The boy's face was by turns set and working. He looked at Menard as if to speak, but got nothing out. At last he sprang to his feet, and paced back and forth between the trees. "What can I do?" he said half to himself. "I can't stay! I can't see her every day, and hear her voice, and sit with her at every meal. Why do you call yourself my friend, Menard? Why don't you help? Why don't you say something--?" "There are some things, Danton, that a man must fight out alone." Danton turned away, and stood looking over the river. Menard sat on the log and waited. The moments slipped by, and still they said nothing. They could hear the stirring of Colin, back at the camp, and the rustle of the low night breeze. They could almost hear the great silent rush of the river. "Danton." The boy half turned his head. "You will stay here and play the man. You will go on with your duties; though, if the old arrangement be too hard, I will be your master in the Iroquois study, leaving Mademoiselle to Father Claude. And now you must return to the camp and get what sleep you can. Heaven knows we may have little enough between here and Frontenac. Come." He got up, and walked to the camp, without looking around. Danton lingered until the Captain's tall figure was blending with the shadows of the forest, then he went after. During the following day they got as far as the group of islands at the head of Lake St. Francis. Wherever possible Menard was now selecting islands or narrow points for the camp, where, in case of a night attack, defence would be a simple problem for his few men. Also, each night, he had the men spread a circle of cut boughs around the camp at a little distance, so that none could approach without some slight noise. Another night saw the party at the foot of Petit Chesneaux, just above Pointe Maligne. While Perrot was preparing the supper, and Danton, with the _voyageurs_, was unpacking the bales, Menard took his musket and strode off into the forest. There was seldom a morning now that the maid did not have for her breakfast a morsel of game which the Captain's musket had brought down. In half an hour he returned, and sought Father Claude; and after a few low words the two set off. Menard led the way through thicket and timber growth, over a low hill, and down into a hollow, where a well-defined Indian trail crossed a brook. Here was a large sugar maple tree standing in a narrow opening in the thicket. Menard struck a light, and held up a torch so that the priest could make out a blaze-mark on the tree. "See," said Menard. "It is on the old trail. I saw it by the merest chance." Father Claude bent forward, with his eyes close to the inscription that had been painted on the white inner bark, with charcoal and bear's grease. "Can you read it?" asked Menard, holding the torch high. The priest nodded. Both of these men knew the Indian writing nearly as well as their own French.