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Monsieur the captain, can you let the family down the roof to me?" Captain Saucier thought he could, and he saw it would have to be done quickly. By dim lantern light the Saucier children were hurried into their clothing, and Wachique brought a wrap of fur and wool for tante-gra'mère.
Beyond them he saw Wachique holding her mistress carefully and unrestrained; and the negro in her quailed before him at the deed the Indian had done, scarcely comforted by the twinkle in the colonel's eye. Tante-gra'mère was sitting up meekly, less affected by dampness than anybody else in the boat. She had a fresh and toughened look.
Wachique started up, her Pottawatomie blood painting her cheek bones. That instant she was an Indian, not a slave. She remembered everything this petted despot had done to her, and, lifting her bundle, threw it as far as her arms could send it across the water floor of the college. The pitiful little weight sunk with a gurgling sound. "Sit down, woman!" shouted Colonel Menard.
Angélique's low interrogating call, made while she keenly listened with lifted face, had its only response in a mutter from Wachique, who feared any invocation of spirits. Peggy sat looking straight ahead of her without a word. She could not wash her face soft with tears, and she felt no reaching out towards disembodiment.
The three girlish figures, one rigid on the bed, another rigid in the chair, and the third bending in vicarious suffering between them, were made suddenly clear by an illumination of the moon as it began to find the western window. Wachique had busied herself seeking among piles of furniture for candles, which she considered a necessity for the dead.
She lay quite still, and made no sound in that flurry of terror. "He is badly hurt," said Angélique. "Lizette, bring linen, the first your hand touches; and you, Achille, open his vest and find the wound quickly." "But it's no use, ma'amselle," whispered Wachique, lifting her eyes. "Do not be afraid, poor Achille. I will show you how myself. We cannot wait for any one to help us.
Tante-gra'mère's struggling wrath, which Wachique had tried to keep bound in the coverlet, having found an outlet, was swift as lightning in its reprisal. The stings of the whiplash had exhilaration and dignity compared to this attack. It was the climax of her midget rages. She forgot the breeding of a gentlewoman, and furiously struck her slave in the face.
Angélique at once had a pair of bedroom screens brought in, and stretched a wall of privacy across the corner thus occupied; but tante-gra'mère as promptly had them rearranged to give her a tunnel for observation. In chaotic anger and terror she snapped her whip at intervals. "What is it, dear tante-gra'mère?" Angélique would inquire. "Send Wachique down to bring up my bedstead."
"Pardon us for disturbing you, tante-gra'mère," said her grand-nephew, "but I am obliged to carry you into the attic." "Is the sun up?" cried the little voice. "The water is, madame," answered Peggy. "If you wait for the sun, tante-gra'mère," urged her grand-nephew's wife, "you will drown here." "Do you tell me I will drown in my own bed? I will not drown. Where is Wachique?"
"But, dear tante-gra'mère, Wachique would drown. The water is already half way up the attic stairs." "Am I to lie here on the floor like a slave?" "Dear, there are six feather beds under you." "How long is this to last?" "Not long, I hope." Peggy stood at the gable window and looked out at the seething night. To her the peninsula seemed sinking. She could not see anything distinctly.
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