"I know, madame."
"But when—when I saw what he had done, when I saw that we were going west, I warned him that I would leave him. I told him, too, that he was going to his death. He did not believe me. No watch was kept on me. He had a small canoe; I took it one night. I had provision—a little—— I—I—I am here, monsieur."
I stood with my eyes down. "Your cousin wished to follow you. The Indians restrained him. It was as I told you. He was not a coward at the last, madame."'
I heard her quick breath. "My cousin,—he was very weak. But he would have liked not to be. I think that he would have liked to be such a man as you, monsieur."
If I had been a live man I should have cried out at the irony of having to hear her say that to me. But I could not feel even shame.
"Hush, hush!" I said slowly. "It is my turn now. Madame, I knew that you were in the Seneca camp."
"But I was not."
"It is the same as if you were. We had news from Indian runners that Starling had turned west and joined Pemaou. I knew that he would take you to the Senecas." I stopped and forced myself to look at her. But I found no horror in her face. There was still that strange glow of pride that had not faded since she talked to Cadillac. I saw that she did not understand. My voice was thick, but I tried to speak again. She interrupted.
"This is not a surprise to me. This wilderness that seems so lonely is full of eyes and ears. I feared that you would hear that we had turned west."
Her face was unsteady with tenderness. I had never seen her look like that. I warded her away though she was several feet distant. "You do not understand," I said. "I knew that you were in the camp, yet I gave the signal to attack it. I gave the signal to attack it with Indians, and you were inside."