rees. Another minute and
the survivors were out upon the bank, waving their caps in the air,
while the prows of the first of their rescuers were already grating upon
the pebbles. In the stern of the very foremost canoe sat a wizened
little man with a large brown wig, and a gilt-headed rapier laid across
his knees. He sprang out as the keel touched bottom, splashing through
the shallow water with his high leather boots, and rushing up to the
seigneur, he flung himself into his arms.

"My dear Charles," he cried, "you have held your house like a hero.
What, only six of you! Tut, tut, this has been a bloody business!"

"I knew that you would not desert a comrade, Chambly. We have saved the
house, but our losses have been terrible. My son is dead. My wife is
in that Iroquois canoe in front of you."

The commandant of Fort St. Louis pressed his friend's hand in silent
sympathy.

"The others arrived all safe," he said at last. "Only that one was
taken, on account of the breaking of a paddle. Three were drowned and
two captured. There was a French lady in it, I understand, as well as
madame."

"Yes, and they have taken her husband as well."

"Ah, poor souls! Well, if you are strong enough to join us, you and
your friends, we shall follow after them without the loss of an instant.
Ten of my men will remain to guard the house, and you can have their
canoe. Jump in then, and forward, for life and death may hang upon our
speed!"

CHAPTER XL.

THE END.

The Iroquois had not treated De Catinat harshly when they dragged him
from the water into their canoe. So incomprehensible was it to them why
any man should voluntarily leave a place of safety in order to put
himself in their power that they could only set it down to madness, a
malady which inspires awe and respect among the Indians. They did not
even tie his wrists, for why should he attempt to escape when he had
come of his own free will? Two warriors passed their hands over him, to
be sure that he was unarmed, and he was then thrust down between the two
women, while the canoe darted in towards the bank to tell the others
that the St. Louis garrison was coming up the stream. Then it steered
out again, and made its way swiftly up the centre of the river.
Adele was deadly pale and her hand, as her husband laid his upon it, was
as cold as marble.

"My darling," he whispered, "tell me that all is well with you--that you
are unhurt!"

"Oh, Amory, w