“Wait, Father,” she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her work; “wait a moment.”
Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands.
“You must not, Mademoiselle,” said the priest. “You must let me.”
She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain’s wrists.
“Now he may arise, Father. See––see what they have done to him.”
Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other’s eyes––not speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during all the time they should live thereafter, 321 through other days and other times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in their memories,––it would stand out above all other deeds and other moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and a little sigh passed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters play at Quebec.
“Tell us, M’sieu,” she said abruptly, “what is it? How did it happen?”
“It is the Long Arrow.”
“So we thought,” said Father Claude; “but he was not with the party that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I was at fault, I––”
“No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at your side.”