"The chiefs of the Onondagas and Cayugas will sit quietly before their houses with their eyes turned toward the lands beyond the great lake, waiting for the whisper that shall come with the speed of the winds over forests and waters to tell them that the white man has kept his promise. When the dog who robbed our villages of a hundred brave warriors has been slain, then shall they know that the Big Buffalo is what they have believed him to be, their brother." "And the maid and the holy Father?" "They are free. The chiefs are sorry that a foolish brave has captured the white man's squaw." Menard and Father Claude bowed again, and the chiefs turned and strode away. The priest smiled gently after them. "And now, M'sieu, we may rest quietly." "Yes. You lie down, Father; it will not be necessary to watch now, and anyway I am not likely to sleep much." He walked back to the bed on the knoll, leaving the priest to stretch out across the doorway. The elder bushes and briers crowded close to the little clearing behind the hut, and Menard, lying on his side with his face close to the ground, watched the clusters of leaves as they gently rustled. He rolled half over and stared up at the bits of sky that showed through the trees. It seemed as if the great world were a new thing, as if these trees and bushes and reaches of tufted grass were a part of a new life. Before, they had played their part in his rugged life without asking for recognition; but to-night they came into his thoughts with their sympathy, and he wondered that all this great world of summer green and winter white, and of blue and green and lead-coloured water could for so long have influenced him without consciousness on his part. But his life had left little time for such thoughts; to-night he was unstrung. Over the noise of the leaves and the trickle of the spring sounded a rustle. It was not loud, but it was a new sound, and his eyes sought the bushes. The noise came, and stopped; came, and stopped. Evidently someone was creeping slowly toward the hut; but the sound was on the farther side of him, so that he could reach the maid's side before whoever was approaching could cross the clearing. For a time the noise died altogether. Then, after a space, his eyes, sweeping back and forth along the edge of the brush, rested on a bright bit of metal that for an instant caught the light of the sky, probably a weapon or a head ornament. Menard was motionless. Finally an Indian stepped softly out and stood beside a tree. When he began to move forward the Captain recognized Tegakwita, and he spoke his name. The Indian came rapidly over the grass with his finger at his lips. "Do not speak loud," he whispered. "Do not wake the holy Father." "Why do you come creeping upon my house at night, like a robber?" "Tegakwita is sad for his sister. His heart will not let him go among men about the village; it will not let his feet walk on the common path." "Why do you come?"