“What is it?” he asked in Iroquois.
The Indian stood, without a reply, until the silence grew heavy. Mademoiselle had straightened up, and was watching with fascinated eyes. Then, slowly, the warrior turned, and beneath buckskin and feathers, dirt and smeared colours, the priest recognized Danton. He turned sadly to the maid.
“I do not understand,” he said.
She put her hands before her eyes. “I cannot talk to him,” she said, in a broken voice. “Why does he come? Why must I––” Then she collected herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. “I am sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry.”
The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the hut.
“How did you come here, Danton? Tell me.”
Danton looked at him defiantly. 155
“What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?”
“It matters not where I got them. It is my affair.”
“Who gave you these clothes?”