The Road to Frontenac Part 21

"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 gla.s.s.

"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 the mirror, 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."

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 G.o.d grant that you may return soon. But your good heart leads you 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.

"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 gra.s.s, 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 purple and 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?"

"Not yet. They are a.s.sembling 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 the white 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 gra.s.s 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.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "you are not hurt?"

"No, M'sieu."

"Thank G.o.d!" 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, s.n.a.t.c.hed 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?"