"Heavy loss?"

"No. I don't know how many, but beyond a hundred or so of cuts and flesh-wounds like mine we seemed to have a full force. We went on in the morning, after a puffed-out speech by the Governor, and before night reached the village. The Senecas had already burned a part of it, but we finished it, and spent close to ten days cutting their corn and destroying the fort on the big hill, a league or more to the east.

Then we came back to La Famine, and the Governor took the whole column to Niagara,--to complete the parade, I suppose."

The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.

"I must look about my camp," Du Peron said at length. "Good-night."

"Good-night," said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark had left the scattered heap of charred wood.

The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the water. A figure, m.u.f.fled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron's sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the maid. She was gazing out toward the pole-star and the dim clouds that lay motionless beneath it. The splash of the lake and the call of the locusts and tree-toads on the bank behind them were the only sounds.

He went slowly forward and stood by her side. She looked up into his eyes, then turned to the lake. She had dropped the blanket to the sand, and he placed it again about her shoulders.

"I am not cold," she said.

"I am afraid, Mademoiselle. The air is chill."

They stood for a long time without speaking, while the northern clouds sank slowly beneath the horizon, their tops gleaming white in the moonlight. Once a sharp command rang through the night, and muskets rattled.

"What is that?" she whispered, touching his arm.

"They are changing the guard."

"You will not need to watch to-night, M'sieu?"

"No; not again. We shall have an escort to Frontenac." He paused; then added in uncertain voice, "but perhaps--if Mademoiselle--"

She looked up at him. He went on:

"I will watch to-night, and to-morrow night, and once again--then there will be no need: we shall be at Frontenac. Yes, I will watch; I will myself keep guard, that Mademoiselle may sleep safely and deep, as she slept at the Long Lake and in the forests of the Cayugas. And perhaps, while she is sleeping, and the lake lies still, I may dream again as I did then--I will carry on our story to the end, and then--"

He could not say more; he could not look at her. Even at the rustle of her skirt, as she sank to the beach and sat gazing up at him, he did not turn. He was looking dully at the last bright cloud tip, sinking slowly from his sight.

"Frontenac lies there," he said. "I told them I should bring you there. It has been a longer road than we thought,--it has been a harder road,--and they have said that I broke my trust. Perhaps they were not wrong--I would have broken it--once. But we shall be there in three days. I will keep my promise to the chiefs; and we--we shall not meet again. It will be better. But I shall keep watch, to-night and twice again. That will be all."

He looked down, and at sight of the mute figure his face softened.

"Forgive me--I should not have spoken. It has been a mad dream--the waking is hard. When I saw you standing here to-night, I knew that I had no right to come--and still I came. I have called myself a soldier"--his voice was weary--"see, this is what is done to soldiers such as I." One frayed strip of an epaulet yet hung from his shoulder.

He tore it off and threw it out into the lake. A little splash, and it was gone. "Good-night, Mademoiselle,--good-night."

He turned away. The maid leaned forward and called. Her voice would not come. She called again and again. Then he heard, for he stood motionless.

"M'sieu!"

He came back slowly, and stood waiting. She was leaning back on her hands. Her hair had fallen over her face, and she shook it back, gazing up and trying to speak.

"You said--you said, the end--"

He hesitated, as if he dared not meet his thoughts.

"You said--See," she fumbled hastily at her bosom, "see, I have kept it."

She was holding something up to him. In the dim light he could not make it out. He took it and held it up. It was the dried stem and the crumbling blossom of a daisy. For a moment he kept it there, then, while he looked, he reached into his pocket and drew out the other.

"Yes," he said, "yes--" His voice trembled; his hand shook. Her hair had fallen again, and she was trying to fasten it back. He looked at her, almost fiercely, but now her eyes were hidden. "We will go to Frontenac;" he said; "we will go to Frontenac, you and I. But they shall not get you." He caught the hands that were braiding her hair, and held them in his rough grip. "It is too late. Let them break my sword, if they will, still they shall not get you."

Her head dropped upon his hands, and for the second time since those days at Onondaga, he felt her tears. For a moment they were motionless; he erect, looking out to the pole-star and over the water that stretched far away to the stone fort, she sobbing and clinging to his scarred hands. Then a desperate look came into his eyes, and he dropped on one knee and caught her shoulders and held her tightly, close against him.

"See," he said, with the old mad ring in his voice, "see what a soldier I am! See how I keep my trust! But now--but now it is too late for them all. I am still a soldier, and I can fight, Valerie. And G.o.d will be good to us. G.o.d grant that we are doing right. There is no other way."

"No," she whispered after him; "there is no other way."

CHAPTER XIX.

FRONTENAC.

The sun was dropping behind the western forests. From the lodges and cabins of the friendly Indians about the fort rose a hundred thin columns of smoke. Long rows of bateaux and canoes lined the beach below the log palisade; and others drew near the sh.o.r.e, laden with fish. There was a stir and bustle about the square within the stone bastions; orderlies hurried from quarters to barracks, bugles sounded, and groups of ragged soldiers sat about, polishing muskets and belts, and setting new flints. Men of the commissary department were carrying boxes and bales from the fort to a cleared s.p.a.ce on the beach.

Menard walked across the square and knocked at the door of Major d'Orvilliers's little house. Many an eye had followed him as he hurried by, aroused to curiosity by his tattered uniform, rusted musket, and boot-tops rudely st.i.tched to deerskin moccasins.

"Major d'Orvilliers is busy," said the orderly at the door.

"Tell him it is Captain Menard."

In a moment the Major himself appeared in the doorway.

"Come in, Menard. I am to start in an hour or so to meet Governor Denonville, but there is always time for you. I'll start a little late, if necessary."

"The Governor comes from Niagara?"

"Yes. He is two or three days' journey up the lake. I am to escort him back."

They had reached the office in the rear of the house, and the Major brushed a heap of doc.u.ments and drawings from a chair.

"Sit down, Menard. You have a long story, I take it. You look as if you'd been to the Illinois and back."

"You knew of my capture?"

"Yes. We had about given you up. And the girl,--Mademoiselle St.

Denis--"

"She is here."

"Here--at Frontenac?"