“Save me, Pierre, save me. Was it to expose me to such horrible danger that you sent for me to come from Paris, where I was safe and happy?”
“I sent for you and our children, that we might all be together and make a home in this new free land. But methinks that perhaps it had been best to let thee remain where thou wast, and where there was nothing to disturb thy ease.”
“It is in my heart to wish well that I was there again, Pierre, and had never seen this hateful wilderness. Oh, wilt thou not take me to some place of safety ere I die with fright?”
“Peace, woman, and shame me no further by thy childish plaint, for the very children are more brave than thou. As for Mademoiselle Madelon, she has the courage of a man, though she is but a girl, nor will I ever leave this fort while she is here to defend it.”
After this the woman subsided into a peevish quiet, which was at least easier to bear than her complaints. All the others, even those who had lost fathers, husbands, or brothers, put aside their griefs, and united in an effort to compass their common safety. The meals were served out as usual, the work inside the fort progressed as it did each day, since each one felt that the best way to keep grief at bay was to occupy one’s self in helping others. During the middle of the afternoon all the people were called together by Madelon, so that their situation could be discussed. The soldiers, poor creatures, knew not what to counsel, and sought only to stay in the blockhouse, the safest spot. Small account was taken of them, though they were the very ones to whom the others should have looked for protection.
Sieur Fontaine, the old man, and the two boys were of course for staying, and not endeavouring to escape by night down the river. Encouraged by them, Madelon made a little speech to the garrison and the women and children under their charge.
“Dear friends,” said she, “never willingly will I give up the fort. Rather would I die than that the enemy should gain it. Hear what my father said to me, that it was of the greatest importance that the Iroquois should never gain possession of any French fort, since, if they gained one, soon they would grow more bold, and think they could get others, and after that all safety would be at an end.”
“What you say is true enough,” said the Sieur Fontaine, rising in his turn to encourage the people. “Nor may any of us complain, if a girl be brave enough to stay on the bastions for a day and a night without rest or repose, and who ever carries before us a cheerful face. I, for one, cry, ‘Viva, viva! Long live brave Madelon!’”
“Viva, viva!” they cried, one and all; and the feeble garrison returned to their posts, reanimated and hopeful that relief would come to save them.
For a weary week they were in constant alarm. Each day showed them the enemy lurking about, and each night made them fearful that the attack which had not come during the light would be attempted during the darkness. But every night dragged itself away at last, and each morning brought, if not the help so eagerly expected, at least courage to wait for it. On the eighth night poor weary Madelon was dozing in the fort, with her head pillowed on a table, and her gun beside her, when she heard the sentinel on watch call,—