“I will walk.”
Menard shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but it is too late. In the first place, you would never reach the city. There are scouting bands of Iroquois all along the river.”
“So much the better, M’sieu, so––”
“Wait. That is only one reason. I cannot spare you. I have realized within the last day that I should have brought more men. The Iroquois know of our campaign; they are watching us. A small party like this is to their liking. I will tell you, Danton, we may have a close rub before we get to Frontenac. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. What reason could I give for sending you alone down the river to Montreal? You forget, boy, that we are not on our own pleasure; we are on the King’s errand. For you to go now would be 106 to take away one of our six fighting men,––to imperil Mademoiselle. And that, I think,” he looked keenly at Danton, “is not what you would wish to do.”
The boy’s face was by turns set and working. He looked at Menard as if to speak, but got nothing out. At last he sprang to his feet, and paced back and forth between the trees.
“What can I do?” he said half to himself. “I can’t stay! I can’t see her every day, and hear her voice, and sit with her at every meal. Why do you call yourself my friend, Menard? Why don’t you help? Why don’t you say something––?”
“There are some things, Danton, that a man must fight out alone.”
Danton turned away, and stood looking over the river. Menard sat on the log and waited. The moments slipped by, and still they said nothing. They could hear the stirring of Colin, back at the camp, and the rustle of the low night breeze. They could almost hear the great silent rush of the river.
“Danton.”