Danton, without waiting for the priest to start, came hurriedly over and sat by the maid.
“You must pardon me,” he said, “I did not think,––I did not know that you would be interested. It is so dry.”
The maid smiled at the fire.
“You did not ask,” she replied, “and I could not offer myself to the class.”
“It will be splendid,” said Danton. “We shall learn the language of the trees and the grass and the rivers and the birds. And the message of the wampum belt, too, we shall 73 know. You see,”––looking up at Menard,––“already I am catching the meanings.”
Menard smiled, and then went down the bank, leaving the three to bend their heads together over the mysteries of the Iroquois rules of gender, written out by Father Claude on a strip of bark. It was nearly an hour later, after the maid had crept to her couch beneath the canoe, and Perrot and Guerin had sprawled upon the bales and were snoring in rival keys, that Danton came lightly down the slope humming a drinking song. He saw Menard, and dropped to the ground beside him, with a low laugh.
“Mademoiselle will lead my wits a chase, Menard. Already she is deep in the spirit of the new work.”
“Be careful, my boy, that she leads no more than your wits a chase.”
Danton laughed again.
“I don’t believe there is great danger. What a voice she has! I did not know it at first, when she was frightened and spoke only in the lower tones. Now when she speaks or laughs it is like––”