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"As to that well, you know Monsieur L'as. Pouf! So much for yon monkey, par comparaison." "He is a great capitaine, Monsieur L'as," said Jean Breboeuf. "Never a better went beyond the Straits." "But very sad of late." "Oh, oui, since the death of his friend, Monsieur le Capitaine Pembroke may Mary aid his spirit!" "Monsieur L'as goes not on the trail again," said Pierre Noir.
So spoke Jean Breboeuf, thrusting his head within the door of the lodge in which were the remaining prisoners of the Iroquois. It was indeed Jean Breboeuf who, strolling beyond the outer edge of the village, had been among the first to espy an approaching party of visitors. Of any travelers possible, none could have been more important to the prisoners.
There the young man had gathered a library of statistical volumes and other statesman's lore, with busts of Thiers and Cæsar and strangely ideal and unlike the rest, a pure white classic mask of Minerva on the wall opposite his chair, as if to strike the note of a higher life; while Breboeuf, curious little object, devoured some blue-book in a corner. Now what were those great aims of Haviland's?
In passing they gave Breboeuf a hearty good-day in English, and one of them called Edie his "little sweetheart." The child looked up with a laugh, and cried, coquettishly, "Not yours! I'm Pierre's." Then, as Breboeuf squeezed her hand sharply, she remembered his caution and said no more, though her small heart was filled with wonder to think she might not talk to the nice soldiers.
"'Tis easy of decision, then," replied Law, after a moment of reflection. "We take that course which leads us farther on at least. Again the paddles, my friends! To-night we sup in our own kingdom. Strike up the song, Du Mesne!" A shout of approval broke from the hardy men along the boat side, and even Jean Breboeuf tossed up his cap upon his paddle shaft.
Jean Breboeuf and Pierre Noir stood apart, and tears poured from the eyes of both. They were hardened men, well acquainted with Indian warfare; they had seen the writhings of tortured victims, and more than once had faced such possibilities themselves; yet never had they seen sight like this.
Jean Breboeuf, harken you to what our leaders have agreed! We are to go as prisoners of the Iroquois! Mary, Mother of God, what folly! And there is madame, and la pauvre petite, that infant so young. By God! Were it left to me, Pierre Berthier would stand here, and fight to the end. I know these Iroquois!"
I had bethought me how excellent are the pumpkins of the good fathers at the Straits; and indeed I would we had with us more of that excellent fruit, the bean." "Bah! Jean Breboeuf," retorted Pierre Noir. "'Tis but a poor-hearted voyageur would hang about a mission garden with a hoe in his hand instead of a gun. Perhaps the good sisters at the Mountain miss thy skill at pulling weeds."
The little swaying house still stood! Under the sheltered log some tiny sparks of fire still burned, omen of the unquenchable hearthstones which the land was yet to know! "Holy God! what was it? What was that which passed?" cried Jean Breboeuf, crawling out from beneath his shelter. "Saint Mary defend us all this night! 'Twas the great Canoe of the Damned, running au large across the sky!
Hover about this bed in the frail and swaying lodge of bark and boughs, all ye most terrifying spirits! Let not this thing be! "Mother of God!" cried Jean Breboeuf, bending low and pulling his tunic tighter by the belt, as he came gasping into the faint circle of light which still remained at the fire log. "'Tis murderous, this storm! Ah, Monsieur du Mesne, we are dead men! But what matter?
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