style="font-size:15px;"> Father Claude was troubled.
“The maid is in our care,” he said, “and also in that of Lieutenant Danton. It would seem that he–”
“There’s no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child.”
“Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser.”
The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence, in spite of Menard’s efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest’s report.
After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude joined Menard at the fire.
“Well, Father, what word?”
“Softly, M’sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet.”
“Well?”
“I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind.”
“How is that?”
“She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and not an idle curiosity, she was moved.”
“Did she speak then?”
“No, M’sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her mind,–it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had cast her down.”
“And so she has pride,” mused Menard. “Could you gather any new opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some understanding?”
“I hardly think so, M’sieu. But may I suggest that it would be well to be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our trust,”
“True, Father. I will account for him.”
There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before, with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and each of the four engagés stood his turn.
The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river, and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.
During the next day they passed on up the stream to the Coteau des Cedres. Menard and Father Claude were both accustomed to take the rapid without carrying, or even unloading, but Danton looked at the swirling water with doubt in his eyes. When the maid, leaning back in the canoe while the men halted at the bank to make fast for the passage, saw the torrent that tumbled and pitched merrily down toward them, she laughed. To hold a sober mood for long was not in her buoyant nature, and she welcomed a dash of excitement as a relief from the strained relations of the two days just gone.
“M’sieu,” she called to Menard, with a sparkle in her eyes. “Oh, M’sieu, may I stay in the canoe?”
Danton turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and a look, half of pain, half of surprise, came over his face as he saw her eagerness. Menard looked at her in doubt.
“It may be a wet passage, Mademoiselle.”
“And why not, M’sieu? Have I not been wet before? See, I will protect myself.” She drew the bundles closely about her feet, and threw a blanket across her knees. “Now I can brave the stream, Captain. Or,”–her gay tone dropped, and she looked demurely at him,–“perhaps it is that I am too heavy, that I should carry myself up the bank. I will obey my orders, Captain.” But as she spoke she tucked the blanket closer about her, and stole another glance at Menard.
He smiled. He was thinking of Madame Gordeau and her fragile daughter, who had shuddered with fear at a mere glimpse of the first rapid. “Very well,” he said, “Mademoiselle shall stay in the canoe.”
“But it is not safe”–broke in Danton, stepping forward. Then, conscious of the blunder, he turned away, and took up the rope.
“Lay hold, boys,” said Menard.
Perrot and one of the new men waded into the water, and laid hold of the gunwales on each side of the bow. Menard himself took the stern. He called to Danton, who stood awkwardly upon the bank, “Take the rope with the men.”
Guerin made the rope fast and set out ahead, with the other men and Danton close behind. Father Claude rolled up his robe and joined them.
“Wait,” called Menard, as the rope straightened. “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to disturb you, but if you will sit farther back you will have less trouble from the spray.” He waded along the side, and helped her to move nearer the stern, placing the bundles and the blanket about her as before. Then he shouted, “All right,” and they started into the foaming water.
They toiled slowly up the incline, catching at rocks to steady their course, and often struggling for a foothold. Once Menard ordered a halt at a large rock, and all rested for a moment.
When they started again, the men at the bow of the canoe had some trouble in holding it steady, for their feet were on a stretch of smooth rock, and Menard called Danton back to help them. The boy worked his way along the rope, and reached the bow.
“Come around behind Perrot,” said Menard.
Danton reached around Perrot’s body, and caught hold of the gunwale. At that moment his foot slipped, and he fell, dragging the side of the canoe down with him. The men at the bow did their best to prevent a capsize, but succeeded only in keeping half the bundles in the canoe. The others, the muskets, and the maid went into the river.
Menard moved forward as rapidly as he could against the current. The maid was unable at once to get her feet, used as she was to the water, and was swept down against him. He caught her, and, steadying himself with one hand, by the water-logged canoe, raised her head and held her while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes. Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.
“Give her to me!” he said huskily. “I’ve drowned her! My God, let me have her!”
“Stop,” said Menard, sternly. “Take the men, and go after those bales–quick!”
Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the water from her face with one hand,
