"But how comes she here, Monsieur, living in the Pottawattomie camp? And how comes it that you sought another in this wilderness, if you were already long wedded?"
"Saint Guise! but I cannot tell you," and his voice shook with the emotion that swept him. "'T is like a black dream, from which I must yet awaken. She died, I swear she died; the sisters told me so at the convent of the Ursulines, whither she fled to escape my unkindness,—for I did her wrong; and I stood by the grave as the body they called hers was lowered into the ground. For all these years have I thought it true; yet the girl yonder was Marie. But you, Wayland,—know you aught of her?"
"Only that she guided me hither in search of Mademoiselle. On the way we conversed, and she let me know that she had dedicated her life to the service of these Indians, seeking to save their souls."
"'T is like enough; she was ever half a nun, and most religious. Yet made she no mention of me, and of my crying out at the house?—for I must indeed have seen her there!"
"She asked me your name, Monsieur, and when I told her she said she recalled it not. Knew she you by some other?"
He did not answer, though I could mark his heavy breathing, as if he strove with himself for mastery. Nor did I speak again, eager as I now was to arrange some plan for the future; for this man was certainly in no condition to counsel with.
I know not how long I may have rested there in silence, seeking vainly in my own mind for some opening of escape, or means whereby I might communicate with Mademoiselle. Would the strange woman forget me now, or would she venture upon a return with her message? If not, I must grope forward without her, hampered as I should be by this unnerved and helpless Frenchman. Outside, the noise had almost wholly ceased,—at least, close to where we were,—and I could perceive that a slight tinge of returning day was already in the air, faintly revealing the interior of the lodge.
As I sat thus, drifting through inaction into a more despairing mood, the rear covering of the tepee moved almost imperceptibly, and I turned hastily to seek the cause, my heart in my throat lest it prove an enemy, perhaps some stealthy savage still seeking the life of De Croix. It was far from being light as yet, but there was sufficient to show me the faint outline of a woman's figure. The Frenchman had seemingly heard nothing; and I rose quickly and faced her eagerly.
"You have found her?" I questioned anxiously. "I beg you tell me that she yet lives!"
"Hush! you speak too loud," was the low reply. "The one you seek is, I think, confined within the lodge of Little Sauk, and thus far remains unharmed. I have not been able to reach her, but she has been described to me as young, with dark hair and eyes, and as having been dragged from a horse near the rear of the column. Think you she is the one you seek?"