They had halted for their evening meal. Trois Rivières was not a day’s journey from them. Squatting around their fire they were preparing their meat for spitting before the cheerful blaze; the nights were waxing cold, and they huddled blinking in close range of the acceptable heat. Suddenly Petit Marc—so-called in sheer contrariness—slapped his knee. “Son of a donkey! Senseless hooting owl!” he cried. “I forget that it is near here that Antoine Crepin has his lodge. It is near an Indian village beyond the woods there. Come, General Jacques, we can make it before it grows too late. If it is Antoine you want, Antoine you shall have, though how one can prefer the surly fellow to any of us passes my comprehension. Here, boy, up with you, for from the alacrity with which the general stirs his bones it is good-by to us and how are you, Antoine? We shall find him, I think; these last nights have been cold enough to drive him in. Who’ll go with us? You, Gros Edouard? You, Richard?”
Two or three scrambled to their feet, and they set out without further ado through the dim forest, their torches aflare and their guns ready. “It is a little more than a mile westward,” Petit Marc told them. “We can trot it in no time and back again. Antoine would rather have Indians for neighbors than whites, and he is half right,” he added, in an aside. “We’ll jog right on.” They proceeded Indian-file through the leaf-carpeted wood, Petit Marc marching ahead, and Richard with Gros Edouard bringing up the rear. At last they came to a creek swollen with the autumn rains; it was a turbulent little stream, but it did not daunt the voyageurs. “We shall have to swim it,” said Petit Marc, calmly looking up and down the rising stream. “You, General Jacques, can you use your fins? I’ll take the boy on my back, for I’ll swear he can’t swim.” He looked Alaine up and down. “How is it, son?”
Alaine shook her head.
“I thought so. Here, then, take me around the neck, so, first, then slip your hands to my shoulders, and hold hard. You needn’t be scared; I have carried heavier bodies than yours across worse floods. Here we go.” And he landed Alaine on the muddy bank at the other side. Shaking himself like a huge dog, he stood up to watch the progress of the remaining members of the party. “Keep it up, general,” he shouted, “you’ll soon make it. Help him, boys; he hasn’t the muscle of the rest of us.” And, indeed, the old man’s strength was nearly spent, and after being dragged up the bank he dropped trembling to the ground. Petit Marc pulled out a flask. “Tickle your throat with that and you’ll be able to come on, general,” he said.
A few minutes of rest sufficed to give breath to the old man, and they continued their way to the cabin, which stood but a short distance farther on. With a ponderous rap Petit Marc beat on the door. “Awake, there, Antoine,” he called. “Here is General Jacques and a section of his army. Awake and open in the name of the king.”
In an instant the door was opened and a face peered out, showing in the flame of the torches suspicious eyes and a grim, unsmiling mouth. “The general here insisted upon making your house his head-quarters,” said Petit Marc, grinning; “he has written orders from the king to press us all into service, and you are to provision the whole army. We will have pity on you to-night, having supped fairly well, and we’ll go back, but you’ll have to keep him and the boy.” He gave the dripping figure of Father Bisset none too gentle a push toward the door.
“Antoine Crepin?” said the shivering old man.
“That is my name.”
“And Jeanne?”
Antoine looked closer, gave an exclamation of surprise, and opened wide the door. Father Bisset entered followed by Alaine. “It’s all right, boys,” said Petit Marc; “the general is safe, and we return. Good-night, general; we shall expect to receive our promotions in short order.” And with a loud laugh Petit Marc and his companions turned back.