THE THONGS WERE CUT
“Do you know me, my uncle?” whispered Marc Larocque. “I tracked you through the snow. Follow me swiftly and quietly.”
Back they hurried to the river, and then began the journey over the ice down to St. Maxime.
“I thought the Iroquois strong and fleet, Marc, but I see that none of them is a match for you! You are a brave fellow, in spite of the monks, and never shall I forget what you have done this night. But I wish you had thrust your knife into the heart of the leader of the Iroquois, an insolent fellow who pulled my cap from my head and laughed at me. However, I gave him a good buffet between the eyes!”
Soon the old man began to lag behind, and Marc had to grasp his arm to help him; so they ran on through the white winter’s night. With ghostly wings the great snowy owl flapped across their path, and the wolf pack halted for a moment to watch them pass, and then turned away to hunt again for some stray deer or wounded moose.
It was almost dawn when they reached the stockade at St. Maxime. Old Antoine was exhausted, and had hardly strength enough to say to Marc: “Send a messenger to Quebec to tell the French officer he need not come. I have found a captain here.”
Marc took him to the seigneury, and he fell into a heavy sleep, from which he did not wake till afternoon. The soldiers were then at their daily drill, and after he had eaten, the old man went out where they were. Tall Lieutenant Noël Duroc was drilling them. Antoine de la Carre gave them all a severe scolding for their carelessness the night before.
“If it were not for my brave nephew,” he said, “I would surely have been murdered by the Iroquois. Marc, step out from the ranks. I make you captain!”
A shout went up from all the men, but old Antoine silenced it with a gesture. He was looking at Noël Duroc. “Lieutenant, your face is black and blue; how were you hurt? You were not so yesterday!”