alth.
The depression had gone from him now; his mind was more alert than
since the night of the capture. Whether it was the bare chance of help
from the Big Throat, or the gentle sadness in the face of the maid as
she bowed her head to the single daisy on her breast,--something had
entered into his nerves and heart, something hopeful and strong, He
wondered, as Father Claude came up the path, slowly, laboriously, why
the priest should be so saddened. After all, the world was green and
bright, and life, even a few hours of it, was sweet.

"What news, Father?"

The priest shook his head. "Little, M'sieu."

"Has the feast begun?"

"Not yet. They are assembling before the Long House."

"Are they drinking?"

"Yes."

There was no need for talk, and so the two men sat before the hut,
with only an idle word now and then, until the dark came down. The
quiet of the village was broken now by the shouts of drinking
warriors, with a chanting undertone that rose and swelled slowly into
the song that would continue, both men knew, until the break of day,
or until none was left with sober tongue to carry the wavering air. A
great fire had been lighted, and they could see the glare and the
sparks beyond a cluster of trees and huts. Later, straggling braves
appeared, wandering about, bottle or flask in hand, crazed by the raw
brandy with which the English and Dutch of New York and Orange and the
French of the province alike saw fit to keep the Indians supplied.

A group of the warriors came from the dance, and staggered toward the
hut of the captives. They were armed with knives and hatchets. One had
an arquebuse, which he fired at the trees as often as the uncertain
hands of all of them could load it. He caught sight of the white men
sitting in the shadow, and came toward them, his fellows at his
heels.

"Move nearer the door," whispered Menard. "They must not get in."

The two edged along the ground without rising, until they sat with
their backs in the open doorway. The Indians hung about, a few yards
away, jeering and shouting. The one with the arquebuse evidently
wished to shoot, but the others were holding his arms, and reasoning
in thick voices. No construction of the Iroquois traditions could make
it right to kill a prisoner who was held for the torture.

The white men watched them quietly. Menard heard a rustle, and the
sound of a quick breath behind him, and he said, without taking his
eyes from the Indians:--