“Teganouan, will you go among the braves of the village and tell them that the Big Buffalo is a strong fighter, that he killed the Long Arrow with his hands? It may be that they have not believed.”
This was the kind of strategy Teganouan understood. He walked slowly away, puffing at his pipe, to mingle among the people of the village and boast in bold metaphors the prowess of his White Chief. 348
“They will give us a canoe,” said Father Claude.
“Yes, they must. Now, let us sleep again.”
They dropped to the ground, and Menard looked warningly at the circle of young boys who came as close as they dared to see this strange white man, and to hear him talk in the unpronounceable language. Father Claude’s eyes were first to close. The Captain was about to join him in slumber when a low voice came from the door.
“M’sieu.”
He started up and saw the maid holding the door ajar and leaning against it, her pale face, framed in a tangle of soft hair, showing traces of the wearing troubles of the days just passed.
“Ah, Mademoiselle, you must not waken. You must sleep long, and rest, and grow bright and young again.”
She smiled, and looked at him timidly.
“I have been dreaming, M’sieu,” she said, and her eyes dropped, “such an unpleasant dream. It was after we had crossed the lake––We did cross it, M’sieu, did we not? That, too, was not a dream? No––see, my hair is wet.”