The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.
“I must look about my camp,” Du Peron said at length. “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark had left the scattered heap of charred wood.
The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the water. A figure, muffled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron’s sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the maid. She was gazing out toward the pole-star and the dim clouds that lay motionless beneath it. The splash of the lake and the call of the locusts and tree-toads 379 on the bank behind them were the only sounds. He went slowly forward and stood by her side. She looked up into his eyes, then turned to the lake. She had dropped the blanket to the sand, and he placed it again about her shoulders.
“I am not cold,” she said.
“I am afraid, Mademoiselle. The air is chill.”
They stood for a long time without speaking, while the northern clouds sank slowly beneath the horizon, their tops gleaming white in the moonlight. Once a sharp command rang through the night, and muskets rattled.
“What is that?” she whispered, touching his arm.
“They are changing the guard.”
“You will not need to watch to-night, M’sieu?”