And he proceeded calmly to pull on his boots.
I had followed him inside, wild at his obstinacy.
“I tell you,” said I, “they want your scalp. The servants are traitors and have stolen away while you slept. We are alone. Come, man, come! Would you have my throat cut, too?” And I shook him by the shoulder.
“Why have you come?” he asked, unmoved, staring at me.
“For the sake of Yvonne de Lamourie!”
“Oh!” said he, eying me with a slow hostility.
“You fool!” I exclaimed. “They have burned De Lamourie’s. I swore to Yvonne de Lamourie that I would save you or die with you. If you think she loves you, stir yourself. I cannot carry you. Look at that!”
I pointed to the window. At Yvonne’s name he had risen to his feet. He looked out. A group of canoes was turning in to shore, not two furlongs distant.
“Where is she?” he inquired, alert at last.
“Safe,” said I curtly, “at Father Fafard’s.”