rom her lips of confidence in those who wished to protect her.
And, as he waited, she smiled with trembling lips, and said:--

"It will come out well, M'sieu. I--I am not afraid."

Then Menard went up the bank with a bound, and finding one man already
in a stupor, and another struggling for a flask, which Father Claude
was trying to take away from him, he laid about him with his hard
fists, and shortly had the drunkards as near to their senses as they
were destined to be during the short space they had yet to live.

CHAPTER VII.

A COMPLIMENT FOR MENARD.

Colin and Guerin were dead, and one of the transport men lay in a
drunken sleep, so that including Menard, Danton, and Father Claude
there were six men in the little half circle that clung to the edge of
the bank, shooting into the brush wherever a twig stirred or a musket
flashed. "There are not many of them," said Menard to Danton, as they
lay on their sides reloading. He listened to the whoops and barks in
an interval between shots. "Not a score, all told."

"Will they come closer?"

"No. You won't catch an Iroquois risking his neck in an assault.
They'll try to pick us off; but if we continue as strong as we are
now, they are likely to draw off and try some other devilment, or wait
for a better chance."

Danton crept back to his log for another shot. Now that the sky was
nearly free of clouds, and the river was sparkling in the starlight,
the Frenchmen could not raise their heads to shoot without exposing a
dim silhouette to the aim of an Indian musket. Father Claude, who was
loading and firing a long _arquebuse a croc_, had risen above this
difficulty by heaping a pile of stones. Kneeling on the slope, a pace
below the others, and resting the crutch of his piece in a hollow
close to the stones, he could shoot through a crevice with little
chance of harm, beyond a bruised shoulder.

The maid came timidly up the bank, and touched Menard's arm.

"What is it, Mademoiselle? You must not come here. It is not safe."

"I want to speak to you, M'sieu. If I could have your knife--for one
moment--"

"What do you want of a knife, child? It is best that you--" There was
a fusillade from the brush, and his voice was lost in the uproar. "You
must wait below, on the beach. They cannot get to you."

"It is the canoe, M'sieu. The cloth about the bales is stout,--I can
sew it over the hole."

Menard looked at her as she crouched by his side; her hair fallen