She watched for a sight of the withdrawing party on the lake, and presently a large canoe holding three men shot out beyond the walls. One stood erect, gazing back at the fort with evident anxiety. Neither the smearing medium of damp weather nor increasing distance could rob Barbe of that man’s identity. His large presence, his singular carriage of the right arm, even his features sinking back to space, stamped him Henri de Tonty.
“He has come here to see my uncle La Salle, and they have refused to let him enter,” she exclaimed aloud.
Stripping a coverlet from her berth she whipped the outside air with it until the crackle brought up a challenge from below.
Fort Frontenac was a seignorial rather than a military post, and its discipline had been lax since the governor’s Associates seized it, yet a sentinel paced this morning before the officers’ quarters. When he saw the signal withdrawn and a lovely face with dark eyelashes and a topknot of curls looking down at him, he could do nothing but salute it, and Barbe shut her window.
Dropping in excitement from the bunk, she ran across the upper room to knock at La Salle’s door.
A boy stood basking in solitude by the chimney.
Her uncle La Salle’s apartment seemed filled with one strong indignant voice, leaking through crevices and betraying its matter to the common hall.
“You may knock there until you faint of hunger,” remarked the lad at the hearth. “I also want my breakfast, but these precious Associates will let us starve in the fort they have stolen before they dole us out any food. I would not mind going into the barracks and messing, but I have you also to consider.”