Jeanne raised her eyes to the kindly ones.
"Oh, yes," she answered with a shiver. "Lake Huron is so large, only there are islands scattered about. But when it grew very dark I simply trusted Wanita."
"And he could go in a canoe to the end of the world if it was all lakes and rivers," exclaimed Loudac. "These Indians—did you know their tribe?"
"I think two were Hurons. They could talk bad French," and she smiled. "And Chippewa, that I can understand quite well."
"Were your relatives in Detroit rich people?"
"Oh, no, I have none." Then Jeanne related her simple story.
"Strange! strange!" Loudac stroked his beard and drew his bushy eyebrows together. "There could have been no thought of ransom. I mistrust, pretty maid, that it must have been some one who watched thee and wanted thee for his squaw. Up in the wild North there would have been little chance to escape. Thou hast been fortunate in finding Owaissa. Her lover's boat came in at Bois Blanc. I suppose she went to meet him. Dame, it is late, and the child looks tired as one might well be after a long journey. Canst thou not find her a bed?"
The bed was soon improvised. Jeanne thanked her protectors with overflowing eyes and tremulous voice. For a long while she knelt in thanksgiving, her simple faith discerning a real miracle in her escape. Surely God had sent Owaissa. She forgot the fell purpose of the Indian girl, and wondered at her love for Louis Marsac.
There was much confusion and noise among the children the next morning while the dame was giving them their breakfast, but Jeanne slept soundly until they were all out at play. The sun shone as she opened her eyes, and one ray slanted across the window. Oh, where was she, in prison still? Then, by slow degrees, yesterday came back to her.
The dame greeted her cheerily, and set before her a simple breakfast that tasted most delicious. Loudac had gone up to the great house.