he flat of
his tomahawk. He did not mean it, but his heart was jealous that
already so much of my love had passed over to you. Yet he was a good
lad, and my daughter's husband. The White-coat called across the
stream to him, to kill you; but he would not, nor would he bring you
over the ford until we had made the White-coat promise that you
should not be killed for trying to run away. The man could do
nothing against us two; but he bore ill-will to Muskingon afterwards,
and left him to die when we could have saved him."

So, while John had lain senseless, fate had been binding him with
cords--cords of guilt and cords of gratitude--and twining them
inextricably. Therefore he feared sleep, because these dreams awoke
him to pluck again at the knot of conscience. Ease came only with
the brain's exhaustion, when in sheer weakness he could let slip the
tangle and let the song of the rapids drug his senses once more.

He turned on his side and watched the sunbeam as it crept up the face
of the _armoire_. "Menehwehna!" he called weakly.

From his seat in the corner among the shadows the Indian came and
stood behind him.

"Menehwehna, this lying cannot go on! Make you for this fort they
talk of; tell your tale there and push on to join your tribe.
Let us fix a length of time, enough for your travel beyond reach, and
at the end of it I will speak."

"And what will my brother tell them?"

"The truth--that I am no Frenchman but an English prisoner."

"It is weakness makes you lose patience," answered Menehwehna,
as one might soothe a child. "Let the weak listen to the strong.
All things I have contrived, and will contrive; there is no danger,
and will be none."

John groaned. How could he explain that he abhorred this lying?
Worse--how could he explain that he loathed Menehwehna's company and
could not be friends with him as of old; that something in his blood,
something deep and ineradicable as the difference between white man
and red man, cried out upon the sergeant's murder? How could he make
this clear? Menehwehna--who had preserved his life, nursed him,
toiled for him cheerfully, borne with him patiently--would understand
only that all these pains had been spent upon an ingrate.
John tugged away from the bond of guilt only to tighten this other
yet more hateful bond of gratitude. He must sever them both, and in
one way only could this be done. He and Menehwehna must part.
"I do not fear to be a prisone