“She asked you,––” said the Captain, slowly. “She asked you––I cannot think. I do not know what to say.”
The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he came back and stood before Father Claude.
“Well, M’sieu?”
Menard spoke shortly, “Yes, Father, you are right.”
That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally settled. He had seen the look in the Captain’s eyes when the truth had come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the soldier’s heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there.
“You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their best, I fear.”
“Willingly, M’sieu. And the presents,––we must think of that.” 208
“True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to these people. Of course I have nothing. But you––you have your bale. And Mademoiselle––together you should find something.”
“I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not value. One moment––” He stepped to the door, and spoke softly, “Mademoiselle.”
“Yes, Father.” She stood in the doorway, wearily. It was plain that she had been weeping, but she was not ashamed.