“Tush, Father! He is not a bad fellow, as they go. To be sure he does not rise any too well to new responsibilities, but he will grow into it. It is better an honest infatuation with the daughter of a gentleman than a dishonest one with an Indian maid. And you know our officers, Father. God knows, they are all bad enough; and yet they are loyal fellows.”
“Ah, M’sieu, I fear you will be too lenient with him. Believe me, we have not a minute to waste in stopping the affair.”
“Have no fear, Father. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Menard lay on the bank, gazing at the sparkling water, and listening to the slow step of the sentry and to the deeper sounds of the forest. Another hour crept by, and still Danton had not returned. Menard walked about the camp to make sure that he was not already 102 rolled in his blanket; then he went to the sentry, who was leaning against a tree a few rods away.
“Colin,” he said, “have you seen Lieutenant Danton?”
“Yes, M’sieu. He is up there.” Colin pointed through the trees that fringed the river. “I heard a noise some time ago, and went up to see. He is lying under a beech tree, if he has not moved,––and I should have heard him if he had. It may be that he is asleep.”
Menard nodded, and walked slowly along the bank, bending aside the briers that caught at his clothes and his hands.