“They are outside, M’sieu, too frightened to come near.”
“Give me that birch cup, outside the door.” He was speaking in quick, low tones. “They must not see me. It would frighten them.”
She brought him the cup, and he emptied the flowers on the floor, tearing open the seams, and drying the wet white bark on his 180 sleeve. He snatched a charred coal from the heap of ashes in the centre of the floor, and wrote rapidly in a strange mixture of words and signs, “A piece of thread, Mademoiselle. And look again––see that they have not gone.”
“They are waiting, M’sieu.”
He rolled the bark tightly, and tied it with the thread which she brought from her bundle.
“We must have a present. Father Claude, you have your bale. Find something quickly,––something that will please them. No, wait––Mademoiselle, have you a mirror? They would run fifty leagues for a mirror.”
She nodded, rummaged through her bundle, and brought out a small glass.
“Take this, Mademoiselle. Tell them to give this letter to the Big Throat, at the next village. They will know the way. He must have it before the day is over. No harm can come to them. If anyone would punish them, the Big Throat will protect them. You must make them do it. They cannot fail.”
Her face flushed, and her eyes snapped as she caught his nervous eagerness. Even Father Claude had risen, and was watching him with kindling eyes. She took the roll and the 181 mirror, and ran out the door. In a moment, Menard, pacing the floor, could hear her merry laugh, and the shrill-voiced delight of the children over their new toy. He caught the priest’s hand.
“Father, we shall yet be free. Who could fail with such a lieutenant as that maid. How she laughs. One would think she had never a care.”