"I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not value. One moment--" He stepped to the door, and spoke softly, "Mademoiselle."

"Yes, Father." She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain that she had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.

"We shall need your help, Mademoiselle. Anything in your bale that would please the chiefs must be used."

She was puzzled.

"It is the custom," continued the priest, "at every council. To the Indians a promise is not given, a statement is not true, a treaty is not binding, unless there is a present for each clause. We have much at stake, and we must give what we have."

"Certainly, Father."

She stepped back into the darkness, and they could hear her dragging the bundle. Menard sprang to help.

"Mademoiselle, where are you?"

"Here, M'sieu."

He walked toward the sound with his hands spread before him. One hand rested on her shoulder, where she stooped over the bale. She did not shrink from his touch. For a moment he stood, struggling with a mad impulse to take her slender figure in his arms, to hold her where a thousand Indians could not harm her save by taking his own strong life; to tell her what made this moment more to him than all the stern years of the past. It may be that she understood, for she was motionless, almost breathless. But in a moment he was himself.

"I will take it," he said.

He stooped, took up the bundle, and carried it outside. She followed to the doorway.

"You will look, Mademoiselle."

She nodded, and knelt by the bundle, while the two men waited.

"There is little here, M'sieu. I brought only what was necessary. Here is a comb. Would that please them?"

She reached back to them, holding out a high tortoise-sh.e.l.l comb. They took it and examined it.

"It is beautiful," said Menard.

"Yes; my mother gave it to me."

"Perhaps, Mademoiselle,--perhaps there is something else, something that would do as well."

"How many should you have, M'sieu?"

"Five, I had planned. There will be five words in the speech."

"Words?" she repeated.

"To the Iroquois each argument is a 'word.'"

"I have almost nothing else, not even clothing of value. Wait--here is a small coat of seal."

"And you, Father?" asked Menard.

"I have a book with highly coloured pictures, M'sieu,--'The Ceremonies of the Ma.s.s applied to the Pa.s.sion of Our Lord.'"

"Splendid! Have you nothing else?"

"I fear not."

Menard turned to the maid, who was still on her knees by the open bundle, looking up at them.

"I am afraid that we must take your coat and the comb," he said. "I am sorry."

She answered in a low tone, but firmly: "You know, M'sieu, that it would hurt me to do nothing. It hurts me to do so little."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle. Well, Father, we must use our wits. It may be that four words will be enough, but I cannot use fewer. We have but three presents."

"Yes," replied the priest, "yes." He walked slowly by them, and about in a circle, repeating the word. The maid leaned back and watched him, wondering. He paused before the Captain and seemed about to speak.

Then abruptly he went into the hut, and they could hear him moving within. Menard and the maid looked at each other, the soldier smiling quietly. He understood.

Father Claude came out holding the portrait of Catharine, the Lily of the Onondagas, in his hands.

"It may be that this could be used for the fourth present," he said.

Menard took it without a word, and laid it on the ground by the fur coat. The maid looked at it curiously.

"Oh, it is a picture," she said.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," the Captain replied. "It is the portrait of an Onondaga maiden who is to them, and to the French, almost a saint.

They will prize this above all else."

The maid raised it, and looked at the strangely clad figure. Father Claude quietly walked away, but Menard went after and gripped his hand.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BIG THROAT SPEAKS.

The light of the rising sun struggled through the mist that lay on the Onondaga Valley. The trees came slowly out of the gray air, like ships approaching through a fog. As the sun rose higher, each leaf glistened with dew. The gra.s.s was wet and shining.

Menard had seized a few hours of sleep. He awoke with the first beam of yellow light, and rose from his bed on the packed, beaten ground before the door. Father Claude was sitting on a log, at a short distance, with bowed head. The Captain stretched his stiff limbs, and walked slowly about until the priest looked up.

"Good morning, Father."

"Good morning, M'sieu."

"It was a selfish thought that led me to choose the earlier watch.

These last hours are the best for sleeping."

"No, I have rested well."