A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward the hut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One had an arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertain hands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the 187 white men sitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at his heels.
“Move nearer the door,” whispered Menard. “They must not get in.”
The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat with their backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yards away, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidently wished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoning in thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could make it right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.
The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and the sound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking his eyes from the Indians:––
“Step back, Mademoiselle, behind the wall. You must not stand here.”
The warrior broke away from the hands that held him, staggering a rod across the grass before he could recover his balance. The others went after him, but he quickly rested the piece and fired. The ball went over their heads through the doorway, striking with a low noise against the rear wall. Menard rose, jerking away from the priest’s restraining hand. 188
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “you are not hurt?”
“No, M’sieu.”
“Thank God!” He stood glaring at the huddled band of warriors, who were trying to reload the arquebuse; then he bounded forward, broke into the group with a force that sent two to the ground, snatched the weapon, and, with a quick motion, drew out the flint. He threw the gun on the ground, and walked back to his seat.
Two of the guards came running forward. They had not been drinking, and one of them ordered the loafers away. This did not strike them amiss. They started off, trying to reload as they walked, evidently not missing the flint.