“It may be that you think that––that I do not understand. It is not that, M’sieu. But when I think about it, and the sadness comes, I know, some way, that it is going to come out all right. We are prisoners, but other people have been prisoners, too. I have heard of many of them from Father Dumont. He himself has suffered among the Oneidas. I––I cannot believe it, even when it seems the darkest.”
“I hope you are right, Mademoiselle. I, too, have felt that there must be a way. And at the worst, they will not dare to hurt Father Claude and––you.” And under his breath he added, “Thank God.”
“They will not dare to hurt you, M’sieu. They must not do it.” She rose and stood before him. “When I think of that,––that you, who have done so much that I might be safe, are in danger, I feel that it would be cowardly for me to go away without you. You would 166 not have left me, on the river. I know you would have died without a thought. And I––if anything should happen, M’sieu; if Father Claude and I should be set free, and––without you––I could never put it from my thoughts. I should always feel that I––that you––no no, M’sieu. They cannot do it.”
She shook away a tear, and looked at him with an honest, fearless gaze. It was the outpouring of a grateful heart, true because she herself was true, because she could not accept his care and sacrifice without a thought of what she owed him.
“You forget,” he said gently, “that it was not your fault. They could have caught me as easily if you had not been there. It is a soldier’s chance, Mademoiselle. He must take what life brings, with no complaint. It is the young man’s mistake to be restless, impatient. For the rest of us, why, it is our life.”
“But, M’sieu, you are not discouraged? You have not given up?”
“No, I have not given up.” He rose and looked into her eyes. “I have come through before; I may again. If I am not to get through, I shall fight them till I drop. And then, I pray God, I may die like a soldier.” 167
He turned away and went into the hut. He was in the hardest moment of his trial. It was the inability to fight, the lack of freedom, of weapons, the sense of helplessness, that had come nearer to demoralizing Menard than a hundred battles. He had been trusted with the life of a maid, and, more important still, with the Governor’s orders. He was, it seemed, to fail.
The maid stood looking after him. She heard him drop to the ground within. Then she roamed aimlessly about, near the building.
Father Claude came up the path, walking slowly and wearily, and entered the hut. A moment later Menard appeared in the doorway and called:––