“Hush, do not say it,” she said, throwing back her head, whilst tears filled her eyes. “Charles was at Green Bay when last we heard of him,” and she wrung her hands.
“It is of no use, Loïs; we must make up our minds to it,” said Father Nat with a sigh. “He has passed away from us; he is gone over to the enemy, and in the war which is threatening us his hand will be against his own home and against his own people. I have heard that in the two years he has dwelt amongst them he has become a great man with the Indians; and the French hold him also in much esteem, partly because of his influence with the tribes, partly on account of his knowledge of Indian warfare and his forest lore. It is certain that an expedition did start from Green Bay commanded by a white man; they stopped at the fort at Detroit; but whether the white man was Charles, and whether they pushed on as far as Old Britain’s, we do not know.”
Loïs had listened in silence, with bowed head. Suddenly she looked up, a light in her eyes.
“Father,” she said, “Charles would defend Roger with his own life; he would never suffer any one to touch a hair of his head.”
“If he happened to come across him! But with two hundred devils rushing into a half-deserted village, ten chances to one they would never meet; they would have scalped him before Charles came up. Besides, he could not restrain them. I know too well what Indians are like when they have once tasted blood. And to think that a Langlade should consort with such devils! There is little doubt, Loïs, if Old Britain has been attacked, and Roger happened to be there, as I am pretty sure he was, I shall never see my son again,—and he is my only son!”
“Father, I am here.”
Nathaniel and Loïs turned sharply round, the latter with a faint cry, and there, leaning against the wall close by the door, stood Roger. He could move no farther. His clothes were torn almost to rags, one arm was in a sling, his head was bandaged, his face colourless; but worse than all was the look of despair in his eyes. Loïs crossed the room rapidly, and, pushing a chair towards him, said,—
“Sit down, Roger.”
Mechanically he obeyed, and from his parched lips came in a hard guttural voice the one word, “Water.”
Loïs hastened away, and Nathaniel, laying his hand on his son’s shoulder, said with ill-disguised emotion,—