“Mademoiselle?” he said. “What have they done with her?”
“She is here.” The reply was in Father Claude’s voice. It came from the farther side of Danton.
“Is she hurt?”
“No. But they have bound her and me.”
“Bound you!” The Captain tried to sit up, but could not. “They would not do that, Father. It is a mistake.”
A warrior, carrying a musket under his arm, walked slowly around the prisoners, making signs to them to be silent. The others had withdrawn to the shadow of the bank; the sound of their voices came indistinctly across the strip of shore. Indifferent to the pain in his arm, Menard struggled at his thongs, and called to them in Iroquois: “Who of my brothers has bound the holy Father? What new fear strikes the breasts of the sons of the night-wind that they must subdue with force the gentle spirit of their Father, who has given his years for his children? Is it not enough that you have broken the faith with your brother, the child of your own village, the son 135 of your bravest chief? Need you other prey than myself?”
The guard stood over Menard, and lifted his musket. Menard laughed.
“Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then, why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita I have known.”
Father Claude broke in on Menard, whose voice was savage in its defiance.
“Have patience, M’sieu. I will speak.” He lifted his voice. “Teganouan! Father Claude awaits you.” There was no reply from the knot of warriors at the bank, and the priest called again. Finally a chief came across and looked stolidly at the prisoners.