fear that you are right. It has pa.s.sed beyond the simple matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of.

You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that first angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is our duty."

They paced back and forth in silence. Menard's heavy breathing and his quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:--

"I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to this act if--if she--"

"No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart, but she cannot see you now."

"She asked you,--" said the Captain, slowly. "She asked you--I cannot think. I do not know what to say."

The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he came back and stood before Father Claude.

"Well, M'sieu?"

Menard spoke shortly, "Yes, Father, you are right."

That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally settled. He had seen the look in the Captain's eyes when the truth had come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the soldier's heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.

"You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their best, I fear."

"Willingly, M'sieu. And the presents,--we must think of that."

"True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to these people. Of course I have nothing. But you--you have your bale.

And Mademoiselle--together you should find something."