"My brother shall come with me to the land of the white men, where there is no trouble,--where he shall have a great lodge like the white chiefs, with coloured pictures in gold frames, and slaves to prepare his food. He shall be a great chief among white men and redmen, and his stores shall be filled to the doors with furs of beaver and seal."

Menard's voice was so low and deliberate that the Indian did not question his statements. He was tempted more strongly than he had ever been tempted before, but with the desire grew the fear of the consequences. As for the Captain, he was clutching desperately at this slender chance that lay to his hand.

"I have given my brother his choice of greater power than was ever before offered to a youth who has yet to win his name. The stroke of a knife will do it. No one shall know, for the Big Buffalo can be trusted. My brother has it before him to be a red chief or a white chief, as he may wish. The warriors are near,--the day grows bright; he must speak quickly."

There was a call from the group by the fire, and the young Indian gave a little start, and slowly rising, walked away, yielding his place as guard to an older man. Menard rolled over and pressed his face to the ground as if weary; he could then watch the youth through the gra.s.s as he moved to the fire, but in a moment he lost sight of him. The new guard was a stern-faced brave, and his appearance promised no help; so the Captain, having done all that could be done at the moment, tried to get another sleep, struggling to put thoughts of the maid from his mind. Perhaps, after all, she was safe at the village.

Meantime the youth, after a long struggle with the temptings of the bad doctor, yielded to his superst.i.tion, and sought the Long Arrow, who lay on the green bank of the stream. In a few moments the story was told, and the chief, with a calm face but with twinkling eyes, came to the prisoner and stood looking down at him.

"The White Chief is glad to be with his Onondaga brothers?" he said in his quiet voice.

Menard slowly raised his eyes, and looked coolly at the chief without replying.

"The tongue of the Big Buffalo is weary perhaps? It has moved so many times to tell the Onondaga what is not true, that now it asks for rest. The Long Arrow is kind. He will not seek to move it again. For another sleep it shall lie at rest; then it may be that our braves shall find a way to stir it."

Menard rolled over, with an expression of contempt, and closed his eyes.

"The Long Arrow was sorry that his white brother was disappointed at the torture. Perhaps he will have better fortune after he has slept again. Already have the fires been lighted that shall warm the heart of the White Chief. And he shall have friends to brighten him. His squaw, too, shall feel the glow of the roaring fire, and the gentle hands of the Onondaga warriors, who do not forget the deaths of their own blood."

Menard lay still.

"Another sleep, my brother, and the great White Chief who speaks with the voice of Onontio shall be with his friends. He shall hear the sweet voice of his young squaw through the smoke that shall be her garment. He shall hear the prayers of his holy Father by his side, and shall know that his spirit is safe with the Great Spirit who is not strong enough to give him his life when the Long Arrow takes it away."

There was still a mad hope that the chief spoke lies, that the maid and Father Claude were safe. True or false, the Long Arrow would surely talk thus; for the Iroquois were as skilled in the torments of the mind as of the body. He was conscious that the keen voice was going on, but he did not follow what it said. Again he was going over and over in his mind all the chances of escape. It might be that the youth had been moved by his offer. But at that moment he heard the Long Arrow saying:--

" ... Even before his death the Big Buffalo must lie as he has always lied. His tongue knows not the truth. He thinks to deceive our young braves with talk of his furs and his lodges and his power in the land of the white men. But our warriors know the truth. They know that the Big Buffalo has no store of furs, no great lodges,--that he lives in the woods with only a stolen musket, where he can by his lies capture the peaceful hunters of the Onondagas to make them the slaves of his Chief-Across-the-Water."

CHAPTER XVI.

AT THE LONG LAKE.

Menard again dropped to sleep. When the day had nearly reached its middle, he was aroused by two warriors, who pulled him roughly to his feet. The band had evidently been astir for some moments. A few braves were extinguishing the fire with clumps of sod, while the others packed in their blankets what had been left from the morning meal, or looked to the spots of rust which the damp had brought to knives and muskets. The Long Arrow came over to inspect the thongs that held Menard's wrists; he had not forgotten his attack on his guards on the morning of the torture. And with a precaution that brought a half smile to the prisoner's face, he posted a stout warrior on each side, in addition to those before and behind. Then they set out over the hills, wading through a great tumbling meadow where their feet sank deep into the green and yellow and white that June had spread over the open lands of the Iroquois. Overhead the sky, though still clouded, was breaking, giving little glimpses of clear blue.

As they neared the crest of the first hill, the Captain looked back over his shoulder. The sun had at last broken through to the earth, and a great band of yellow light was moving swiftly across the valley.

Before it, all the ground was sombre in its dark green and its heavy moisture; behind lay a stretch of golden sunshine, rounding over the farther hills in great billows of gra.s.s and flowers and cl.u.s.tering trees, glistening with dew and glowing with the young health of the summer. Up the hillside came the sunlight; and then in a moment it had pa.s.sed them, and the air was warm and sweet.

Menard looked at the sun and then back across the valley to get his direction. He saw that the party was moving a little to the south of west. This line of march should take them through the Cayuga country,--a natural move on the part of the Long Arrow, for the Cayugas were closer to the scene of the fighting than the Onondagas, and therefore would be less likely to interfere with the persecution of a Frenchman, particularly before their chiefs should return from the council.

Late in the afternoon they came to a slow-moving stream, the outlet of an inland lake. By the basin-shape of the end of the lake, he recognized it as one that lay directly between Onondaga and the Long Lake of the Cayugas. On the bank of the little river, under the matted foliage, the chief signalled a halt, and the warriors threw themselves on the ground. Menard lay at the foot of a beech whose roots dipped in the water, and for the hundredth time since the sun had risen he cast about for some chance at escape. The thongs about his wrists were tied by skilful hands. He tried to reach the knot with his fingers, but could not. His guards were alert to every motion; they lay on either side, and he could not lift his eyes without meeting the sullen glance of one or the other. He was about ready to submit, trusting to his wits to seize the first opportunity that should come; for after all, to worry would strain his nerves, and now, if at any time, his nerves and his strength were needed. When at last he reached this point of view, he lay back on the weed-grown earth and went to sleep.

An hour later he was aroused for another start. Night came while they were on the way, but they pushed steadily forward, and within a few hours they reached the Long Lake. Instead of stopping, however, the Long Arrow headed to the south along the bank of the lake. For a s.p.a.ce it was hard going through the interwoven bushes and briers that tore even Menard's tough skin. The moon was in the sky, and here and there he caught glimpses of the lake lying still and bright. They saw no signs of life save for the flitting bats, and the owls that called weirdly through the reaches of the forest. After another hour they found a trail which led them down close to the water, and at last to a half-cleared s.p.a.ce, rank and wild with weed and thistle, and with rotting heaps where lay the trunks of trees, felled a generation earlier. Scattered about the outer edge of the clearing, close to the circle of trees, were a few bark huts, with roofs sagging and doors agape. One or two were rivalled in height by the weeds that choked their windows. As Menard stood between his guards under the last tree on the trail, looking at the deserted village where the frightened bats rose and wheeled, and the moonlight streamed on broken roofs, he began to understand. The Long Arrow had found a place where he could carry out his vengeance undisturbed.

Other forms had risen from the weeds to greet the party. Looking more closely, Menard saw that a group of Indians were dragging logs for a fire. Evidently this was a rendezvous for two or more bands. He tried to count the dim forms, and found them somewhat less than a score in all. Perhaps the Long Arrow had found it not easy to raise a large party to defy the will of the council concerning the White Chief; but he had enough, and already the brandy was beginning to flow,--the first stage of the orgie which should take up the rest of the night, and perhaps the day to follow. The Long Arrow and his party at once joined in the drinking. Confident that they would not this time be interrupted, they would probably use all deliberation in preparing for the torture.

A rough meal was soon ready, and all fell to. Nothing was set apart for the prisoner; though had he been weak they would have fed him to stay him for the torture. One of his guardians, in mock pity, threw him a bone to which a little meat clung. He asked that his hands be loosed, or at least tied in front of his body, but his request brought jeers from the little group about him. Seeing that there was no hope of aid, he rolled over and gnawed the bone where it lay on the ground.

The warriors laughed again, and one kicked it away; but Menard crawled after it, and this time was not disturbed. A little later, two other Indians came from the fire, and after a talk with his guards, ordered him to his feet and led him to one of the huts. The door was of rude boards, hung on wooden hinges, and now held in place by a short log.

One brave kicked away the log, and Menard was thrown inside with such force that he fell headlong.

Through an opening in the roof came a wide beam of moonlight. He looked up, and at first thought he was alone; then he saw two figures crouching against the rear wall. His own face and head were so covered with dust and blood that he could not have been recognized for a white man.

"Who are you?" he said in Iroquois.

"Captain!" came in a startled voice that he knew for Father Claude's; and a little gasp of relief from the other figure brought a thrill of joy. He tried to raise himself, but in an instant they had come to him and were laughing and sobbing and speaking his name. While Father Claude seized his shoulders to lift him, the maid fell on her knees, and with her teeth tried to cut the thongs.

"Wait, Father," she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her work; "wait a moment."

Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands.

"You must not, Mademoiselle," said the priest. "You must let me."

She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain's wrists.

"Now he may arise, Father. See--see what they have done to him."

Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other's eyes--not speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during all the time they should live thereafter, through other days and other times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in their memories,--it would stand out above all other deeds and other moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and a little sigh pa.s.sed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters play at Quebec.

"Tell us, M'sieu," she said abruptly, "what is it? How did it happen?"

"It is the Long Arrow."

"So we thought," said Father Claude; "but he was not with the party that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I was at fault, I--"

"No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at your side."

"Will you tell us about it, M'sieu?" asked the maid. She was leaning against the bark wall, looking at the two men.

Menard dropped to the ground, and in a quiet voice gave them the story of his capture. The priest rested near him on the broken-down bench that slanted against one wall. As the story grew, the maid came over and sat at the Captain's feet where she could watch his face as he talked. When he reached the account of the fight at the grave, he paused and looked at her upturned face. Then he went on, but he did not take up the tale where he had dropped it. He could not tell her of Tegakwita's end. As he went on to the fight with the Long Arrow's band and the flight through the hill country, he thought that she had missed nothing; but when he had finished she said:--

"And Tegakwita, M'sieu? Did he come with them?"

"No," Menard replied; "he did not come. I killed him."

He had not meant to let the words come out so brutally. And now, as he saw the frightened look, almost of horror, come into her eyes, he suffered in a way that would not have been possible before he had known this maid. He read her thoughts,--that she herself was the cause of a double tragedy,--and it for the moment unmanned him. When he could look at her again, she was more nearly herself.

"Go on, M'sieu. There is more?"

"No. There is no more, except that I am here with you. But of yourselves? You have told me nothing."

"We have told you all there is to tell," said Father Claude. "We were taken while we slept. They have come rapidly, but otherwise they have not been unkind."

"You have had food?"

"Yes."