De Babylon, plorions melancholiques.”
Mathilde and Alaine joined in softly, and then kneeling down, with wet eyes, Alaine sent up a prayer for her father.
She knelt so long that Mathilde at last touched her on the shoulder. “I must go now,” she said.
Alaine arose. “Leave me a little, then; I wish to stay longer.” Mathilde turned and left her, and for a long time the girl knelt with clasped hands, her eyes fixed upon the blue waters of the sound. So long was her gaze turned in one direction that she did not see that at last she was left quite alone by her friends and that a pair of crafty eyes were watching her. The sound of the psalm-singing had given place to the distant noise of the Indians in their frolic; the rise and fall of a monotonous chant; howlings and whoopings.
“Ah, my father,” sighed the girl at last, “if you be on earth may the good God bring you safe to me.” She arose to her feet, and with downcast head she descended to where a cave in the rocks showed the remains of charred wood. Here the arriving Huguenots, upon landing, had built their first fire. The place was held as common property, and the mood that caused Alaine to take a mournful pleasure in gazing at all which could in any way remind her of her friends, her faith, her lost France, made her linger here.
Suddenly stealthy footsteps crept up behind her; a pair of sinewy arms seized her; a hand was clapped over her mouth, and before she could scream or struggle she was carried around a point of rocks and placed in a canoe, which was quickly pushed out upon the dancing waters of the sound. In vain she tried to make some signal to those on shore. Only the dancing, yelling Indians could see the little craft with one of their own number guiding it through the water. Friendly though they might be, this was their cider frolic, and even if they had been aware of the deed, they would have been in no state to render assistance.
Alaine had passed through too many trying scenes to weakly give up to tears. She lay very still in the bottom of the canoe, her large eyes fixed on the Indian’s face. After a short time he loosened the thongs with which he had bound her and said, “Little squaw not be afraid.”
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, sitting up. He gave a grunt and shook his head. That question was not to be answered.
“Estans assis aux rives aquatiques,” she began to sing shrilly.
Her captor frowned and bade her hush. “No sing.” What could she do? Where was he taking her? She cudgelled her brains for a reason for this sudden act, for this seizure of her innocent self, but could decide upon no cause for it.