"Pani is an Indian?"
"Yes. She was Monsieur Bellestre's servant. And one day, under a great oak outside the palisade, some one, an Indian squaw, dropped me in her lap. Pani could not understand her language, but she said in French, 'Maman dead, dead.' And when M. Bellestre went away, far, far to the south on the great river, he had the little cottage fixed for Pani and me, and there we live."
St Armand beckoned the woman, who had been making desperate signs of disapprobation to Jeanne.
"Tell me the story of this little girl," he said authoritatively.
"Monsieur, she is mine and M. Bellestre's. Even the priest has no right to take her away."
"No one will take her away, my good woman. Do not fear." For Pani's face was pale with terror and her whole form trembled. "Did you know nothing about this woman who brought her to you?"
Pani told the story with some hesitation. The Indian woman talked very fair French. To what tribe she had belonged, even the De Longueils had not known otherwise than that she had been sent to Detroit with some Pawnee prisoners.
"It is very curious," he commented. "I must go to the Recollet house and see these articles. And now tell me where I can find you—for I am due at the banquet given for General Wayne."
"It is in St. Joseph's street above the Citadel," said Jeanne. "Oh, will you come? And perhaps you will not mind if I ask you some questions about the things that puzzle me," and an eager light shone in her eyes.
"Oh, not at all. Good day, little one. I shall see you soon," and he waved his hand.