"You see?" Diane turned on John wildly. "You will only kill your friend--and to what purpose? The wrong you have done you cannot remedy; the remedy you seek would kill me surely. Ah, go! go! Do not force me to kneel and clasp your knees--you that have already brought me so low! Go, and let me learn to hate as well as scorn you. You wish to expiate? This only will I take for expiation." "Come, brother!" urged Menehwehna, taking him by the arm. Diane bent close to the Indian, whispered a word in his ear, and, turning about, looked John in the face. "Are you sorry at all? If you are sorry, you will obey me now." With one long searching look she left him and walked down the slope. Menehwehna dragged him back into the undergrowth as the postern door opened, and M. Etienne came through it, followed by Father Launoy, Dominique, and Bateese. Peering over the bushes Menehwehna saw Diane descend to meet them--he could not see with what face. Marvellous is woman. She met them with a gay and innocent smile. Her whispered word to Menehwehna had been to keep by the waterside. And later that night, when the garrison had given over beating the woods for the fugitives, a canoe stole up the river, close under the north bank. One man sat in it; and after paddling for a couple of miles up-stream he began to sing as he went--softly at first, but raising his voice by little and little-- "Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai; Tu as le coeur a rire, Moi je l'ai-t a pleurer." No answer came from the dark forest. He took up his chant again, more boldly: "Tu as le coeur a rire, Moi je l'ai-t a pleurer; J'ai perdu ma maitresse Sans pouvoir la trouver. --Lui y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai." He listened. A low call sounded from the trees on his right, and he brought the canoe under the bank. "Is that you, Bateese?" "Monsieur, forgive me! I said as little as I could, but the Reverend Father and Dominique were too clever for me. And how was I to have known? . . . . Take the canoe and travel fast, my friends; they will be searching again at dawn." "Did mademoiselle send the canoe?" "Yes; and she charged you to answer one question. It was her brother--M. Armand--whom the Iroquois slew in the Wilderness. Ah, that cry! Can one ever forget?" "Her brother!" John's hand went to his breast in the darkness. "Monsieur did not know, then? I was sure that monsieur could not have known! For myself I did not know until four days ago. The Iroquois had not seen us, and we escaped back to the Richelieu-- to Sorel--to Montreal, where I left my wounded man. Ah, monsieur, but we suffered on the way! And from Montreal I made for Boisveyrac, and there my tongue ran loose--but in all innocence. And there I heard that M. Armand had been crossing the Wilderness . . . but monsieur did not know it was her brother?"