“Is she safe?”
“Yes. I have heaped the sand high around the canoe, even on the side toward the water.”
“Good. You had better move off a little nearer the lake, and keep a sharp eye out. It may be that they are coming by water as well, though I doubt it. The lake is very light. I will take the centre. You have no musket?”
“No; but my eyes are good.”
“If you need me, I shall be close to the bushes, a dozen yards farther inland.”
They separated, and Menard took up his new position. Apparently the movement had stopped. For a long time no sound came, and then, as Menard was on the point of moving forward, a branch cracked sharply not twenty rods away. He called in French:––
“Who are you?”
For a moment there was silence, then a rush of feet in his direction. He could hear a number of men bounding through the bushes. He 365 cocked his gun and levelled it, shouting this time in Iroquois:––
“Stand, or I will fire!”
“I know that voice! Drop your musket!” came in a merry French voice, and in another moment a sturdy figure, half in uniform and half in buckskin, bearded beyond recognition, had come crashing down the slope, throwing his arms around the Captain’s neck so wildly that the two went down and rolled on the sand. Before Menard could struggle to his feet, three soldiers had followed, and stood laughing, forgetting all discipline, and one was saying over and over to the other:––