Dollard let go Jacques’s collar and extended his arms around the stumpy man’s neck.
“My good old Jacques! My good old Jacques!”
“How proud I have always been of thee!” choked Jacques.
“I have told her to depend on you, Jacques. The will I brought home in my breast and placed among her caskets. She will provide for Louise and you, and she will provide for poor Renée, also. Kick the Indians and wake them up. There is not another moment to spare.”
The Indians were roused, and stood up taciturn and ready for action, drawing their blankets around themselves. These Hurons, vagrants from Annahotaha’s tribe, were hangers-on about the fortress at Montreal. Jacques gave them each a careful dram, and lighted at the fire a dipped candle. With this feeble light he penetrated the darkness of the cellar floor, leading the party down its tortuous staircase.
Dollard, who had stood with his hand on the door-latch, was the last to leave the upper room. His questions followed Jacques around the turns of the stairs.
“You are well provisioned, Jacques?”
“Yes, m’sieur.”
“At daybreak you will remember to have Papillon help you bring in an abundant supply of water?”
“Yes, m’sieur.”