“A matter of conscience, yes, when one has fled because of that there is nothing to say,” Jeanne would say. “We owe it to you, Jacques, my brother, that we have escaped to a place where the arm of law does not touch us. We do not criticise you, he and I; we have suffered too much from France ever to wish to see that country again. We live a wild life; there is not much religion in it, yet if one can believe in God and in his justice, not man’s, he is not altogether bad. I tell my beads; I say my prayers; I have respected the priests because you were one. Now, I hate the France that has persecuted you and the Jesuits who would curse you.”
Alaine heard this, then slept, awaking to hear, “The child Alaine must be returned to her friends. I ask that of you, Antoine and Jeanne. I am an old man, and of late I realize that I am not as strong as I used to be. If I am removed I leave her to your sacred charge. She must be taken to one of the English or Dutch settlements in New York. I was God’s instrument to save her from the pit digged for her, and I have guarded her from all the evil that I could. I may have been mistaken to bring her in this disguise, but it seemed better so, and it was not for long.”
“She is not much hurt,” laughed Jeanne. “Ma foi! if I could stand it for all these years she could stand it for two or three days. They are not so desperately wicked, those that brought you here. One may have been something worse than any of them and still have remained respected in France.”
“True, Jeanne, true,” growled Antoine.
“At all events,” continued Jeanne, “you need give yourself no uneasiness; we will start forth as soon as the weather permits and see her safe in one of the settlements, and then we return here to live and die together. As for the girl’s dress, it is a good one, and warm at that. I wear much the same, and if I had to travel about more than I do, I should not cumber myself with anything more. It is quiet enough and cold enough here to wear anything one chooses.”
Alaine lifted her head and stretched out her feet towards the blaze. “I am very comfortable,” she said, “and I do not think I am likely to remember or repeat all that patois of the crew which brought us here, so give yourself no uneasiness, Uncle Jacques; I am grateful to the very tip of my moccasins for all that you have done for me. I want to go home, yes, but I want to take you all with me.” The wave of her hand included even the gloomy Antoine.
Jeanne laughed. “She would take us all, you hear. Very well, let us go and see what Michelle will do.”
“She will be very glad, I can assure you,” Alaine returned, gravely.
“I am not so sure of that,” Jeanne responded. “However, there is bitter weather before us, and who shall say what may happen before spring?”
Who, indeed, can say what may happen anywhere while human passions are allowed to slip from their leash? The wildest of solitary places is yet too narrow to prevent the lifting of Cain’s hand against his brother. And because of this, one day along the snow-covered ground toward the lodge there came a file of men led by Petit Marc, who carried in his arms a burden. At every step there were red stains to be seen marking the snowy path. Behind Marc came Antoine, his arms held about the necks of two others; he stepped feebly, as one not sure of his way. At the door of the lodge the little company paused, and Jeanne, hearing the shuffling feet, opened to them.