Part 32 (1/2)

”And yourself, M'sieu,” the maid said impulsively. ”You have done it, too.”

”I cannot tell. We do not know what the council may decide. It may be morning before they will come to an agreement. The Long Arrow will fight to the last.”

”And the other, M'sieu,--the one who attacked you,--he too will fight?”

”He is nothing. When an Iroquois shows himself a coward his influence is gone forever. It may be even that they will give him a new name because of this.”

”There are times when a small accident or a careless word will change the mind of a nation,” said Father Claude. ”When we left the council they were not unfriendly to us. But in an hour it may be that they will renew the torture. Until their hearts have been touched by the Faith there are but two motives behind the most of their actions, expediency and revenge. But I think we may hope. Brother de Lamberville has told of many cases of torture where the right appeal has brought a complete change.”

So they talked on, none having anything to say, and yet each dreading the silences that came so easily and hung over them so heavily. They could see the council-house some distance up the path. Its outlines were lost in the shadows of the trees, but through the crevices in the bark and logs came thin lines of light, and a glow shone through the long roof opening upon the smoke that hung in the still air above it.

Sometimes they could hear indistinctly the voice of a speaker; but the words could not be distinguished. At other times there was a low buzz of voices. The children and women who had not been able to get into the building could be seen moving about outside shutting off a strip of light here and there.

Two braves came with some corn and smoked meat. Menard set it down on a corner of the blanket.

”You will eat, Mademoiselle?”

She shook her head. ”I am not hungry. Thank you, M'sieu.”

”If I may ask it,--if I may insist,--it is really necessary, Mademoiselle.”

She reached out, with a weary little gesture, and took some of the corn.

”And you too, Father.”

They ate in silence, and later went together to the spring for a cool drink.

”We ought to make an effort to sleep,” Menard said; and added, ”if we can. Father, you had better lie down. In a few hours, if there is no word, I will wake you.”

”You will not forget, M'sieu? You will not let me sleep too long.”

”No.” The Captain smiled. ”No, Father; you shall take your turn at guard duty.”

The priest said good-night, and went to a knoll not far from the door.

The maid had settled back against the logs of the hut, and was gazing at the trees. Menard sat in silence for a few moments.

”Mademoiselle,” he said at length, ”I know that it will be hard for you to rest until we have heard; but--” he hesitated, but she did not help him, and he had to go on,--”I wish you would try.”

”It would be of no use, M'sieu.”

”I know,--I know. But we have much to keep in mind. It has been very hard. Any one of us is likely to break. And you have not been so used to this life as the Father and I.”

”I know it,” she said, still looking at the elm branches that bent almost to the ground before them, ”but when I lie down, and close my eyes, and let my mind go, it seems as if I could not stand it. It is not bad now; I can be very cool now. You see, M'sieu?” She turned toward him with the trace of a smile. ”But when I let go--perhaps you do not know how it is; the thoughts that come, and the dreams,--when I am awake and yet not awake,--and the feeling that it is not worth while, this struggle, even to what it may bring if we succeed. It makes the night a torture, and the dread of another day is even worse.

It is better to stay awake; it is better even to break. Anything is better.”

Menard looked down between his knees at the ground. He did not understand what it was that lay behind her words. He started to speak, then stopped. After a little he found himself saying words that came to his lips with no effort; in fact, he did not seem able to check them.

”It is not right that I should be here near you. I gave up that right to-night. I gave it up yesterday. I have been proud, during these years of fighting, that I was a soldier. I had thought, too, that I was a man. It was hardly a week ago that I rebuked that poor boy for what I have since done myself. I promised Major Provost that I would take you safely to Frontenac. That I have failed is only a little thing. I have said to you--no, you must not stop me. We have gone already beyond that point. We understand now. I have tried to be to you more than--than I had a right to be while you were in my care.

Danton did not know; Father Claude does not know. You know, because I have told you. I have shown you in a hundred ways.”

”No,” she said, in a choking voice. ”It is my fault. I allowed you.”