“My Father called?” he said.
“Your Father is grieved, Long Arrow, that you would bind him like a soldier taken in war.” The priest’s voice was gentle. “Is this the custom of the Onondagas? It was not so when I served you with Father de Lamberville.” 136
“My Father fought against his children.”
“You would have slain me, Long Arrow, had I not.”
The Indian walked slowly back to his braves, and for some moments there was a consultation. Then the other chief came to them, and, without a word, himself cut the thongs that bound the priest’s wrists and ankles. There was no look of recognition in his eyes as he passed Menard, though they had been together on many a long hunt. He was the Beaver.
As the Captain lay on his back, looking first at the kneeling Indian, then at the sky overhead, he was thinking of the Long Arrow, again with a half-memory of some other occasion when they had met. Then, slowly, it came to him. It was at the last council to decide on his release from captivity, five years before. The Long Arrow had come from a distant village to urge the death of the prisoner. He had argued eloquently that to release Menard would be to send forth an ungrateful son who would one day strike at the hand that had befriended him.
Father Claude was on his feet, chafing his wrists and talking with the Beaver. The Long Arrow joined them, and for a few moments the 137 chiefs reasoned together in low, dignified tones. Then, at a word from the Beaver, and a grunt of disgust from the Long Arrow, Father Claude, with quick fingers, set the maid free, and took her head upon his knee.
“Have they hurt her, Father?” asked Menard, in French.
“No, M’sieu, I think not. It is the excitement. The child sadly needs rest.”
“Will they release you? It is not far to Frontenac. It may be that you can reach there with Mademoiselle.”