Skenedonk drew near me to speak, but I was impatient of any delay. We went into the house, and Madame Ursule said she would bring a blanket and some food to strap behind my saddle. The girls helped her. There was a hush through the jolly house. The master bustled out of the family room. I saw behind him, standing as he had stood at Mittau, a priest of fine and sweet presence, waiting for Pierre Grignon to speak the words of introduction. "It is like seeing France again!" exclaimed the master of the house. "Abbe Edgeworth, this is M's'r Williams." "Monsieur," said the abbe to me with perfect courtesy, "believe me, I am glad to see you." "Monsieur," I answered, giving him as brief notice as he had given me in Mittau, yet without rancor;--there was no room in me for that. "You have unerringly found the best house in the Illinois Territory, and I leave you to the enjoyment of it." "You are leaving the house, monsieur?" "I find I am obliged to make a short journey." "I have made a long one, monsieur. It may be best to tell you that I come charged with a message for you." I thought of Madame d'Angouleme. The sister who had been mine for a few minutes, and from whom this priest had cast me out, declaring that God had smitten the pretender when my eclipse laid me at his feet--remembered me in her second exile, perhaps believed in me still. Women put wonderful restraints upon themselves. Abbe Edgeworth and I looked steadily at each other. "I hope Madame d'Angouleme is well?" "She is well, and is still the comforter of his Majesty's misfortune." "Monsieur the Abbe, a message would need to be very urgent to be listened to to-night. I will give you audience in the morning, or when I return." We both bowed again. I took Pierre Grignon into the hall for counsel. In the end he rode with me, for we concluded to send Skenedonk with a party along the east shore. Though searching for the lost is an experience old as the world, its poignancy was new to me. I saw Eagle tangled in the wild oats of the river. I saw her treacherously dealt with by Indians who called themselves at peace. I saw her wandering out and out, mile beyond mile, to undwelt-in places, and the tender mercy of wolves. We crossed the ferry and took to the trail, Pierre Grignon talking cheerfully. "Nothing has happened to her, M's'r Williams," he insisted. "No Indian about La Baye would hurt her, and the child is not so crazy as to hurt herself." It was a starless night, muffled overhead as the day had been, but without rain or mist. He had a lantern hanging at his saddle bow, ready to light. In the open lands we rode side by side, but through growths along the Fox first one and then the other led the way. We found my door unfastened. I remembered for the first time I had not locked it. Some one had been in the house. A low fire burned in the chimney. We stirred it and lighted the lantern. Footprints not our own had dried white upon the smooth dark floor.