“Let us out,” persuaded Colin. “The Associates will not care what becomes of a couple of Caveliers.”
“Where are you going?”
“My sister wishes to run to the Iroquois village,” responded Colin, “and beg there for a little sagamite. We get nothing to eat in Fort Frontenac.”
The soldier laughed.
“If you are going to the Iroquois village why don’t you say your errand is to Catharine Tegahkouita? It is no sin to ask an Indian saint’s prayers.”
Barbe formed her lips to inquire, “Has Tegahkouita come to Fort Frontenac?” But this impulse passed into discreet silence, and the man let them out.
They ran along the palisades southward, Barbe keeping abreast of Colin though she made skimming dips as the swallow flies, and with a détour quite to the lake’s verge, avoided the foundation of an outwork.
Father Hennepin’s cross stood up, a huge white landmark between habitant settlement on the lake, and Indian village farther west but visible through the clearing. Ontario seemed to rise higher and top the world, its green curves breaking at their extremities into white spatter, the one boat in sight making deep obeisance to heaving water.
“Do you see a canoe riding yonder?” exclaimed Barbe to Colin, as they ran along wet sand.
“Any one may see a canoe riding yonder. Was it to race with that canoe we came out, mademoiselle?”