Alaine found herself comfortably lodged, with Trynje’s little negro maid in attendance on the two girls. Before long they were nestled in an immense feather-bed which billowed up around them and almost hid them from sight. Alaine, however, did not sleep. She listened to the soft breathing of Trynje, who was not many minutes in dropping off into slumber; she listened to the gentle whisper of the new leaves and the trickle of a little stream not far away. Into her feeling of quiet resignation every now and then would burst the recollection of the wild joy she had experienced at seeing her lover, now lying in a room so near her. Perhaps he did not sleep. Perhaps Jeanne had found an opportunity of speaking to him and was even now telling him that though she loved him she must leave him.
At last, after tossing restlessly on the big feather-bed for an hour, she softly arose and went to the window to look out upon the beautiful quiet night. The moon, now on the wane, had not set, but hung low in the sky, a luminous crescent of misty silver. The garrison of the little fort, like herself, were watching, and the thought of this took away her feeling of loneliness. It was not the first time that she had been received under the roof of a stranger, she reflected. Many unlooked-for things had befallen her, and any day might bring a new danger. She was so young and so weary. Was there safety anywhere under that sky’s broad canopy? Was there rest anywhere under those twinkling stars?
Hark! She started to her feet. Suddenly upon the midnight air came the horrible war-cry of the Indians. It seemed to fill the air with a wild prophecy of death and torture and captivity. In an instant every one in the fort was awake. There were sounds of stern orders given, of tramping feet, of the click of triggers, of the rasp of a sword dropped into its scabbard. Hastily throwing on their clothes, the women and children, shaking with apprehension, weeping with terror, flocked together in the blockhouse, Alaine with the rest.
“We are none too well garrisoned,” said a man as he passed her. “Here, boy, can you shoot?”
Alaine turned. “Try me,” she replied, laconically.
“All right, then; come on.”
For an instant Alaine’s fears gave place to an exultant feeling. If she must die it would be by the side of Lendert. She heard a shot ring out, and the cries of the women and children grew fainter as she followed the covered way which led to the fort from the blockhouse.
Watchful men were stationed at the loopholes, a stern and determined look upon each face. Alaine looked around her. Where was Lendert?
“Go, my daughter,” whispered some one at her side. “Your place is not here.”
“I was ordered to remain,” Alaine answered, “and I shall stay. Am I so poor a shot that I must be denied the right to protect myself? Is not this as much my place as yours, Jeanne Crepin?”