“Don’t you understand, Father? If a wrong has been done an Iroquois, it is revenge that 197 will appease him. Very well. Captain la Grange has wronged them; let them have their revenge.”
“Is that the right view, M’sieu?”
“Not for us, Father,––for you and me. To us it is simple justice. But justice,––that is not the word with which to reach an Indian.”
“But it may be that Captain la Grange is in favour at Quebec. What then?”
“You do not seem to understand me yet, Father.” Menard spoke slowly and calmly. “This is not my quarrel. I can take what my life brings, and thank your God, the while, that I have life at all. But if by one foolish act the Iroquois are to be lost to France, while I have the word on my tongue that will set all right, am I,––well, would you have me such a soldier?”
The priest was looking through the leaves at the firelight. For once he seemed to have nothing to offer.
“It will not be easy, Father; but when was a soldier’s work easy? First I must make these Indians believe me,––and you know how hard that will be. Then I must convince Governor Denonville that this is his only course; and that will be still harder. Or, if 198 they will not release me, you will be my messenger, Father, and take the word. I will stay here until La Grange has got his dues.”
“Let us suppose,” said the priest,––“let us suppose that you did not do this, that you did not take this course against Captain la Grange which will leave him a marked man to the Iroquois, even if the Governor should do nothing.”
“Then,” said Menard, “the rear-guard at La Famine will be butchered, and the army of New France will be cut to pieces. That is all.”
“You are sure of this?”