looking backward and forward. And there
is Danton; he can help. He is of an age with her, and should succeed
where you and I might fail."

"He has not awaited the suggestion, Captain."

"Yes, I know. But he must,--well, Father, it has all been said. The
maid is on our hands, and must be got to Frontenac. That is all. And
there is nothing for it but to rely on Danton to help."

The priest looked at his brushes, and hesitated. "I am not certain,"
he said, "she is very young. And Lieutenant Danton,--I have heard,
while at Quebec,--"

Menard laughed.

"He is a boy, Father. These tales may be true enough. Why not? They
would fit as well any idle lieutenant in Quebec, who is lucky
enough to have an eye, and a pair of shoulders, and a bit of the
King's gold in his purse. This maid is the daughter of a gentleman,
Father; she is none of your Lower Town jades. And Danton may be young
and foolish,--as may we all have been,--but he is a gentleman born."

"Very well," replied the priest, looking with regret at the failing
light, and beginning to gather his brushes. "I will counsel her, but I
fear it will do little good. If the maid is sick at heart, and we
attempt to guide her thoughts, we may but drive the trouble deeper in.
It is the same with some of the Indian maidens, when they have left
the tribe for the Mission. Now and again there comes a time, even with
piety to strengthen them,--and this maid has little,--when the
yearning seems to grow too strong to be cured. Sometimes they go back.
One died. It was at Sault St. Francis in the year of the--"

"Yes, yes," Menard broke in. "We have only one fact to remember; there
must be no delay in carrying out the Governor's orders. We cannot
change our plans because of this maid."

"We must not let her understand, M'sieu."

Menard had been standing, with a shoulder against the tree,
alternately puffing at his pipe and lowering it, scowling meanwhile at
the ground. Now he suddenly raised his head and chuckled.

"It will be many a year since I have played the beau, Father. It may
be that I have forgotten the role." He spread out his hands and looked
at the twisted fingers. "But I can try, like a soldier. And there are
three of us, Father Claude, there are three of us."

He turned to go back to the camp, but the priest touched him.

"My son,--perhaps, before you return, you would look again at my
unworthy portrait. I--about the matter of the canoe--"

"Oh," said Menard, "y