Barbe saw nothing better to do than to stand beside her wrecked tent, and the Demoiselle Bellefontaine burrowed closely to her, uttering distressed noises.
The pursuers presently returned and quieted the camp. Tonty had not lost a man, though a few were wounded. The attacking party carried off with them every trace of their repulse.
Overturned lodges were now set straight, and as soon as Bellefontaine’s wife found hers inhabitable she hid herself within it. But Barbe waited to ask the busy commandant,—
“Monsieur de Tonty, have you any wound?”
“No, mademoiselle,” he answered, pausing to breathe himself, and seize upon an interview so unusual. “I hope you have not been greatly disturbed. The Iroquois are now entirely driven off, and they will not venture to attack us again.”
With excited voice Barbe assured him she had remained tranquil through the battle.
“We do not call this a battle,” laughed Tonty. “These were a party of Senecas, who rallied after defeat and have followed us to our own country. They tried to take the camp by surprise, and nearly did it; but Sanomp crept between sentinels and waked me.”
“Who is Sanomp, monsieur?”
“Do you remember the Iroquois Indian who came to Father Hennepin’s chapel at Fort Frontenac?”