“Ah-h!” Jeanne compressed her lips and walked on in silence. From time to time she looked at François, whose eyes returned her glance with something of their old mischief.
“I see, madam,” he said at last, “twenty questions have risen to your lips, yet none are uttered. You say, Why does he go to the Indian village? What does he intend to do if he discovers Lendert Verplanck there? How much does he know? How little does he know? What is to be done after all? and all that. Am I right?”
“You are right,” she returned, gravely.
“Then I will answer without further prelude. I go to the Indian village because there I have heard I will find Lendert Verplanck. I wish to see him, and if possible to set him free. And then I have really nothing more to do in this life. Love will do the rest.” He searched Jeanne’s face, over which a sudden softness spread.
“Ay,” she said, “love will do the rest, if love meets life.”
“Explain yourself, if you please.”
“Lendert Verplanck has been kept alive from day to day only on sufferance. At first they would have despatched him by slow torture without hesitation, but some interfered, Ricard and some others, and the Indians agreed to wait till they should reach the village. Arriving there, he was made to run the gauntlet, to believe that each day must be his last, and that the morrow would see the fires of torture kindled for him. But Petit Marc sits there watching. He declares that once they glut themselves with the Dutchman’s death, he, Petit Marc, has knowledge which will bring them terrible disaster.”
“This is interesting. Then why do they not despatch Monsieur Marc first? That would be my plan.”
Jeanne smiled a little ironically. “They know better, for Petit Marc has conveyed away one of them whom he holds as a hostage. They know that at a word from this big man——”
“Whom you call little——”