“Mademoiselle,” said Tonty, lifting his left hand to his bare head, for he had rushed hatless into action, “good-night. The guards are doubled. You are more secure than when you lay down before.”
“Good-night, monsieur,” replied Barbe, and he opened her tent for her, when she turned back.
“Monsieur de Tonty,” she whispered swiftly, “I have had no chance during this long journey,—for with you alone would I speak of it,—to demand if you believe that saying against yourself which they are wickedly charging to my uncle La Salle?”
“Mademoiselle, how could I believe that Monsieur de la Salle said in France he wished to be rid of me? One laughs at a rumor like that.”
“The tales lately told about his madness are more than I can bear.”
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur de la Salle’s enemies always called his great enterprises madness.”
“Can you imagine where he now is, Monsieur de Tonty?”
“Oh, heavens!” Tonty groaned. “Often have I said to myself,—Has Monsieur de la Salle been two years in America, and I have not joined him, or even spoken with him? It is not my fault! As soon as I believed he had reached the Gulf of Mexico I descended the Mississippi. I searched all those countries, every cape and every shore. I demanded of all the natives where he was, and not one could tell me a word. Judge of my pain and my dolor.”[21]
They stood in such silence as could result from two people’s ceasing to murmur in the midst of high-pitched voices.