The maid had understood. The two men drew close to her on each side, and her hand rested, trembling, on Menard's arm. All three were thinking fast. One scream, the sound of a struggle or even of loud voices, would bring upon them the whole drunken band. As the chief approached, the maid could feel the muscles harden on the Captain's arm. "Long Arrow's lonely--his fire's not bright when he comes from hunt--" Here and there in his talk a few words were distinguishable as he stood lurching before them. He reached out in a maudlin effort to touch the maid's white face. She drew in her breath quickly and stepped back; then Menard had sprung forward, and she covered her eyes with her hands. There was a light scuffle, but no other sound. A strong smell of brandy filled the hut. Slowly she lifted her head, and let her hands drop to her sides. The Long Arrow lay sprawling at her feet, his head gashed and bleeding, and covered with broken glass and dripping liquor. The priest had kneeled beside him, and over his bowed head she saw Teganouan, startled, defiant, his musket halfway to his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the door. Her eyes followed his gaze. There stood the Captain, his back to the door, the broken neck of the bottle firmly gripped in his hand. She stepped forward, too struck with horror to remain silent. "Oh, M'sieu!" she said brokenly, stretching out her hands. He motioned to her to be quiet, and she sank down on the bench. "Father," he said. The priest looked up questioningly. There was a long moment of silence, and the shouts and calls of the half-drunken revellers without sounded strangely loud. Then, as the priest gazed at the set, hard face of the Captain, and at the motionless Indian, he understood of a sudden all the wild plan that was forming in the Captain's mind. He rose slowly to his feet, and stood facing Teganouan, with the light streaming down upon his gentle face.