“Come.” Menard rose and got one of the priest’s blankets, folding it and laying it on the ground against the wall. “I fear that we may be no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service of Mademoiselle.”
She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap. Menard was half in the 202 shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night had brought,––fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight; but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that now and then reached above the huts.
“How strange their song is, M’sieu.”
“Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing, another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting, and do not recover for hours.”
“I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas––there were but a few of them––had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement.”
“They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when there is no hunt to occupy them.” 203
Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away, leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with bowed head.
“The Father is sad, M’sieu.”
“Yes. But it is not for himself.”
“Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?”