“It was but a moment ago that we talked of it.”
“Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?”
“You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong. If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully. There is none too much time.”
“Yes,” said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest’s arm. “I did 206 not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I am!”
“No, no, M’sieu.”
“You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come to me. It will pain her.”
“Yes,” said Father Claude, slowly, “it will pain her. But I have been thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of. You have said that it was Captain la Grange’s treachery that first angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is our duty.”
They paced back and forth in silence. Menard’s heavy breathing and his quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:––
“I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to this act if––if she––”
“No, M’sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart, but she cannot see you now.” 207