Menard laughed. All the weight that had pressed on his heart had lifted at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands. The laugh lingered until he was on his feet, and the three stood close together in the patch of moonlight and looked each into the other's eyes--not speaking, because there was no word so complete as the relief that had come to them all; a relief so great, and a bond so strong that during all the time they should live thereafter, through other days and other times, even across the seas in lands where much should be about them to draw a mist over the past, the moment would always be close in their memories,--it would stand out above all other deeds and other moments. Then the Captain held out his hands, and they each took one in a long clasp that told them all to hope, that stirred a new, daring thought in each heart. Father Claude at last turned away with shining eyes. The maid stood looking up at this soldier whom she trusted, and a little sigh passed her lips. Then she too turned, and to cover her thoughts she hummed a gay air that Menard had heard the trumpeters play at Quebec. "Tell us, M'sieu," she said abruptly, "what is it? How did it happen?" "It is the Long Arrow." "So we thought," said Father Claude; "but he was not with the party that brought us here, and we could not know. They came while we were sleeping, and bound our mouths so that we could not scream. I was at fault, I--" "No, Father. You cannot say that. I left you. I should have been at your side." "Will you tell us about it, M'sieu?" asked the maid. She was leaning against the bark wall, looking at the two men. Menard dropped to the ground, and in a quiet voice gave them the story of his capture. The priest rested near him on the broken-down bench that slanted against one wall. As the story grew, the maid came over and sat at the Captain's feet where she could watch his face as he talked. When he reached the account of the fight at the grave, he paused and looked at her upturned face. Then he went on, but he did not take up the tale where he had dropped it. He could not tell her of Tegakwita's end. As he went on to the fight with the Long Arrow's band and the flight through the hill country, he thought that she had missed nothing; but when he had finished she said:-- "And Tegakwita, M'sieu? Did he come with them?" "No," Menard replied; "he did not come. I killed him." He had not meant to let the words come out so brutally. And now, as he saw the frightened look, almost of horror, come into her eyes, he suffered in a way that would not have been possible before he had known this maid. He read her thoughts,--that she herself was the cause of a double tragedy,--and it for the moment unmanned him. When he could look at her again, she was more nearly herself. "Go on, M'sieu. There is more?" "No. There is no more, except that I am here with you. But of yourselves? You have told me nothing."