169CHAPTER IX.THE WORD OF AN ONONDAGA.
For a long time after Father Claude had finished speaking, the three sat talking over the situation. Even the maid had suggestions. But when all had been said, when the chances of a rescue by the French, or of getting a hearing before the council, even of a wild dash for liberty, had been gone over and over, their voices died away, and the silence was eloquent. D’Orvilliers would know that only capture could have prevented them from reaching the fort; but even supposing him to believe that they were held by the Onondagas, he had neither the men nor the authority to fight through the Cayuga lakes and hills to reach them. As for the Governor’s column, it would have its hands full before marching ten leagues from La Famine. Had Menard been alone, he would have made the attempt to escape, knowing from the start that the chance was near to170nothing, but glad of the opportunity at least to die fighting. But with Mademoiselle to delay their progress, and to suffer his fate if captured, it was different. As matters stood, she was likely to be released with Father Claude, as soon as he should be disposed of. And so his mind had settled on staying, and dying, if he must, alone.
“I have not known whether to tell all,” said Father Claude, after the silence. “And yet it would seem that Mademoiselle may as well know the truth now as later.”
“You have not told me?” she said, with reproach in her voice. “Must I always be a child to you, Father? If God has seen it best to place me here, am I not to help bear the burden?”
“Mademoiselle is right, Father. Hold nothing back. Three stout hearts are better than two.”
The priest looked gravely at the fire.
“The word has gone out,” he said. “The Long Arrow, by his energy and his eloquence, but most of all because he had the courage to capture the Big Buffalo in the enemy’s country with but a score of braves, now controls the village. To-morrow night the great council will171begin. The war chiefs of all the Cayuga and Onondaga and Oneida and Mohawk villages will meet here and decide whether to take up the hatchet against the white men. The Long Arrow well knows that his power will last only until the greater chiefs come, and he will have his revenge before his day wanes.”
“When?” asked the Captain.
“To-morrow morning, M’sieu. The feasting and dancing will begin to-night.”
The maid was looking at the priest. “I do not understand,” she said. “What will he do?”
“He means me, Mademoiselle,” said the Captain, quietly.
“Not––” she said, “not––”
“Yes,” he replied. “They will bring us no food to-night. In the morning they will come for me.”
“Oh, M’sieu, they cannot! They––” She gazed at him, not heeding the tears that suddenly came to her eyes and fell down upon her cheeks; and, as she looked, she understood what was in his mind. “Why do you not escape, M’sieu? There is yet time,––to-night! You are thinking of me, and I––I––Oh, I have been selfish––I did not know! We will stay172here, Father Claude and I. You need not think of us; they will not harm us––you told me that yourself, M’sieu. I should be in your way, but alone––it is so easy.” She would have gone on, but Menard held up his hand.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no.”
Her lips moved, but she saw the expression in his eyes, and the words died. She turned to Father Claude, but he did not look up.
“I do not know,” said Menard, slowly, “whether the heart of the Big Throat is still warm toward me. He was once as my father.”
“He will not be here in time,” Father Claude said. “He does not start from his village until the sun is dropping on the morrow.”
The maid could not take her eyes from Menard’s face. Now that the final word had come, now that all the doubts of the unsettled day, now only half gone, had settled into a fact to be faced, he was himself again, the quiet, resolute soldier. Only the set, almost hard lines about the mouth told of his suffering.
“If we had a friend here,” he was saying, quietly enough, “it may be that Tegakwita––But no, of course not. I had forgotten about Danton––”
“Tegakwita has lost standing in the tribe for173allowing Lieutenant Danton to escape. He is very bitter, We can ask nothing from him.”
“No, I suppose not.”
The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face the prospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard upon the maid’s heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some manner give way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. The broad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lying upon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, and many strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who piped gently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that their notes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlit world, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs, while the brave Captain––she could not face the thought.
The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out the flowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully, placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.
An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside his blanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket and leggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his174waist. He came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a glance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod; Father Claude, too, was silent.
“The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart,” said the Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him. She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionless in the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watching the little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting on the ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees. Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. “He feels the love of a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him,” he went on. “It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of the hunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became a captive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warrior because he believed in the White Chief. He has lost––” his voice grew tremulous with175the emotion that lay underneath the words––“He has lost his sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and his squaw.”
“My brother speaks strangely,” said Menard, looking up at him half suspiciously.
“Yes, it is strange.” His voice was louder, and in his excitement he dropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an older warrior, would have concealed his feelings. “It is strange that you should send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the white brave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed by my side.”
Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched them narrowly.
“My son is mistaken,” said Father Claude, quietly. “His sister has wandered away. It may be that she has even now returned.”
“No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her.”
Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.
“Tegakwita does not understand. The white brave was foolish. He is a young warrior. He does not know the use of patience. He first escaped against my orders. The word I sent by your sister was a command to be patient. He went alone, my brother. He has176gone forever from my camp. It cannot be that she––”
“The Big Buffalo speaks lies. Who came to cut the white brave’s bonds? Who stole the hunting coat, the leggings of Tegakwita, that her lover might go free? Who has dishonoured herself, her brother, the father that––” Words failed him, and he stood facing them with blazing eyes.
Menard glanced at the maid, but she had passed the point where a shock could sway her, and now stood quietly at the door, waiting to hear what more the warrior would say. But he stood motionless. Father Claude touched his arm.
“If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the Big Buffalo never speaks lies.”
The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and raised his hand to his knife. Menard smiled contemptuously, and spread out his hands; he had no weapon. But Tegakwita had a second thought, and dropped his hand.177
“Tegakwita, too, never speaks lies,” he said. “He will come back before the sun has come again.”
He walked rapidly out, crowding roughly past the maid.
Menajd leaned against the wall. “Poor boy!” he said, “poor boy!”
The maid came slowly in, and sat on the rude bench which leaned against the logs near the door. The strain of the day was drawing out all the strength, the womanhood, that lay behind her buoyant youth. Already the tan was fading from her face, here in the hut and under the protecting elms; and the whiteness of her skin gave her, instead of a worn appearance, the look of an older woman,––firmer, with greater dignity. Her eyes had a deeper, fuller understanding.
“I suppose that there is nothing, M’sieu––nothing that we can do?”
Menard shook his head. “No; nothing.”
“And the Indian,––he says that he will come back?”
“Yes. I don’t know what he means. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
They were silent for a moment. The178maid leaned forward. “What was that, M’sieu?”
“Loungers, on the path.”
“No, they are coming here.”
Menard rose, but she stepped to the door. “Let me go, M’sieu. Ah, I see them. It is my little friends.” She went out, and they could hear her laughing with the two children, and trying to coax them toward the door.
“Danton will never get away,” said the Captain, in a low tone to the priest.
“I fear not, M’sieu.”
“He has lost his head, poor boy. I thought him of better stuff. And the girl––Ah, if he had only gone alone! I could forgive his rashness, Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clear name.”
“There is still doubt,” said the priest, cautiously. “We know only what Tegakwita said.”
“I’m afraid,” Menard replied, shaking his head, “I’m afraid it’s true. You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girl is gone. I wish––Well, there is no use. I hoped for something better, that is all.”
Just outside the door the maid was talking179gaily with the two children, who now and then raised their piping voices. Then it was evident that they were going away, for she was calling after them. She came into the hut, smiling, and carrying a small willow basket full of corn.
“See,” she said, “even now it is something to have made a friend. We shall not go hungry to-day, after all. Will you partake, Father? And M’sieu?”
She paused before the Captain. He had stepped forward, and was staring at her.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“The children? They are wandering along the path.”
“Quick, Mademoiselle! Call them back.”
She hesitated, in surprise; then set the basket on the ground and obeyed. Menard paced the floor until she returned.
“They are outside, M’sieu, too frightened to come near.”
“Give me that birch cup, outside the door.” He was speaking in quick, low tones. “They must not see me. It would frighten them.”
She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor, tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his180sleeve. He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of the floor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, “A piece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again––see that they have not gone.”
“They are waiting, M’sieu.”
He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which she brought from her bundle.
“We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale. Find something quickly,––something that will please them. No, wait––Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fifty leagues for a mirror.”
She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a small glass.
“Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the Big Throat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have it before the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone would punish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them do it. They cannot fail.”
Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervous eagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him with kindling eyes. She took the roll and the181mirror, and ran out the door. In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, and the shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. He caught the priest’s hand.
“Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenant as that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care.”
At last she came back, and sank, with a nervous, irresponsible little laugh, on the bench. And then, for the moment, they all three laughed together.
In the silence that followed, Father Claude moved toward the door.
“I must go out again, M’sieu. It may be that there is further word.”
“Very well, Father. And open your ears for news of the poor boy.”
The priest bowed, and went out. Menard stood in the door watching him, as he walked boldly along the path. After a little he turned. The maid was looking at him, still flushed and smiling.
“Well, Mademoiselle, we can take hope again.”
“You are so brave, M’sieu.”182
He smiled at her impulsiveness, and looked at her, hardly conscious that he was causing her to blush and lower her eyes.
“And so I am brave, Mademoiselle? It may be that Major Provost and Major d’Orvilliers will not feel so.”
“But they must, M’sieu.”
“Do you know what they will say? They will speak with sorrow of Captain Menard, the trusted, in whose hands Governor Denonville placed the most important commission ever given to a captain in New France. They will regret that their old friend was not equal to the test; that he––ah, do not interrupt, Mademoiselle; it is true––that his failure lost a campaign for New France. You heard Father Claude; you know what these Indians plan to do.”
“You must not speak so, M’sieu. It is wicked. He would be a coward who could blame you. It was not your fault that you were captured. When I return I shall go to them and tell them how you fought, and how you faced them like––like a hero. When I return––” She stopped, as if the word were strange.
“Aye, Mademoiselle, and God grant that you may return soon. But your good heart leads183you wrong. It was my fault that I did not bring a force strong enough to protect myself,––and you. To fight is not a soldier’s first duty. It is to be discreet; he must know when not to fight as well as when to draw his sword; he must know how many men are needed to defend his cause. No; I was overconfident, and I lost. And there we must leave it. Nothing more can be said.”
He stood moodily over the heap of ashes. When he looked at her again, she had risen.
“The flowers, M’sieu,” she said, “you––you threw them away.”
He glanced down. They lay at his feet. Silently he knelt and gathered them.
“Will you help me, Mademoiselle? We will make another cup. And these two large daisies,––did you see how they rested side by side on the ground when I would have trampled on them? You will take one and I the other; and when this day shall be far in the past, it may be that you will remember it, and how we two were here together, waiting for the stroke that should change life for us.”
He held it out, and she, with lowered eyes, reached to take it from his hand, but suddenly checked the motion and turned to the door.184
“Will you take it, Mademoiselle?”
She did not move; and he stood, the soldier, helpless, waiting for a word. He had forgotten everything,––the low, smoke-blackened hut, the responsibility that lay on his shoulders, the danger of the moment,––everything but the slender maid who stood before him, who would not take the flower from his hand. Then he stepped to her side, and, taking away the other flowers from the lace beneath her throat, he placed the single daisy in their stead. Her eyes were nearly closed, and she seemed hardly to know that he was there.
“And it may be,” he whispered softly, “that we, like the flowers, shall be spared.”
She turned slowly away, and sank upon the bench. Menard, with a strange, new lightness in his heart, went out into the sunlight.
The day wore on. The warm sunbeams, that slipped down through the foliage, lengthened and reached farther and farther to the east. The bright spots of light crept across the grass, climbed the side of the hut and the tree-trunks, lingered on the upreaching twigs, and died away in the blue sky. The evening star shot out its white spears, glowing and radiant, long before the light had gone, or the purple185and golden afterglow had faded into twilight. Menard’s mind went back to another day, just such a glorious, shining June day as this had been, when he had sat not a hundred yards from this spot, waiting, as now, for the end. He looked at his fingers. They were scarred and knotted; one drunken, frenzied squaw had mangled them with her teeth. He had wondered then how a man could endure such torture as had come to him, and still could live and think, could even struggle back to health. The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert than since the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of help from the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid as she bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,––something had entered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, He wondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, why the priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green and bright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.
“What news, Father?”
The priest shook his head. “Little, M’sieu.”
“Has the feast begun?”186
“Not yet. They are assembling before the Long House.”
“Are they drinking?”
“Yes.”
There was no need for talk, and so the two men sat before the hut, with only an idle word now and then, until the dark came down. The quiet of the village was broken now by the shouts of drinking warriors, with a chanting undertone that rose and swelled slowly into the song that would continue, both men knew, until the break of day, or until none was left with sober tongue to carry the wavering air. A great fire had been lighted, and they could see the glare and the sparks beyond a cluster of trees and huts. Later, straggling braves appeared, wandering about, bottle or flask in hand, crazed by the raw brandy with which the English and Dutch of New York and Orange and the French of the province alike saw fit to keep the Indians supplied.
A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward the hut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One had an arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertain hands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the187white men sitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at his heels.
“Move nearer the door,” whispered Menard. “They must not get in.”
The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat with their backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yards away, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidently wished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoning in thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could make it right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.
The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and the sound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking his eyes from the Indians:––
“Step back, Mademoiselle, behind the wall. You must not stand here.”
The warrior broke away from the hands that held him, staggering a rod across the grass before he could recover his balance. The others went after him, but he quickly rested the piece and fired. The ball went over their heads through the doorway, striking with a low noise against the rear wall. Menard rose, jerking away from the priest’s restraining hand.188
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “you are not hurt?”
“No, M’sieu.”
“Thank God!” He stood glaring at the huddled band of warriors, who were trying to reload the arquebuse; then he bounded forward, broke into the group with a force that sent two to the ground, snatched the weapon, and, with a quick motion, drew out the flint. He threw the gun on the ground, and walked back to his seat.
Two of the guards came running forward. They had not been drinking, and one of them ordered the loafers away. This did not strike them amiss. They started off, trying to reload as they walked, evidently not missing the flint.
The maid came again to the doorway, and asked timidly:––
“Is there danger for you, M’sieu? Will they come back?”
“No. It is merely a lot of drunken youths. They have probably forgotten by now. Can you sleep, Mademoiselle?––have you tried?”
“No, I––I fear that I could not.”
“It would be well to make the effort,” he said gently, looking over his shoulder at her as she leaned against the doorpost. “We do not know what may happen. At any rate, even if189you escape, you will need all your strength on the morrow. A fallen captain may not command, Mademoiselle, but––”
“If it is your command, M’sieu, I will try. Good night.”
There was a long stillness, broken only by the distant noises of the dance.
“You, too, will sleep, M’sieu?” said Father Claude. “I will watch.”
“No, no, Father.”
“I beg it of you. At the least you will let me divide the night with you?”
“We shall see, we shall see. There is much to be said before either of us closes his eyes. Hello, here is a runner.”
An Indian was loping up the path. He turned in toward the hut.
“Quiet,” said the priest. “It is Tegakwita.”
The warrior had run a long way. He was breathing deeply, and the sweat stood out on his face and caught the shine of the firelight.
“My brother has been far,” said Menard, rising.
“The White Chief is not surprised? He heard the word of Tegakwita, that he would return before another sun. He has indeed been far. He has followed the track of the190forest wolf that stole the child of the Onondagas. He has found the bold, the brave white warrior, who stole away in the night, robbing Tegakwita of what is dearer to him than the beating of his heart.”
The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, and leaning forward with startled eyes.
“He has found––he has found him––” she faltered.
The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast of his shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard’s feet. Then, with broken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.
Father Claude stooped, and picked up the object. Dimly in the firelight they could see it,––two warm human scalps, the one of brown hair knotted to the other of black. Menard took them in his hand.
“Poor boy!” he said, over and over. “Poor boy!”
He looked toward the door, but the maid had gone inside.
191CHAPTER X.A NIGHT COUNCIL.
The night crept by, as had the day, wearily.
The two men sat in the doorway or walked slowly back and forth across the front of the hut, saying little. The Captain was calling to mind every incident of their capture, and of the original trouble between La Grange and the hunting party. He went over the conversation with Major Provost at Quebec word by word, until he felt sure in his authority as the Governor’s representative; although the written orders in the leather bag that hung from his neck were concerned only with his duties in preparing Fort Frontenac for the advancing column,––duties that he had not fulfilled.
A plan was forming in his mind which would make strong demands on the good faith of Major Provost and the Governor. He knew, as every old soldier knows, that governments and rulers are thankless, that even written authority192is none too binding, if to make it good should inconvenience those who so easily give it. He knew further that if he should succeed now in staying the Onondagas and Cayugas by pledges which, perchance, it might not please Governor Denonville to observe, the last frail ties that held the Iroquois to the French would be broken, and England would reign from the Hudson to the river of the Illinois. And he sighed, as he had sighed many times before, for the old days under Frontenac, under the only Governor of New France who could hold these slippery redskins to their obligations.
“Father,” he said finally, “I begin to see a way.”
“The Big Throat?”
“He must help, though to tell the truth I fear that he will be of little service. He may come in time to give us a stay; but, chief though he is, he will hardly dare overrule the Long Arrow on a matter so personal as this.”
“What is the Long Arrow’s family––the Beaver?”
“Yes.”
“But, M’sieu, that is the least of the eight families. If it were the Tortoise or the Bear193against us, we should have greater cause for fear.”
“True, Father, but to each family belongs its own quarrels, its own revenge. If the Big Throat should interfere too deeply, it would anger the other small families, who might fear the same treatment at some other time. And with Beaver, Snipe, Deer, and Potato united against us,––well, it is a simple enough problem.”
They were walking by the door, and Menard, as he spoke, sat on the stone which he had rolled there in the afternoon. The priest stood before him.
“I hope we may succeed, my son. I have seen this anger before, and it has always ended in the one way.”
“Of course,” the Captain replied, “it does depend on the Big Throat. He must reach here in time.”
“God grant that he may!”
“In that case, Father, I look for a delay. Unless his heart has hardened rapidly, he still thinks of me. Together we will go to him, and ask a hearing in the war council.”
“Oratory will not release us, I fear, M’sieu.”
“We shall not ask to be released, Father.194Don’t you understand? It is more than that we shall demand,––it is peace with New France, the safety of the column––”
The priest’s eyes lighted. “Do you think, M’sieu––”
“We can do it. They have not heard all the truth. They do not want a long war which will kill their braves and destroy their homes and their corn. It is this attack on the Senecas that has drawn them out.”
“You will tell them that the Governor fights only the Senecas?”
“More than that. The La Grange affair has stirred them up. It has weakened their faith in the Governor,––it has as good as undone all the work of twenty years past. Our only hope is to reestablish that faith.”
“I hope that we may,” said the priest, slowly. “But they have reached a state now where words alone will hardly suffice. I have tried it, M’sieu. Since we came, I have talked and reasoned with them.”
“Well, Father, I am going to try it. The question is, will the Governor make good what I shall have to promise? It may be that he will. If not,––then my life will not be worth a box of tinder if I stray a league from Quebec195without a guard.” He looked down at the daisy on his coat. “But the maid will be safe, Father. She will be safe.”
“I do not believe that they would harm her, even as it is.”
“No, I trust not––I trust not. But we are here, and she is here; and not until I know that her journey is over will my eyes close easily at night.”
“But your plan, M’sieu,––you have not told me.”
“Ah, I thought you understood. Did you know about the capture at Frontenac when it happened? No? It was like this. The Governor sent word, with the orders that came up to the fort in May, that at the first sign of trouble or disturbance with the Indians there, d’Orvilliers should seize a few score of them and send them down the river in chains. It would be an example, he said. I was awaiting orders,––I had just returned from the Huron Country and Michillimackinac,––and d’Orvilliers called me to his rooms and showed me the order. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘who in the devil is meddling at Quebec?’ I did not know; I do not know yet. But there was the order. He turned it over to La Grange, with instructions196to wait until some offence should give him an excuse.”
“I know the rest, M’sieu.”
“Yes, yes. You have heard a dozen times,––how La Grange was drinking, and how he lied to a peaceful hunting party, and drugged them, and brained one poor devil with his own sword. And what could we do, Father? Right or wrong, the capture was made. It was too late to release them, for the harm was done. If d’Orvilliers had refused to carry out his orders and send them to Quebec, it would have cost him his commission.”
“And you, M’sieu?”
“I was the only officer on detached service at the Fort. D’Orvilliers could not look me in the face when he ordered me to take them.”
“You will tell them this?”
“This? Yes, and more. I will pledge the honour of New France that La Grange shall suffer. The man who has betrayed the Onondagas must be punished before we can have their good faith. Don’t you understand?”
Father Claude walked away a few steps, and then back, his hands clasped before him.
“Don’t you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois, it is revenge that197will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has wronged them; let them have their revenge.”
“Is that the right view, M’sieu?”
“Not for us, Father,––for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But justice,––that is not the word with which to reach an Indian.”
“But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What then?”
“You do not seem to understand me yet, Father.” Menard spoke slowly and calmly. “This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings, and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,––well, would you have me such a soldier?”
The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once he seemed to have nothing to offer.
“It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier’s work easy? First I must make these Indians believe me,––and you know how hard that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if198they will not release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I will stay here until La Grange has got his dues.”
“Let us suppose,” said the priest,––“let us suppose that you did not do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the Governor should do nothing.”
“Then,” said Menard, “the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered, and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all.”
“You are sure of this?”
“It points that way, Father.”
“Then let us take another case. Suppose that you succeed at the council, that you are released. Then if the Governor should disclaim responsibility, should––”
“Then, Father, I will go to La Grange and make him fight me. I mean to pledge my word to these chiefs. You know what that means.”
“Yes,” replied the priest, “yes.” He seemed puzzled and unsettled by some thought that held his mind. He walked slowly about, looking at the ground. Menard, too, was restless. He rose from the stone and tossed away the199pebbles that had supported the cup, one at a time.
“They are singing again,” he said, listening to the droning chant that came indistinctly through the dark. “One would think they would long ago have been too drunk to stand. How some of these recruits the King sends over to us would envy them their stomachs.”
The priest made no reply. He did not understand the impulse that led the Captain to speak irrelevantly at such a moment.
“I suppose the doctors are dancing now,” Menard continued. “It may be that they will come here. If they do, we shall have a night of it.”
“We will hope not, M’sieu.”
“If they should, Father,––well, it is hard to know just what to do.”
“You were thinking––?”
“Oh, I was wondering. If they come here, and let their wild talk run away with them, it might be well to fight them off until morning. Maybe we could do it.”
“Yes, it might seem best.”
“But if––if the Big Throat should not come, or should have changed, then it would have been better that I had submitted.”200
“You are thinking of me, my son. You must not. I will not leave you to go without a struggle. I can fight, if needs be, as well as you. I will do my part.”
“It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not come,––there is the maid. They would not spare her then.”
The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes.
“True,” he said; “true.”
Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely. Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:––
“If they come, Father,––if they harm her,––God! if they even wake her, I will kill them.”
Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door.
“There are some things which I could not talk over with you,” said the priest, finally. “It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know what is the right thing for me to do, or to say.”201
“What troubles you?”
“When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,––until our last moment of choice,––I must ask one favour, M’sieu. You will not decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of other ways; you will––”
“What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way.”
“But you will not decide yet?”
“No. We need not, to-night.”
The priest seemed relieved.
“M’sieu,” came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, “may I not sit with you?”
“You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?”
“No, I could not. I––I have not heard you, M’sieu,––I have not listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they are not the best of company to-night.”
“Come.” Menard rose and got one of the priest’s blankets, folding it and laying it on the ground against the wall. “I fear that we may be no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service of Mademoiselle.”
She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap. Menard was half in the202shadow, 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 masses 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 amusement.”
“They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when there is no hunt to occupy them.”203
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––”204
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.205
“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 did206not 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 passed 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.”207
“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.”208
“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.”
“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.209
“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-shell comb. They took it and examined it.
“It is beautiful,” said Menard.210
“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 Mass applied to the Passion 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.”211
“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.