THE BIG THROAT SPEAKS.
The light of the rising sun struggled through the mist that lay on the Onondaga Valley. The trees came slowly out of the gray air, like ships approaching through a fog. As the sun rose higher, each leaf glistened with dew. The grass was wet and shining.
Menard had seized a few hours of sleep. He awoke with the first beam of yellow light, and rose from his bed on the packed, beaten ground before the door. Father Claude was sitting on a log, at a short distance, with bowed head. The Captain stretched his stiff limbs, and walked slowly about until the priest looked up.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, M’sieu.”
“It was a selfish thought that led me to choose the earlier watch. These last hours are the best for sleeping.” 213
“No, I have rested well.”
“And Mademoiselle?”
“I have heard no sound. I think that she still sleeps.”
“Softly, then. There has been no disturbance?”