Wawataysee began to plead with her captor, who turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. Renée was crying in a desperate fashion, from both fright and fatigue. He raised his club, but the young wife clasped the child in her arms.
“Kill us both,” she exclaimed, “as you have already killed my husband.”
“White man?” with a grunt. “Squaw woman. Make some Indian glad.” Other prisoners were being brought in this direction, and among them Mère Lunde, who had started to reach the fort and bear the tidings to Gaspard.
“Oh, my dear child,” she cried. “The good God help us. They are trying to take the town.” And she almost fell at their feet.
Then they were marched on, the Indian guards behind with clubs and tomahawks, now and then goaded by a light blow that would not disable. The cries grew fainter, though they still heard the roar of the cannon.
And now the sun was slanting westward and the trees cast long shadows, the sound of the river fell on their ears mingled with the homeward song of birds. The heat began to wane, the air was dewy sweet.
It was almost dusk when they reached the boats, and they were bidden to get in and were conveyed to the opposite shore. Here they were bound together, two and two, with their hands fastened behind them. One Indian was detailed to watch them while the others took the boats back.
Ducharme’s arm hung helplessly by his side, and the English renegades began to upbraid him, while the Indians, seeing that no pillage was possible and no gain could be made, drew away sullenly and began to march toward the rendezvous, leaving some of their own badly wounded behind. It was midnight before they rejoined the others. Then, fearing pursuit, they started up the river again, rousing those who had fallen asleep. All told they had barely thirty prisoners, and had left as many of their own behind.
Mère Lunde had been allowed near the two girls, and now they huddled together in the boat. Renée had fallen asleep again.
“You do not know where they will take us?” Mère Lunde inquired.