“Ay, right; would that I might be with you. But what plan did M. de Tonty outline for me to follow?”
“’Twas what I started to tell. At the edge of the water, but concealed from the river by rocks, is a small hut where we keep hidden a canoe ready fitted for any secret service. ’Twas Sieur de la Salle’s thought that it might prove of great use in time of siege. No doubt it is there now just as we left it, undiscovered of the Iroquois. This will bear you down the river until daylight, when you can hide along shore.”
“There is a rifle?”
“Two of them, with powder and ball.” He laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. “There is nothing more to say, and time is of value. Farewell, my friend.”
“Farewell,” their fingers clasped. “There will be other days, Francois; my gratitude to M. de Tonty.” Boisrondet stepped back, and, hat in hand, bowed to me.
“Adieu, Madame; a pleasant journey.”
“A moment, Monsieur,” I said, a falter in my voice. “You are M. de Artigny’s friend, an officer of France, and a Catholic.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And you think that I am right in my choice? that I am doing naught unworthy of my womanhood?”