in the same fix. I called to him
to help me, and he turned out to be a Seneca chief. Our muskets were
wet,--at least mine was, and I saw that he dropped his when he started
for me,--so we had it out with knives."

"Did he get at you?"

"Once. A rib stopped it--no harm done. Well, I was tired, but I got
out and dodged around through the smoke to find out where our boys
were, but they were mixed up worse than ever. I was just in time to
save a _coureur_ from killing one of our Indians with his own hatchet.
Most of the regulars scattered as soon as they lost sight of their
officers. And Berthier,--I found him lying under a log all gone to
pieces with fright.

"I didn't know how it was to come out until at last the firing eased a
little, and the smoke thinned out. Then we found that the devils had
slipped away, all but a few who had wandered so far into our lines--if
you could call them lines--that they couldn't get out. They carried
most of their killed, though we picked up a few on the edge of the
marsh. It took all the rest of the day to pull things together and
find out how we stood."

"Heavy loss?"

"No. I don't know how many, but beyond a hundred or so of cuts and
flesh-wounds like mine we seemed to have a full force. We went on in
the morning, after a puffed-out speech by the Governor, and before
night reached the village. The Senecas had already burned a part of
it, but we finished it, and spent close to ten days cutting their corn
and destroying the fort on the big hill, a league or more to the east.
Then we came back to La Famine, and the Governor took the whole column
to Niagara,--to complete the parade, I suppose."

The story told, they sat by the fire, silent at first, then talking as
the mood prompted, until the flames had died and the red embers were
fading to gray. Father Claude had stretched out and was sleeping.

"I must look about my camp," Du Peron said at length. "Good-night."

"Good-night," said Menard; and alone he sat there until the last spark
had left the scattered heap of charred wood.

The night was cold and clear. The lake stretched out to a misty
somewhere, touching the edge of the sky. He rose and walked toward the
water. A figure, muffled in a blanket stood on the dark, firm sand
close to the breaking ripples. He thought it was one of Du Peron's
sentries, but a doubt drew him nearer. Then the blanket was thrown
aside, and he recognized, in the moonlight, the slender figure of the