With an insinuating smile on his sleek, fat face the valet crept out from the dark corner which had afforded him shelter.
“Ouf! that such should exist!” the young commandant cried contemptuously. “Poltroon! art thou not ashamed to show thy face?”
“But, M’sieur du Chesne; figure to yourself—it is quite simple,” with an affectation of innocent frankness. “It is the nature of M’sieur to be courageous, to love fighting—it is well. It is the delight of Nanon to chatter. It is Bibelot’s instinct to hate the savages; you observe even the smell of one throws her into a frenzy. For me, I have an invincible repugnance to the scalping knife of the Iroquois. Had I permitted myself to be killed M’sieur would have lost a faithful servant, and these pagans would have added a fresh sin to the list of their enormities. May I ask, M’sieur, is it the duty of good Christians to tempt the heathen? Should they not rather give an example of patience and resignation?”
The new arrivals now claimed attention. Sunburned warriors they were, of tall stalwart build, limbed like statues. Success had crowned their arms, as shown in the imposing array of scalps and the necklaces of ears and fingers which many of them wore. They looked like painted spectres, grotesquely horrible in horns and tails; their faces painted red or green, with black or white spots; their ears and noses hung with ornaments of iron, and their naked bodies daubed with figures of various animals. These fierce, capricious braves smiled upon the fiery young soldier whose courage had long since won their approbation.
“What, my brother, we have arrived in time to strengthen your arm against our foes?” exclaimed the principal war chief. “The face of our white brother is welcome to the eyes of Howaha.”
The last time du Chesne had met Howaha was at the annual fair in Ville Marie, when he appeared in a picturesque attire befitting his dignity and rank. He was much less imposing now as he squatted on the grass after his triumphs, chopping rank tobacco with a scalping-knife. An astute old savage, well trained in arts of policy, he showed every disposition to render himself agreeable to the son of the influential French trader.
“But look, du Chesne! Here is a white prisoner—a woman, too. Oh, surely she is not dead!” cried Diane.
“No, not dead, Diane, but evidently overcome by fatigue and fright. Howaha tells me she is a New England girl whom they have taken. She has been given to one of the chiefs, Nitchoua, to replace a wife he lost during the winter. Had it not been for that she would have been butchered on the spot.”
“An English heretic! Take care, then, Mademoiselle; she may have the evil eye. True sorcerers are these English; it is said they devour little children, even to the bones. No doubt they are wicked, and of a wickedness truly terrible—yet this one has not the appearance of a veritable monster,” continued Nanon with wavering positiveness.
In the lethargy of utter exhaustion, her limbs relaxed and nerveless, the girl lay on the grass just as she had been thrown by the Indians. She seemed utterly unconscious of the clamor of voices or of the curious regard directed towards her, as though in the terrible numbness of despair she had grown indifferent to her fate. Her features were delicately formed, her complexion of an exquisite purity, yet so utterly devoid of color that she resembled a beautiful statue rather than a living woman.