Mère Lunde opened the house and cleared up the dust and disorder. The garden was overgrown with weeds and everything was running riot. Marchand insisted upon lending a helping hand here. Many an evening they sat in the doorway wondering, hoping and despairing.
[CHAPTER IX—PRISONERS]
The wild cry of “The Indians! the Indians!” had roused a small group from their desultory enjoyment. They were pouring down in what seemed a countless throng. Marchand had no weapon except his knife.
“Run,” he cried. “Make for the fort! Keep at the edge of the wood while we can!”
Wawataysee seized Renée’s hand. The Indian girl was as fleet as a deer. She could have saved herself, but she would not leave the child. They had now reached the open. All was screams and confusion and flying fugitives.
A tall Indian was behind them with a club. Wawataysee gave a wild shriek and the next instant stumbled over her husband’s prostrate body. The Indian rushed on.
“Oh!” cried Renée in wild affright, standing still in terror, the flying crowd like swirling leaves before her eyes.
The sharp crack of a rifle made her spring back. Were both killed now? But Wawataysee moved, groaned.
“They have shot him now, my beloved!” She raised the bleeding head and pressed it to her bosom. “Oh, he has been killed, I know. Why did I not die with him? Oh, Renée—”
Escape now was as impossible as succor. The Indian girl moaned over her husband, and made a futile attempt to drag him back to the edge of the wood to hide him. But suddenly she was violently wrenched away, and an Indian with a hand hold of each began to run with them toward the river. At last Renée fell and he had to pause. Meanwhile the firing from the fort had begun with its execution.