“Oh, he is here now?”
“Yes. It seems, further, that all the other workers among the Iroquois have had word and are returning. That much of my labour is removed.”
“How do they get this word?” said Menard, impatiently. “That is the old question. It is enough to make one wonder if there are any secrets kept from the enemy’s country.”
“No one seems to know, M’sieu. The Superior told me last night that they had not been sent for, so it would seem that the information must have reached them through the Indians.”
“The folly of these new governors!” Menard strode back and forth. “Oh, it makes one sigh for old Frontenac. He never walked blindfolded into such a trap as this. But go on. You were speaking of Father de Lamberville.”
“It was only that I described the Long Arrow to Brother de Lamberville. He seemed to remember such a wampum collar as the Long Arrow wore. He could not recall exactly.”
“Then we may as well forget the incident. It seems that we are to know nothing of it. Here is Danton.”
The lieutenant and the maid were walking rapidly down to the wharf. Mademoiselle was in a gay mood after her few hours of enjoyment among the comforts of a city.
“Good-morning,” she called, waving her hand.
“Good-morning,” said Menard, shortly. He did not look a second time, to see her smile fade, for Guerin had not appeared, and he was rapidly losing patience. He walked up and down the wharf for a few moments, while Danton found a seat for the maid and the two talked together.
“Perrot,” he said, “do you know where Guerin was last evening?”
“Yes, M’sieu. He was at the inn.”
“What was he doing? Drinking?”
“A little, M’sieu.”
“Go up there, on the run. If you don’t find him there, come right back, for we can’t wait much longer for anyone.”
Perrot ran up the street and disappeared. In a few moments he came in sight, striding down between the row of houses, holding Guerin firmly by one arm. The young fellow was hanging back, and stumbling in limp fashion. He was evidently drunk. Danton, who had joined Menard when the two men appeared, said, “Heavens, he must have started early!”
Some distance behind Perrot and Guerin came a ragged crowd of woodsmen, singing, jeering, and shouting, and bearing broad traces of a sleepless night.
Menard stood waiting with a look of disgust. When they came upon the wharf Guerin laughed, and tried to get out a flippant apology for his tardiness; but Menard seized him before the words were off his lips, and dragging him across the wharf threw him into the water. Then he turned to Perrot, and said, “Pull him out.”
The two new men stood uneasily near, with startled faces. Behind them the maid was sitting, a frightened look in her eyes. Danton had risen.
“Clear away from here!” Menard called to the drunken rabble, who had collected a few rods away, and were now hesitating between laughter and fright. They stood looking at each other and at Menard, then they slunk away.
In all an hour had gone before they were ready to start. Guerin was weak and shivering from his plunge, but Menard ordered him into the canoe. The incident drew a cloud over the maid’s spirits, and altogether depressed the party, so that not until afternoon did they get into conversation. By that time they were past the Lachine Rapids and the Sault St. Louis, where the men made a portage, and Danton led the maid along the bank through the tangled brush and briers. When at last they were ready to push on across Lake St. Louis the maid’s skirt was torn in a dozen places, and a thorn had got into her hand, which Danton carefully removed with the point of his knife, wincing and flushing with her at each twinge of pain. During the rest of the day, they had an Iroquois lesson, and by the end of the afternoon when the sun was low, and Menard headed for the shore of Isle Perrot, the maid was bright again, laughing over Danton’s blunders in the new language.
They spent the next day on the island, for what with wind and rain the lake was impassable for their canoe. The men built a hut of brush and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard’s mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind was still running high. Menard and the engagés went out early in the afternoon and repacked all the supplies, in order that the weight might be distributed more evenly in the canoe. With this and other work he was occupied until late in the afternoon. Father Claude took the occasion for a solitary walk, and for meditation. When Menard entered the hut he found the maid sitting with her head resting against one of the supporting trees. She wore a disturbed, unsettled expression. Danton evidently had been sitting or standing near her, for when Menard entered, stooping, he was moving across the hut in a hesitating, conscious manner. The Captain looked at them curiously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to take away a part of your house to pay for your supper,” he said. “Everything is wet outside that might do for firewood. Lend a hand, Danton.” He gathered logs and sticks from the floor and walls, and carried them out. Danton, after a quick look toward the maid (which, of course, Menard saw), did the same.
The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved, and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.
“Has it stopped raining?” she asked.
Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of wood.
Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped his arm through Father Claude’s, and led him for a short walk, giving him an account of the incident. “I didn’t say anything at the time,” he concluded, “partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin to see–I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the girl–that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious children. I confess I don’t know just what to do about it. We must think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you what she wouldn’t tell me. If he’s annoying her, we must know it.”
Father Claude was troubled.
“The maid is in our care,” he said, “and also in that of Lieutenant Danton. It would seem that he–”
“There’s no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child.”
“Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser.”
The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence, in spite of Menard’s efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest’s report.
After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude joined Menard at the fire.
“Well, Father, what word?”
“Softly, M’sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet.”
“Well?”
“I