“We shall see, we shall see. There is much to be said before either of us closes his eyes. Hello, here is a runner.”
An Indian was loping up the path. He turned in toward the hut.
“Quiet,” said the priest. “It is Tegakwita.”
The warrior had run a long way. He was breathing deeply, and the sweat stood out on his face and caught the shine of the firelight.
“My brother has been far,” said Menard, rising.
“The White Chief is not surprised? He heard the word of Tegakwita, that he would return before another sun. He has indeed been far. He has followed the track of the 190 forest wolf that stole the child of the Onondagas. He has found the bold, the brave white warrior, who stole away in the night, robbing Tegakwita of what is dearer to him than the beating of his heart.”
The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, and leaning forward with startled eyes.
“He has found––he has found him––” she faltered.
The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast of his shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard’s feet. Then, with broken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.
Father Claude stooped, and picked up the object. Dimly in the firelight they could see it,––two warm human scalps, the one of brown hair knotted to the other of black. Menard took them in his hand.