Other forms had risen from the weeds to greet the party. Looking more closely, Menard saw that a group of Indians were dragging logs for a fire. Evidently this was a rendezvous for two or more bands. He tried to count the dim forms, and found them somewhat less than a score in all. Perhaps the Long Arrow had found it not easy to raise a large party to defy the will of the council concerning the White Chief; but he had enough, and already the brandy was beginning to flow,--the first stage of the orgie which should take up the rest of the night, and perhaps the day to follow. The Long Arrow and his party at once joined in the drinking. Confident that they would not this time be interrupted, they would probably use all deliberation in preparing for the torture. A rough meal was soon ready, and all fell to. Nothing was set apart for the prisoner; though had he been weak they would have fed him to stay him for the torture. One of his guardians, in mock pity, threw him a bone to which a little meat clung. He asked that his hands be loosed, or at least tied in front of his body, but his request brought jeers from the little group about him. Seeing that there was no hope of aid, he rolled over and gnawed the bone where it lay on the ground. The warriors laughed again, and one kicked it away; but Menard crawled after it, and this time was not disturbed. A little later, two other Indians came from the fire, and after a talk with his guards, ordered him to his feet and led him to one of the huts. The door was of rude boards, hung on wooden hinges, and now held in place by a short log. One brave kicked away the log, and Menard was thrown inside with such force that he fell headlong. Through an opening in the roof came a wide beam of moonlight. He looked up, and at first thought he was alone; then he saw two figures crouching against the rear wall. His own face and head were so covered with dust and blood that he could not have been recognized for a white man. "Who are you?" he said in Iroquois. "Captain!" came in a startled voice that he knew for Father Claude's; and a little gasp of relief from the other figure brought a thrill of joy. He tried to raise himself, but in an instant they had come to him and were laughing and sobbing and speaking his name. While Father Claude seized his shoulders to lift him, the maid fell on her knees, and with her teeth tried to cut the thongs. "Wait, Father," she said in a mumbled voice, without pausing in her work; "wait a moment." Menard could feel her warm tears dropping on his hands. "You must not, Mademoiselle," said the priest. "You must let me." She shook her head, and worked faster, until the thongs fell away and she could rub with her own torn hands the Captain's wrists. "Now he may arise, Father. See--see what they have done to him."