"And will," retorted D'Hérouville, his eyes lighting with intelligence.
"At Quebec you held an unmanly threat above my head. Come with me;
there is no woman here."
"Fight you? I believe we have settled that matter," insolently.
The Chevalier brought the back of his hand swiftly against
D'Hérouville's mouth.
The laugh which sounded came from the vicomte. This would be
interesting if no one interfered. But he was up almost as quickly as
Victor, who rushed between the two men. D'Hérouville's sword was half
free.
"Wherever you say!" he cried hoarsely.
"A moment, gentlemen!" said the vicomte, pointing toward the dancing
circle.
A tall figure had stepped quietly into the dancing circle, raising his
hands to command silence. It was the Black Kettle, son of Atotarho.
"Two stranger canoes are coming up the river. Let us go to meet them,"
said the Black Kettle. "Either they are friends, or they are enemies."
"Let us wait and see what this is," and the vicomte touched the
Chevalier on the arm.
"Curse you all!" cried D'Hérouville passionately. "Liar!" He turned
upon Victor. "But for your lying tongue, I should not be here."
"After Monsieur le Chevalier," said the poet, forgetting that he could
not hold a sword.
"Rather say after me, Saumaise;" and the vicomte smiled significantly.
"All of you, together or one at a time!" D'Hérouville was mad with
rage.
"One at a time," replied the banterer; "the Chevalier first, and if he
leaves anything worth fighting, I; as for you, my poet, your chances
are nil."
Meanwhile a dozen canoes had been launched. A quarter of an hour
passed anxiously; and then the canoes returned, augmented by two more.
Father Chaumonot hailed. An answering hail came back.
"Father Chaumonot?"
"Who calls me by name?" asked the Jesuit.
"Brother Jacques!"
Brother Jacques! The human mind moves quickly from one thing to
another. For the time being all antagonism was gone; a single thought
bound the four men together again.
"Are you alone?" asked Chaumonot. His voice quavered in spite of his
effort.
"No!" sang out Brother Jacques's barytone; and there was a joyous note
in it. "Two daughters of Onontio are captives with me."
Two daughters of Onontio; two women from the Château St. Louis! A rare
wine seemed to infuse the Chevalier's blood. He forgot many things in
that moment.
"Women?" murmured Father Chaumonot, in perplexity. "Oh, this is
fortunate and yet unfortunate! What shall we do with them here? I can
spare no men to take them back to Quebec; and the journey would only
plunge them into danger even worse."
The Senecas, sullen but dignified, and their captives were brought
ashore and led toward the fire. The Onondagas crowded around. These,
then, were the fair flowers which grew in the gardens of the white man;
and the young braves, who had never before set eyes upon white women,
gazed wonderingly and curiously at the two marvels. The women
sustained with indifference and composure this mild investigation.
They had gone through so much that they were not interested in what
they saw. The firelight illumined their sadly arrayed figures and
played over their worn and weary faces. Father Chaumonot extended his
hands toward them reassuringly; and they followed his every gesture
with questioning eyes. Corn Planter, the Seneca chief, began to
harangue. Since when had the Onondaga brother taken it upon himself to
meddle with the affairs of the Senecas? Was not the law written
plainly? Did the Onondaga wish to defy the law of their forefathers?
The prisoners were theirs by right of their cunning. Let the Senecas
proceed with their captives, as their villages were yet very far away,
and they had spent much time in loitering.