There were four Indians in all. They had daringly breasted the stream, and had grasped the towing line and the stern and had silently propelled the boat up the current.
"For myself I do not care," said Brother Jacques, his voice breaking. "But God forgive me for not being firm when I warned you."
"You are not to blame, Father," said madame. She was pale, but calm.
"What will they do with us?" asked Anne, a terrible thought dazing her.
"We are in the hands of God."
The boat moved diagonally across the river. When the forest-lined shore was gained, the leader motioned his captives to disembark, which they did. He put the remaining oar into the lock and pushed the governor's pleasure craft down stream, smiling as he did so. Next he drew forth two canoes from under drooping elderberry bushes and motioned to the women and Brother Jacques to enter.
"What are you going to do with us?" asked Brother Jacques in his best Iroquois.
"Make slaves of the white man's wives," gruffly. "The squaws of the Senecas long for them. And shall the Seneca see his favorite wife weep like a mother who has lost her firstborn?"
"Ah!" cried the priest, a light of recognition coming into his eyes. "So it is you, Corn Planter, whom I baptized Peter, whom I saved from starvation three times come the Winter Maker! So the word and gratitude of Corn Planter become like walnuts which have no meat? Beware; these are the daughters of Onontio, and his wrath will be great."
"It is the little Father," replied the Seneca. "It is well. He shall have food in plenty, and his days shall be long in my village, where he will teach my children the laws of his fathers. As for Onontio, he sleeps in his stone house while my brothers from the Mohawk valley carry away his Huron children. The daughters of Onontio shall become slaves. I have said."