"I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."
The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomte and the poet alone were awake and watchful.
A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer. The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A dog lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, human and designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth, uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin and entered the hut.
"Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.
The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white men respectfully brushed them with their lips. It was a tribute less to his office than to his appearance; for not one of them saw in his coming aught else than a good presage and probable liberation.
Chaumonot was accompanied by Father Dablon, the Black Kettle,—now famous among his Onondaga brothers as the one who had crossed the evil waters, and two friendly Oneida chiefs. There ensued a prodigious harangue; but at the close of it the smile on Chaumonot's face signified that he had won his argument.
"You are free, my sons," he said. "It took some time to find you, but there is nothing like perseverance in a good cause. At dawn you will return with me to Onondaga. Monsieur," addressing the Chevalier; "and how is the health of Monsieur le Marquis, your kind father?"
The smile died from the Chevalier's face. "Monsieur le Marquis is at Quebec; I can not say as regards his health."
"In Quebec?"
"Yes, Father," Victor interposed.