you know their tongue?”
“A few words, and some of the signs. This,”–raising her hand, with the first finger extended, and slowly moving her arm in a half circle from horizon to horizon,–“this meant a sun,–one day.”
Menard looked at her for a moment in silence. He enjoyed her enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you learn Iroquois? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful tongue,–the language of metaphor and poetry.”
“I should like to,” she replied, looking with a faint smile at Danton and the priest, who were sitting under a beech tree, mumbling in low tones.
“You shall join the class, Mademoiselle. You shall begin to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Danton to take the Father’s instruction to himself alone.”
“And then, M’sieu, I will know what the Indians say when they sit up stiffly in their blankets, and talk down in their throats. They have such dignity. It is hard not to believe them when they look straight at one.”
“Don’t you believe them?”
“The three this morning,–they did not tell the truth.”
“Didn’t they?”
“Why, I understood that you did not believe them.”
“And where did Mademoiselle learn that? Did she follow the conversation?”
“No; but Lieutenant Danton–”
“He told you?”
She nodded. Menard frowned.
“He shouldn’t have done that.”
The maid looked surprised at his remark, and the smile left her face. “Of course, M’sieu,” she said, a little stiffly, “whatever is not meant for my ears–”
Menard was still frowning, and he failed to notice her change in manner. He abruptly gave the conversation a new turn, but seeing after a short time that the maid had lost interest in his sallies, he rose, and called to the priest.
“Father, you are to have a new pupil. Mademoiselle also will study the language of the Iroquois. If you are quick enough with your pupils, we shall soon be able to hold a conversation each night about the fire. Perhaps, if you would forego your exclusive air, Mademoiselle would begin at once.”
Danton, without waiting for the priest to start, came hurriedly over and sat by the maid.
“You must pardon me,” he said, “I did not think,–I did not know that you would be interested. It is so dry.”
The maid smiled at the fire.
“You did not ask,” she replied, “and I could not offer myself to the class.”
“It will be splendid,” said Danton. “We shall learn the language of the trees and the grass and the rivers and the birds. And the message of the wampum belt, too, we shall know. You see,”–looking up at Menard,–“already I am catching the meanings.”
Menard smiled, and then went down the bank, leaving the three to bend their heads together over the mysteries of the Iroquois rules of gender, written out by Father Claude on a strip of bark. It was nearly an hour later, after the maid had crept to her couch beneath the canoe, and Perrot and Guerin had sprawled upon the bales and were snoring in rival keys, that Danton came lightly down the slope humming a drinking song. He saw Menard, and dropped to the ground beside him, with a low laugh.
“Mademoiselle will lead my wits a chase, Menard. Already she is deep in the spirit of the new work.”
“Be careful, my boy, that she leads no more than your wits a chase.”
Danton laughed again.
“I don’t believe there is great danger. What a voice she has! I did not know it at first, when she was frightened and spoke only in the lower tones. Now when she speaks or laughs it is like–”
“Like what?”
“There is no fit simile in our tongue, light as it is. It may be that in the Iroquois I shall find the words. It should be something about the singing brooks or the voice of the leaves at night.”
The lad was in such buoyant spirits that Menard had to harden himself for the rebuke which he must give. With the Indian tribes Menard had the tact, the control of a situation, that would have graced a council of great chiefs; but in matters of discipline, the blunter faculties and language of the white men seemed to give his wit no play. Now, as nearly always, he spoke abruptly.
“Have you forgotten our talk of this morning, Danton?”
“No,” replied the boy, looking up in surprise.
The night had none of the dampness that had left a white veil over the morning just gone. The moon was half hidden behind the western trees. The sky, for all the dark, was blue and deep, set with thousands of stars, each looking down at its mate in the shining water.
“I spoke of the importance of keeping our own counsel.”
Danton began to feel what was coming. He looked down at the ground without replying.
“To-night Mademoiselle has repeated a part of our conversation.”
“Mademoiselle,–why, she is one of our party. She knows about us,–who we are, what we are going for–”
“Then you have told her, Danton?”
“How could she help knowing? We are taking her to Frontenac.”
“Father Claude has not told her why we go to Frontenac–nor have I.”
“But Major Provost is her friend–”
“He would never have told her.”
“But she seemed to know about it.”
“Then you have talked it over with her?”
“Why, no,–that is, in speaking of our journey we said something of the meaning of the expedition. It could hardly be expected that we,–I fail to see, Captain, what it is you are accusing me of.”
“You have not been accused yet, Danton. Let me ask you a question. Why did you enter the King’s army?”
Danton hesitated, and started once or twice to frame answer, but made no reply.
“Did you wish a gay uniform, to please the maids, to–”
“You are unfair, M’sieu.”
“No, I wish to know. We will say, if you like, that you have hoped to be a soldier,–a soldier of whom the King may one day have cause to be proud.”
Danton flushed, and bowed his head.
“I offered you the chance to go on this mission, Danton, because I believed in you. I believed that you had the making of a soldier. This is not a child’s errand, this of ours. It is the work of strong men. This morning I told you of my talk with the three Onondagas because I have planned to take you into my confidence, and
