Menard nodded without looking. She rested her musket in the opening between two logs, and fired quickly.

"Did you hit him?"

"Yes, I think so."

She was breathless with excitement, but she reloaded at once. A moment later Menard fired, and then the priest.

"On all sides, eh?" the Captain muttered. He called to the others: "Waste no powder. Shoot only when you are sure of hitting. They will fall back again. Two dead Indians will discourage the wildest charge."

The firing went on at intervals, but still the warriors kept at it, creeping up from bush to bush and tree to tree. Menard's face grew more serious as the time went by. He began to realize that the Long Arrow was desperate, that he was determined on vengeance before the other chiefs could come. It had been a typical savage thought that had led him to bring Menard to this village, where he had once lived, rather than to the one in which the chief held greater permanent authority; the scheme was too complete and too near its end for delay or failure to be considered. Still the attacking party drew nearer, swelled every moment by a new group. Then Menard saw their object.

They would soon be near enough to dash in close to the wall, where their very nearness would disable the white men's muskets.

"Work fast!" he said suddenly. "They must not get nearer!"

"Yes," panted the maid. Her shoulder was bruised by the heavy musket, her arms ached with the quick ramming and lifting, but she loaded and fired as rapidly as she could.

"Father," called the Captain. "Quick! come here. They are too many for me!"

The priest ran across the floor, half blinded by the smoke, c.o.c.king his musket as he came. "Where, M'sieu?"

"There--at the oak! They are preparing for a rush!"

He fired, at the last word, and one warrior sprawled on his face. The priest followed.

"That will check them. Now back to the door!"

Father Claude turned. The light was dim and the smoke heavy. His eyes smarted and blurred, so that he heard, rather than saw, the logs come crashing back into the hut. Menard heard it also; and together the two men dashed forward. They met the rush of Indians with blows that could not be stayed, but there was a score pushing behind the few who had entered. Slowly, the two backed across the hut. The stock of Menard's musket broke short off against the head of the Beaver. His foot struck another, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and fought on.

"Mademoiselle," he called, "where are you?"

"Here, M'sieu!"

The voice was behind him. Then he felt a weight on his shoulder. The wearied maid, for want of another rest for her musket, fired past his face straight into the dark ma.s.s of Indians. She tried to reload, but Menard was swept back against her. With one arm he caught and held her tight against him, swinging the musket with his free hand. She clung to him, hardly breathing. They reached the rear wall. One tall warrior bounded forward and struck the musket from his hand. That was the end of the struggle. They were torn apart, and dragged roughly out into the blinding sunlight.

Among the Iroquois, the torture was a religious rite, which nothing, once it was begun, could hasten. It may have been that the younger warriors would have rushed upon the captives to kill them; but if so, their elders held them back. The long lines formed again, and the doctors ran about the little group before the hut door, leaping and singing. Menard lay on his face, held down by three warriors. He tried to turn his head to see what had been done with the maid, but could not. He would have called to her, but to make a sound now would be to his captors an admission of weakness.

A great clamour came from the lines. Menard wondered at the delay. He heard a movement a few yards away. Warriors were grunting, and feet shuffled on the ground. He heard the priest say, in a calm voice, "Courage, Mademoiselle"; and for a moment he struggled desperately.

Then, realizing his mistake, he lay quiet. When at last he was jerked to his feet, he saw that the priest and the maid had been forced to take the two first places in the line. The maid was struggling in the grasp of two braves, one of whom made her hold a war club by closing his own hand over hers. Menard understood; his friends were to strike the first blows.

The guards tried to drag him forward, but he went firmly with them, smiling scornfully. There was a delay, as the line was reached, for the maid could not be made to hold the club. Another man dropped out of the line to aid the two who held her.

"Strike me, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "It is best."

She shook her head. Father Claude spoke:--

"M'sieu is right."

It was then that she first looked at the Captain. When she saw the straight figure and the set face, a sense of her own weakness came to her, and she, too, straightened. Menard stepped forward; and raising the club she let it fall lightly on his shoulders. A shout went up.

"Hard, Mademoiselle, hard," he said. "You must."

She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and swung the club with all her strength. Then her muscles gave way, and she sank to the ground, not daring to look after the Captain as he pa.s.sed on between the two rows of savages. She heard the shouts and the wild cries, but dimly, as if they came from far away. The confusion grew worse, and then died down. From screaming the voices dropped into excited argument. She did not know what it meant,--not until Father Claude bent over her and spoke gently.

"What is it?" she whispered, not looking up. "What have they done?"

"Nothing. The Big Throat has come."

She raised her eyes helplessly.

"He has come?"

"Yes. I must go back. Take heart, Mademoiselle."

He hurried away and slipped through the crowd that had gathered about Menard and the chief. She sat in a little heap on the ground, not daring to feel relieved, wondering what would come next. She could not see the Captain, but as the other voices dropped lower and lower, she could catch now and then a note of his voice. In a few moments, the warriors who were pressing close on the outskirts of the crowd were pushed aside, and he came out. She looked at him, then at the ground, shuddering, for there was blood on his forehead. Even when he stood over her she could not look up or speak.

"There is hope now, Mademoiselle. He is here."

"Yes--Father Claude told me. Is--are you to be released?"

"Hardly that, but we shall at least have a little time. And I hope to get a hearing at the council."

"He will let you?"

"I have not asked him yet." He sat beside her, wearily. "There will be time for that. He is talking now with the Long Arrow and the old warriors. He is not fond of the Long Arrow." In the excitement he had not seen that she was limp and exhausted, but now he spoke quickly, "They have hurt you, Mademoiselle?"

"No, I am not hurt. But you--your head--"

"Only a bruise." He drew his sleeve across his forehead. "I had rather a bad one in the arm."

He rolled up his sleeve in a matter-of-fact way. Her eyes filled.

"Oh, M'sieu, you did not tell me. I can help you. Wait, I will be back."

She rose, and started toward the spring, but he sprang to her side.

"You must not trouble. It is not bad. There will be time for this."

"No. Come with me if you will."

She ran with nervous steps; and he strode after. At the side of the bubbling pool she knelt, and looked up impatiently.

"It will not do to let this go, M'sieu. Can you roll your sleeve higher?"

He tried, but the heavy cloth was stiff.

"If you will take off the coat--"

He unlaced it at the breast, and drew it off. She took his wrist, and plunged his arm into the pool, washing it with quick, gentle fingers, drying it on his coat. Then she leaned back, half perplexed, and looked around.