The Grey Cloak - Page 196/256

A hand, dark and glistening with water resting upon the gunwale of the

boat, just back of madame, had caught his eye. Both women saw the

horror grow in his face.

"What is it?" they cried.

Without replying he caught up the oars. The water boiled around the

broad blades: the boat did not turn, but irresistibly maintained its

course up the river. With an exclamation of despair, he wrenched loose

one of the oars, lifted it above his head and brought it swiftly down

toward the hand. The blade splintered on the gunwale. The hand had

been withdrawn too swiftly. At the same instant the boat careened and

a bronzed and glistening savage raised himself into the boat; and

another, and another. They were captives, madame, Anne, and Brother

Jacques. There stood the frowning fortress in the distance, help; but

no voice could reach that distance. They were lost.

One of the Indians drew a knife and held it suggestively against

Brother Jacques's breast. Neither madame nor Anne screamed; they were

daughters of soldiers.

There were four Indians in all. They had daringly breasted the stream,

and had grasped the towing line and the stern and had silently

propelled the boat up the current.

"For myself I do not care," said Brother Jacques, his voice breaking.

"But God forgive me for not being firm when I warned you."

"You are not to blame, Father," said madame. She was pale, but calm.

"What will they do with us?" asked Anne, a terrible thought dazing her.

"We are in the hands of God."

The boat moved diagonally across the river. When the forest-lined

shore was gained, the leader motioned his captives to disembark, which

they did. He put the remaining oar into the lock and pushed the

governor's pleasure craft down stream, smiling as he did so. Next he

drew forth two canoes from under drooping elderberry bushes and

motioned to the women and Brother Jacques to enter.

"What are you going to do with us?" asked Brother Jacques in his best

Iroquois.

"Make slaves of the white man's wives," gruffly. "The squaws of the

Senecas long for them. And shall the Seneca see his favorite wife weep

like a mother who has lost her firstborn?"

"Ah!" cried the priest, a light of recognition coming into his eyes.

"So it is you, Corn Planter, whom I baptized Peter, whom I saved from

starvation three times come the Winter Maker! So the word and

gratitude of Corn Planter become like walnuts which have no meat?

Beware; these are the daughters of Onontio, and his wrath will be

great."

"It is the little Father," replied the Seneca. "It is well. He shall

have food in plenty, and his days shall be long in my village, where he

will teach my children the laws of his fathers. As for Onontio, he

sleeps in his stone house while my brothers from the Mohawk valley

carry away his Huron children. The daughters of Onontio shall become

slaves. I have said."