Claire’s head sunk down in replying.
“He is wedded to glory. Men care more for glory than they care for us, Massawippa.”
“Madame,” said the younger, her mouth settling to wistfulness, “the more they care for glory the more we love them. My father is great. If he was a common Indian little could I honor him, whatever penance the priest laid upon me.”
“Yes, Dollard is my husband. He is my Dollard,” said Claire.
“The nuns call you mademoiselle.”
“I have not told them.”
“They might see!” asserted Massawippa, slightingly. “Do women lie in deadly anguish before the altar for brothers?” she demanded, speaking as decidedly from her inexperience as any young person of a later century, “or for detestable young men who wish to be accepted as lovers?”
“Assuredly not,” said Claire, smiling.
“But fathers, they are a different matter. And in your case, madame, husbands. We shall need other things besides bread and eels. For example, two knives.”
“To cut our bread with?” inquired Claire.