He glanced down at his garments. "Yes," he said, "I will take your advice. I want something hot to drink. And we must send some food over there."
Rose came flying in as he was demolishing a savory slice of venison.
"Where is M. Giffard?" she cried. "Miladi is so frightened. She wants him at once. Oh, wasn't it dreadful! Thank the saints you are safe!"
"Giffard!" He had caught two or three glimpses of him in the mêlée. "He may be attending to the wounded. He is a brave fellow in an emergency. I must find him."
He swallowed the brandy and water and rushed down to the improvised hospital. A dozen or more were being fed and nursed by Wanamee and two other Indian women. The priest, too, was kindly exhorting courage and patience. Giffard was not here. No one had seen him. He ran over the crusty, but trodden-down snow, stained here and there with blood. The sun had risen gorgeously, and there was a decided balminess in the air. He glanced at the insides of the huts. The furry skins had not been good conductors of flames, and the snow on the roofs had saved them. Beside the two dead Iroquois there was an Abenaqui woman and her child. In the huts that were intact, the frightened women and children had huddled. Some of the men were already appraising possible repairs.
"They went this way," announced an Algonquin, in his broken French. He had been employed about the fort and found trusty.
The path was marked with blood and fragments of clothing, bags of maize, that they had dropped in their flight—finding them a burthen. Here lay an Iroquois with a broken leg, who was twisting himself along. The Algonquin hit him a blow over the head with the stout club he carried.
"He will not get much further," he commented, as the Indian dropped over motionless.
"Have you seen M. Giffard?" Destournier asked.
"Non, non. The men came back."