But at this the girl grew suddenly angry. “He is no fool,” she cried. “He is——”
“All men are fools,” quoth the French woman, sagely. “You will find it so in time. Go your way, cherie! Fantine Loire will not betray you. And, remember, her house is ever open to you. Come back to her when you will. Tonight you will sleep here, in this room of my own son, now with the blessed saints. And now—Mother of God! I must fly or M. Jack will be mad with the hunger. And, cherie, remember this! Men are not well to deal with when they are hungry. Feed them, ma cherie! Feed them!” She rushed away, leaving Alagwa alone.
How the girl got through dinner she never knew. After it, when Major Stickney returned, bringing Captain Wells, a tall, grave man, she pleaded fatigue and left him and Jack to talk with each other and with the men in the hotel, while she slipped away to the room that Madame Fantine had prepared for her. Till late that night she and the kindly French woman sat up and talked.
Even when left alone the girl did not sleep. Her duty to Tecumseh lay heavy on her soul. She must send him the information in her possession or she must confess herself a coward and a traitor to her people.
Yet she shrank from it. Not for the sake of the men in the fort! She hated them all, she told herself. Gladly would she slay them all. And not for the sake of the Bondies. She had learned enough that night to feel sure that they would be safe from any Indian attack. No! Her hesitation came from another cause.
What would Jack say when he knew that she was a spy? Insistently the question drummed into her ears. What would he say? What would he do? She pressed her fingers to her hot eyeballs, but the pressure did not dim the vision of his eyes, stricken blank with anger and with shame.
And yet she must send Tecumseh word. She must! She had promised to keep the faith, to do her duty regardless of consequences to herself. She had visioned death as her punishment and had been ready to face it. She had not visioned the torture of Jack’s hurt eyes. For a moment they seemed to her harder to face than the stake and the flame. But should she stop for this—stop because the penalty was heavier than she had thought? Never.
One crumb of comfort came to her. One thing at least she could do; one small recompense she could exact. She could demand Jack’s safety. She could send a message to Tecumseh that would make the lad’s comings and goings safe. She knew he would hate her for it. But he would hate her anyway. She would not stop for that. She would make him safe. And when it was all over and he knew, she would die as an Indian maid should die.
Noiselessly—as noiselessly as she had moved through the forests—Alagwa rose from her bed and slipped to the door. Inch by inch she opened it and looked out. The house was black and silent; its inmates slept. Slowly she crept to the entrance to the big bar room. The night was hot and the windows and the door stood wide open, letting in a faint glimmer from moon and stars. In its light the sleeping forms of men on the floor loomed black. Side by side they lay, so close together that Alagwa could see no clear passageway between them. Suppose they waked as she tried to pass!
It did not occur to her that her going out would surprise no one—that no one would dream of questioning her. Her conscience made a coward of her and made her think that to be seen was to be suspected. Desperately she caught her breath and looked about her, seeking Jack’s form, but failing to find it. He was indistinguishable among the blanket-wrapped forms.