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"The Great Mountain has lied to his children," Menard's keen ears caught the bitter, if covered, sarcasm in the last two words; they had been Governor Frontenac's favourite term in addressing the Iroquois "and his children know his voice no longer. There is corn in the fields? Let it grow or rot. There are squaws and children in our lodges? Let them live or die.
The firing went on at intervals, but still the warriors kept at it, creeping up from bush to bush and tree to tree. Menard's face grew more serious as the time went by. He began to realize that the Long Arrow was desperate, that he was determined on vengeance before the other chiefs could come.
Menard's hands closed tightly, and a wild desire came to him to step across the body and choke the man who had killed Danton; but in a moment he was himself. He had nothing to gain by violence. And after all, the Indian had done no more than was, in his eyes, right. He bent down; and together they carried the body to the grave, close at hand.
"They don't give us much rest, Captain, do they?" Menard's reply was jerked out with the strokes of his ramrod: "They will before long and we can take to the canoe. We're letting them have all they want." He peered through the leaves, and fired quickly. A long shriek came from the darkness. Menard laughed. "There's one more gone, Danton."
It led to the territorial governor's country-seat of Elvirade; thence to Fort Chartres and Prairie du Rocher; so on to Cahokia, where it met the great trails of the far north. The road also swarmed with carriages and riders on horses, all moving toward Colonel Pierre Menard's house. Jean could not see his seignior's chimneys for the trees and the dismantled and deserted earthworks of Fort Gage.
The fort had once protected Kaskaskia, but in these early peaceful times of the Illinois Territory it no longer maintained a garrison. The lad guessed what was going on; those happy Kaskaskians, the fine world, were having a ball at Colonel Menard's. Summer and winter they danced, they made fêtes, they enjoyed life.
John's watch told of at least a quarter of an hour before supper time, and they perched themselves on the top step to talk of fishing, of the May vacation of a week which would soon be upon them, of the leaky roof in the shack, and lastly of the baseball team. "Joe Menard's folks had to move," said Silvey, as he thought over the roster of last year's organization.
Menard's heavy breathing and his quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said: "I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to this act if if she " "No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she has begged me to ask you not to speak with her.
Here were gathered, in a huddle, like scared sheep, some dozen of the serving-folk, men and maids, the lasses most of them in tears, the men looking scarce less terrified. Their gaze was fixed on the closed door of Maître Menard's little counting-room, whence issued the shrill cry: "Spare me, noble gentlemen! Spare a poor innkeeper! I swear I know nothing of his whereabouts."
The men built a hut of brush and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard's mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind was still running high.
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