ght he was alone; then he saw two figures
crouching against the rear wall. His own face and head were so covered
with dust and blood that he could not have been recognized for a white
man.

"Who are you?" he said in Iroquois.

"Captain!" came in a startled voice that he knew for Father Claude's;
and a little gasp of relief from the other figure brought a thrill of
joy. He tried to raise himself, but in an instant they had come to him
and were laughing and sobbing and speaking his name. While Father
Claude seized his shoulders to lift him, the maid fell on her knees,
and with her teeth tried to cut the thongs.

"Wait, Father," she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her
work; "wait a moment."

Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands.

"You must not, Mademoiselle," said the priest. "You must let me."

She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and
she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain's wrists.

"Now he may arise, Father. See--see what they have done to him."

Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had
lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh
lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together
in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other's eyes--not
speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had
come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during
all the time they should live thereafter, through other days and other
times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them
to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in
their memories,--it would stand out above all other deeds and other
moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one
in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring
thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining
eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and
a little sigh passed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her
thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters
play at Quebec.

"Tell us, M'sieu," she said abruptly, "what is it? How did it
happen?"

"It is the Long Arrow."

"So we thought," said Father Claude; "but he was not with the party
that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were
sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I