ike me. Or
it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it
not be strange if I were but now to find myself,--or if you were to
find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so
long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for
bringing it to me,--it would be a long lifetime."

Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly
now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting,
musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was another
madness.

"It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my
mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and
I do not care,--no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow
they should--" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on.

"You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all
the rest goes out."

"Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't."

Father Claude came slowly toward them.

"My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with
you."

She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them,
puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and
then the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and
she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who
had risen and stood by the door.

"Come, M'sieu, let us walk."

Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him.

"It is about the speech to the council--and Captain la Grange. It may
be that you are right, M'sieu."

"Right? I do not understand."

"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it."

"Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?"

"You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong.
If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully.
There is none too much time."

"Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest's
arm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I
am!"

"No, no, M'sieu."

"You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come
to me. It will pain her."

"Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have been
thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple
matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of.
You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that first
angered the Onondagas. We mu