It was some little time before the baron could recover from the shock.
"What is all this?" he at last exclaimed. "Where is Marguerite—or Gabrielle—and who are you?"
"If Monsieur de Valricour has forgotten me, I have not forgotten one who was once so kind to me," replied Amoahmeh.
"What!" said he, as the words called up a recollection of the interest he had taken in Marguerite's protegée. "Why, you are the Indian girl who saved Isidore's life at Fort William Henry. How came you here?"
Amoahmeh did not at first reply: she was not sure how far her questioner was to be trusted with that secret.
"Do you know what you have done?" he continued, impatiently. "If, as I fancy you have helped her to escape, I ought to have you taken out and shot before you are an hour older."
"Amoahmeh is ready to die," was the calm rejoinder.
The baron strode up and down, scarce knowing whether to be most pleased or angry, yet sorely puzzled what to do.
"Stay," said he. "You were handed over to me as Gabrielle; it is no business of mine that my predecessor handed over to me the wrong person, and let the right Gabrielle escape. And yet, glad as I am for one thing," he added, looking compassionately on his prisoner, "it goes to my heart to think that you should be repaid for your devotion by such a fate as this, not to say worse still when I may not be here to look after you. I cannot let you go," said he, stopping abruptly in front of her; "no, I can't let you go. I don't care even to ask you where she is, or anything about her; you have been delivered over to me as Gabrielle, and my duty is to keep you safe. I might be shot—nay, I would rather be than betray my trust."
Amoahmeh knelt down and took his hand.