The Road to Frontenac Part 20

"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 his waist. He came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a glance. Just as he pa.s.sed 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 with the 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 has gone 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"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. The maid 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 talking gaily 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 his sleeve.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.