Ducharme’s arm hung helplessly by his side, and the English renegades began to upbraid him, while the Indians, seeing that no pillage was possible and no gain could be made, drew away sullenly and began to march toward the rendezvous, leaving some of their own badly wounded behind. It was midnight before they rejoined the others. Then, fearing pursuit, they started up the river again, rousing those who had fallen asleep. All told they had barely thirty prisoners, and had left as many of their own behind. Mère Lunde had been allowed near the two girls, and now they huddled together in the boat. Renée had fallen asleep again. “You do not know where they will take us?” Mère Lunde inquired. Wawataysee shook her head. “They will go up the Illinois River,” she whispered. “Do you think they will not follow?” in a low, desperate tone. “Master Denys and—” “Oh, _he_ is dead,” with a heart-breaking moan. “I held him to my heart and he made no stir, I kissed his cold lips and there was no warmth. But for the sweet child I should have begged them to kill me too, so that my spirit should be with his. If she could be restored safely, my own life I would hold as nothing.” “They have started ere this. Do not despair,” and her lips were close to the Indian girl’s ear. “Then I shall thank the Great Spirit for the child’s sake.” Heaven grant they might be rescued. The stir and lap of the river and the boats had a mysterious sound in the weird darkness. Then the cry of some wild animal or a bit of wind sweeping through the trees at the edge, here and there. The stars shone out overhead. Mère Lunde dropped asleep also. But Wawataysee sat with wide-open eyes. One moment she said to herself that he could not be dead, the next his white face and half-closed, dulled eyes were against her breast. She felt as if she must shriek and tear her hair, but there was the Indian’s self-control, and the thought of her companions who might be made to suffer for her. But she could not go out of life for her own satisfaction merely, unless it came to the martyrdom worse than death, for the child was a sacred charge. Gaspard Denys would go to the death, even, for both of them, and she was grateful for all the kindness and countenance he had given her at St. Louis. They turned up a small stream, tributary to the Illinois. At noon they drew the boats up to what looked like an impenetrable brushwood, and disembarked, pulling in the boats and canoes. There was a sort of trodden path through the wild shrubbery, and tangled vines overhung it. Two of the Indians went ahead, the prisoners were driven next, and the rest of the party brought up the rear. “Oh, where are we going?” cried Renée in affright, clutching Wawataysee’s dress with both hands. The girl shook her head.