“By himself, or some emissary. Père Allouez has been my jailor, but chances to be disabled at present. The Commissaire permitted me to climb here alone, believing you to be safely camped above the rapids, yet his suspicions may easily revive.”
“His suspicions!” the Sieur laughed softly. “So that then is the trouble? It is to keep us apart that he bids me make separate camp each night; and assigns me to every post of peril. I feel the honor, Mademoiselle, yet why am I especially singled out for so great a distinction?”
“He suspects us of being friends. He knew I conferred with you at the convent, and even believes that you were with me hidden behind the curtain in the Governor’s office.”
“Yet if all that be true,” he questioned, his voice evidencing his surprise. “Why should our friendship 143 arouse his antagonism to such an extent? I cannot understand what crime I have committed, Mademoiselle. It is all mystery, even why you should be here with us on this long journey? Surely you had no such thought when we parted last?”
“You do not know what has occurred?” I asked, in astonishment. “No one has told you?”
“Told me! How? I have scarcely held speech with anyone but the Algonquin chief since we took to the water. Cassion has but given orders, and Chevet is mum as an oyster. I endeavored to find you in Montreal, but you were safely locked behind gray walls. That something was wrong I felt convinced, yet what it might be no one would tell me. I tried questioning the père, but he only shook his head, and left me unanswered. Tell me then, Mademoiselle, by what right does this Cassion hold you as a captive?”
My lips trembled, and my eyes fell, yet I must answer.
“He is my husband, Monsieur.”
I caught glimpse of his face, picturing surprise, incredulity. He drew a sharp breath, and I noted his hand close tightly on the hilt of his knife.
“Your husband! that cur! Surely you do not jest?”