This was de Noyan himself, and apparently his _parole_ forbade him to hold converse with his countrymen before reaching Montreal. On them next, for aught the garrison of Fort Amitie could learn, the enemy were even now descending. Diane, halting on the slope, heard her father call across the water to de Noyan, who turned, but shook his head and waved a hand once more with a gesture of refusal. "He was asking him to carry the dispatch to Montreal. Since he will not, or cannot, you must follow with it." "For form's sake," John agreed. "It can have no other purpose now." They were standing at the verge of the forest, and she half turned towards him with a little choking cry that asked, as plainly as words, "Is this all you have to say? Are you blind, that you cannot see how I suffer?" He stepped back a pace into the shadow of the trees. She lifted her head and, as their eyes met, drooped it again, faint with love. He stretched out his arms. "Diane!" But as she ran to him he caught her by the shoulders and held her at arms' length. Her eyes, seeking his, saw that his gaze travelled past her and down the slope. And turning in his grasp she saw Menehwehna running towards them across the clearing from the postern gate, and crouching as he ran. He must have seen them; for he came straight to where they stood, and gripping John by the arm pointed towards the quay, visible beyond the edge of the flagstaff tower. "Who are these newcomers?" cried Diane, recovering herself. "Why, yes, it is Father Launoy and Dominique Guyon! Yes, yes--and Bateese!--whom you have never seen." John turned to her quietly, without haste. "Mademoiselle," said he in a voice low and firm, and not altogether unhappy, "I have met Bateese Guyon before now. And these men bring death to me. Run, Menehwehna! For me, I return to the Fort with mademoiselle." She stared at him. "Death?" she echoed, wondering. "Death," he repeated, "and I deserve it. On many accounts I have deserved it, but most of all for having stolen your trust. I am an Englishman." For a moment she did not seem to hear. Then slowly, very slowly, she put out both hands and cowered from him. "Return, Menehwehna!" commanded John firmly. "Yes, mademoiselle, I cannot expiate what I have done. But I go to expiate what I can." He took a step forward; but she had straightened herself up and stood barring his path with her arm, fronting him with terrible scorn. "Expiate! What can you expiate? You can only die; and are you so much afraid of death that you think it an atonement? You can only die, and--and--" she hid her face in her hands. "Oh, Menehwehna, help me! He can only die, and I cannot let him die!" Menehwehna stepped forward with impassive face. "If my brother goes down the hill, I go with him," he announced calmly.