Before the breakfast was finished, Father Leroque came in; he had lodged in the quarters provided for his visits, a small room in the vestry.
The sisters who taught the boys and girls of the community had brought his food. But he sat at the elbow of the governor’s wife and drank the coffee that she poured for him. He was cheery, vivacious, and he smiled consolingly on Lida, who was not able to return his morning optimism. His arrival broke the fetters of silence, and even Susep Nicola joined in the chatter which the priest kept stirring.
Lida kept her gaze on the floor and saw the broad shaft of sunlight shift slowly and relentlessly, marking the passage of precious time.
“I must go,” she said, suddenly, looking into the countenance of Nicola.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I ought to have been on my way before.”
“It’s for you to say when you go; you are welcome here,” he returned. “I have waited for you to say.” It was according to his code of hospitality—the guest must indicate desire. He rose. His wife brought to Lida the jacket and the cap. But the chief picked up the Flagg cant dog and carried it when he led the way to the door.
Father Leroque seemed to understand what was in Lida’s mind just then. “You are worried about how you are to travel, is it not so? You do not need to ask, mam’selle!” He bowed her to the door.
In front of the sachem’s house hung a broad disk of tanned moosehide in a frame. Nicola pounded on the makeshift gong with a mallet. Men assembled quickly in front of him, coming as if they had expected the summons.
“You know. I have told you,” said the chief. He stroked his hand over the totem mark on the cant dog handle. “You know how our brother has been the good friend of the Tarratines on this river.”