was at
fault, I--"

"No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at
your side."

"Will you tell us about it, M'sieu?" asked the maid. She was leaning
against the bark wall, looking at the two men.

Menard dropped to the ground, and in a quiet voice gave them the story
of his capture. The priest rested near him on the broken-down bench
that slanted against one wall. As the story grew, the maid came over
and sat at the Captain's feet where she could watch his face as he
talked. When he reached the account of the fight at the grave, he
paused and looked at her upturned face. Then he went on, but he did
not take up the tale where he had dropped it. He could not tell her of
Tegakwita's end. As he went on to the fight with the Long Arrow's band
and the flight through the hill country, he thought that she had
missed nothing; but when he had finished she said:--

"And Tegakwita, M'sieu? Did he come with them?"

"No," Menard replied; "he did not come. I killed him."

He had not meant to let the words come out so brutally. And now, as he
saw the frightened look, almost of horror, come into her eyes, he
suffered in a way that would not have been possible before he had
known this maid. He read her thoughts,--that she herself was the cause
of a double tragedy,--and it for the moment unmanned him. When he
could look at her again, she was more nearly herself.

"Go on, M'sieu. There is more?"

"No. There is no more, except that I am here with you. But of
yourselves? You have told me nothing."

"We have told you all there is to tell," said Father Claude. "We were
taken while we slept. They have come rapidly, but otherwise they have
not been unkind."

"You have had food?"

"Yes."

"We must think now," Menard said abruptly; "we must put our wits
together. It is late in the night, and we should be free before dawn.
Have you thought of any way?"

"Yes," replied the priest, slowly, "we have thought of one. Teganouan
is with our party. At the first he tried to keep out of sight, but of
course he could not, once we were on the way. He was a long time at
the Mission of St. Francis, and I at one time hoped that he would
prove a true believer. It was drink that led him away from us,--an old
weakness with him. This morning, when he passed me, I knew that he was
ashamed. I dared not speak to him; but since then, whenever my eyes
have met his, I have seen that look of understanding."

"I fear you will not see