The cool air of these two men, the manner in which they could face the prospect, coupled with her own sense of weakness, weighed hard upon the maid’s heart. She felt that she must cry out, must in some manner give way to her feelings. She rose and hurried into the open air. The broad sunlight was still sifting down through the leaves and lying upon the green earth in bright patches. The robins were singing, and many strange birds, whose calls she did not know, but who piped gently, musically, so in harmony with the soft landscape that their notes seemed a part of it. It was all unreal, this quiet, sunlit world, where the birds were free as the air which bore their songs, while the brave Captain––she could not face the thought.
The birch cup was still on the stone by the door. She lifted out the flowers with their dripping stems, and rearranged them carefully, placing a large yellow daisy in the centre.
An Indian was approaching up the path. He had thrown aside his blanket, and he strode rapidly, clad in close-fitting jacket and leggings of deerskin, with knife and hatchet slung at his 174 waist. He came straight to the hut and entered, brushing by her without a glance. Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod; Father Claude, too, was silent.
“The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart,” said the Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him. She took a flower from the bunch at her breast, and stood motionless in the low doorway, pulling the petals apart, one by one and watching the little group within. The priest and the Captain were sitting on the ground, Menard with his hands clasped easily about his knees. Tegakwita stood erect, with his back to the door. “He feels the love of a brother for those who would make sacrifices for him,” he went on. “It was many years ago that he saved Tegakwita from the perils of the hunt. Tegakwita has not forgotten. When the White Chief became a captive, he had not forgotten. He has lost his brave name as a warrior because he believed in the White Chief. He has lost––” his voice grew tremulous with 175 the emotion that lay underneath the words––“He has lost his sister, whom he sent to be a sister to the white man and his squaw.”
“My brother speaks strangely,” said Menard, looking up at him half suspiciously.
“Yes, it is strange.” His voice was louder, and in his excitement he dropped the indirect form of speech that, in the case of an older warrior, would have concealed his feelings. “It is strange that you should send my sister, who came to you in trust, to release the white brave. It is strange you should rob me of her whom my father placed by my side.”
Menard and Father Claude looked at each other. The Indian watched them narrowly.
“My son is mistaken,” said Father Claude, quietly. “His sister has wandered away. It may be that she has even now returned.”
“No, my Father. The white brave has stolen her.”
Menard got up, and spoke with feeling.