The Grey Cloak - Page 197/256

"I will give my body to the stake," said Brother Jacques; "my flesh and

bones to torture. Let Onontio's daughters go."

"I have seen the little Father with his thumb in the pipe, and he

smiles like a brave man. No. They are fairer than the blossom of the

wild plum, and their hair is like the silk of corn. They shall be

slaves or wives, as they choose. Make haste," pushing the priest

toward the canoe in which madame and Anne had already taken their

places.

Had he been alone he would have resisted, so great was his wrath. A

moment's vanity placed him and these poor women in this predicament.

He had been warned by a trader that a small band of Iroquois were

hanging about, and yet he had been drawn into this! Yonder was the

marquis, who might die . . . !

"Take care, little Father," warned the Seneca, realizing by the

Jesuit's face the passion which was mounting to his brain. "It would

cause the Corn Planter great sorrow to strike."

Brother Jacques's shoulders drooped, and he sat down in the bottom of

the canoe.

"They will not harm us for the present," he said to the women

encouragingly. "And there is hope for us is the fact that these are

Senecas. To reach their villages they will perforce travel the same

route as the Onondaga expedition. And we shall probably pass close to

where our friends are."

"But the boat," said madame, "Monsieur de Lauson will think that we

have been drowned!"

"Jean Pauquet saw me enter the boat with you, and he knows that I am a

good sailor. Monsieur de Lauson will suspect immediately that we have

fallen into the hands of savages, and will instantly send us aid. So

keep a good heart and show the savage that you do not fear him. If you

can win his respect he will be courteous to you; and that will be

something, for the journey to Seneca is long."

Neither woman replied. Madame's thought went back rebelliously to the

morning. "To the ends of the world," the Chevalier had said. She

shook her head wearily. It was all over. She cared not whither these

savages took her. Mazarin would not find her indeed! What a life had

been hers! Only twenty-two, and nothing but unhappiness, disillusion,

with here and there an hour of midsummer's madness. And that note she

had written! The thought of it sustained her spirits. By now he knew

all. She shut her eyes and pictured in fancy his pain and astonishment

and chagrin. It was exhilarating. She would have liked to cry.

The Seneca chief spoke softly, commanding silence, and the canoes

glided noiselessly along the southern shores of the great river. The

sun sank presently, and night became prodigal with her stars.

Occasionally there was the sound of gurgling water as some brook poured

into the river, or the whisper of stirring branches lightly swept by

the feathered heads of the Indians. Aside from these infrequent

sounds, the silence was vast and imposing. Anne, with her head in

madame's lap, wept bitterly but without sound. She was a girl again;

the dignity of womanhood was gone, being no longer in the shadow of the

convent walls.