CHAPTER VII.
A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.
Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket flashed. “There are not many of them,” said Menard to Danton, as they lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in an interval between shots. “Not a score, all told.”
“Will they come closer?”
“No. You won’t catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an assault. They’ll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait for a better chance.”
Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was nearly free of 128 clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight, the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was loading and firing a long arquebuse à croc, had risen above this difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.
The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard’s arm.
“What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe.”
“I want to speak to you, M’sieu. If I could have your knife––for one moment––”