r on he found
a trail where things had been roughly dragged. But he came to breakfast
with no explanation.

Did the Rose of Quebec care so much for this man? He had been like a
father to her, perhaps it was only a child's love. But now M.
Destournier was free to choose a new wife--if he were alive. He was a
brave man, a fine man, but if he were dead! The Hurons would show scant
pity to a disabled man. Savignon had done and would do his best, but
somehow he could not feel so bitterly grieved. He loved this woman--he
knew that now.

They were discussing plans when a near-by step startled them. Parting
the undergrowth, a torn and dishevelled man appeared. It was Paul De
Loie. He almost dropped on the ground at their feet.

"I have run all night," he cried gaspingly. "The Hurons! They took us
prisoners, and the stores. They are expecting another relay of the
tribe, and are going up north for the winter, to join the Ottawas. But
first they are to have a carouse and dance," and the three prisoners are
to be tortured and put to death. He had escaped. He supposed the party
would be back for M. Destournier and the stores. They must fly at once,
and return if they would save their lives. And what madness possessed
them to bring women!

"Wait!" commanded Savignon. "Let us go apart, De Loie, and consider the
matter," and taking the man by the arm, he raised him and walked him a
little distance.

"Now tell me--M. Destournier--how did he progress?"

"Well, indeed. We made him a crutch. We decided to take what stores we
could manage, and resume our journey, thinking we would be met by some
of the party. _Ma foi_, if we had started a day earlier! There were not
many of them, but twice too many for us. There was nothing to do, we
could gain nothing by selling our lives, we thought, but now they will
take them. In two days the rest of the party, thirty or forty, will join
them. We cannot rescue the others. Vauban could have escaped, but he
would not leave M. Destournier. And now retrace your steps at once."

Savignon buried his face in his hands, in deep thought. Should he try to
rescue these men? The Hurons were superstitious. More than once he had
played on Indian credulity. He held some curious secrets, he had the
wampum belt that he could produce, as if by magic. He was fond, too, of
adventure, of power. And he imagined he saw a way to win the prize he
coveted. He was madly, wildly in love with Rose. She was heroic. If she
w