“My child, what ails you?” whispered Claire, compassion making alive the depths of her eyes.
But the girl, without heeding her, ground a few prayers between convulsive teeth, and then beat her head upon the stones.
By degrees the silence and self-restraint of a woman not greatly her elder, lying in trouble as abject as her own, had its quieting effect on her. Tears, scantily distilled in her, ran the length of her eyelid rims and fell in occasional drops on the floor.
Their cheeks resting on a level, the two unhappy creatures looked at each other across a stone flag.
“Has your father or your brother gone with Dollard?” whispered Claire.
“Madame, my father goes to fight the Iroquois.”
“I thought it.”
“Madame, I have just been making a vow.”
“So have I.”