.

A hand, dark and glistening with water resting upon the gunwale of the
boat, just back of madame, had caught his eye. Both women saw the
horror grow in his face.

"What is it?" they cried.

Without replying he caught up the oars. The water boiled around the
broad blades: the boat did not turn, but irresistibly maintained its
course up the river. With an exclamation of despair, he wrenched loose
one of the oars, lifted it above his head and brought it swiftly down
toward the hand. The blade splintered on the gunwale. The hand had
been withdrawn too swiftly. At the same instant the boat careened and
a bronzed and glistening savage raised himself into the boat; and
another, and another. They were captives, madame, Anne, and Brother
Jacques. There stood the frowning fortress in the distance, help; but
no voice could reach that distance. They were lost.

One of the Indians drew a knife and held it suggestively against
Brother Jacques's breast. Neither madame nor Anne screamed; they were
daughters of soldiers.

There were four Indians in all. They had daringly breasted the stream,
and had grasped the towing line and the stern and had silently
propelled the boat up the current.

"For myself I do not care," said Brother Jacques, his voice breaking.
"But God forgive me for not being firm when I warned you."

"You are not to blame, Father," said madame. She was pale, but calm.

"What will they do with us?" asked Anne, a terrible thought dazing her.

"We are in the hands of God."

The boat moved diagonally across the river. When the forest-lined
shore was gained, the leader motioned his captives to disembark, which
they did. He put the remaining oar into the lock and pushed the
governor's pleasure craft down stream, smiling as he did so. Next he
drew forth two canoes from under drooping elderberry bushes and
motioned to the women and Brother Jacques to enter.

"What are you going to do with us?" asked Brother Jacques in his best
Iroquois.

"Make slaves of the white man's wives," gruffly. "The squaws of the
Senecas long for them. And shall the Seneca see his favorite wife weep
like a mother who has lost her firstborn?"

"Ah!" cried the priest, a light of recognition coming into his eyes.
"So it is you, Corn Planter, whom I baptized Peter, whom I saved from
starvation three times come the Winter Maker! So the word and
gratitude of Corn Planter become like walnuts which have no meat?
Beware; thes