d held her
while she struggled for a footing and shook the water from her eyes.
Before she was wholly herself, Danton came plunging toward them.

"Give her to me!" he said huskily. "I've drowned her! My God, let me
have her!"

"Stop," said Menard, sternly. "Take the men, and go after those
bales--quick!"

Danton looked stupidly at him and at the maid, who was wiping the
water from her face with one hand, and holding tightly to the Captain.
Then he followed Perrot, who had already, with the two new men and
Father Claude, commenced to get together the bales, most of which had
sunk, and were moving slowly along the bottom. Menard still had his
arm about the girl's shoulders. He helped her to the shore.

"Keep moving, Mademoiselle,--don't sit down. In a moment we shall have
a fire. Father Claude," he called, "bring the canoe ashore." Then to
the maid, "There are yet some dry blankets, thank God."

Mademoiselle was herself now, and she protested. "But it is only
water, M'sieu. Let me go on with you, beyond the rapids."

Menard merely shook his head. The canoe was soon on the bank, and
emptied of water. The other men were beginning to come in with soaked
bundles and dripping muskets. Each bale was opened, and the contents
spread out to dry, while Guerin was set to work at drying the muskets
with a cloth. Perrot and Danton built a rough shelter for the maid,
enclosing a small fire, and gave her some dry blankets. Then each man
dried himself as best he could.

This accident threw Danton into a fit of gloominess from which nothing
seemed to arouse him. He was careless of his duty, and equally
careless to the reprimands that followed. This went on for two days,
during which the maid seemed at one moment to avoid him, and at
another to watch for his coming. In the evening of the second day
following, the party camped at Pointe a Baudet, on Lake St. Francis.
The supper was eaten in a silence more oppressive than usual, for
neither Menard nor Father Claude could overcome the influence of
Danton's heavy face and the maid's troubled eyes. After the supper the
two strolled away, and sat just out of earshot on a mossy knoll. For
hours they talked there, their voices low, save once or twice when
Danton's rose. They seemed to have lost all count of time, all heed of
appearances. Menard and the priest made an effort at first to appear
unobservant, but later, seeing that their movements were beyond the
sight of those unheeding eyes