Within the silent mission house warmth and redness were diffused from logs piled in the chimney.
The Abbé Cavelier’s cassock rose and fell with that sleep which follows great anxiety and exhaustion. He reclined against the lowest step of a broken ladder-way which once ascended from corner to loft. The men, except one who stood guard outside in the shadow of the house, were asleep in the next room.
La Salle rested before the hearth on some of the skins Tonty had received from his Indian friend and brother. Whenever the explorer opened his eyes he saw Tonty sitting awake on the floor beside him.
“Sleep,” urged La Salle.
“I shall not sleep again,” said Tonty, “until I see you safely on your way toward France.”
“This has been worse than the dose of verdigris I once got.”
“Jolycœur says he used hemlock,” responded Tonty. “He accused everybody in New France of setting him on to the deed, but I silenced that.”
“I had not yet dismissed him, Tonty. The scoundrel hath claims on me for two years’ wages.”
“He should have got his wages of me,” exclaimed Tonty, “if this proved your death. He should have as many bullets as his body could hold.”
“Tonty, untie the fellow and turn him out and discharge his wages for me with some of the skins you have put under me.” La Salle rose on his elbow and then sat up. His face was very haggard, but the practical clear eye dominated it. “These fellows cannot balk me. I have lost all that makes life, except my friend. But I shall come back and take the great west yet! A man with a purpose cannot be killed, Tonty. He goes on. He must go on.”