She put her hands before her eyes. "I cannot talk to him," she said, in a broken voice. "Why does he come? Why must I--" Then she collected herself, and came forward. Pity and dignity were in her voice. "I am sorry, Lieutenant Danton. I am very sorry." The boy choked, and Father Claude drew him, unresisting, outside the hut. "How did you come here, Danton? Tell me." Danton looked at him defiantly. "What does this mean? Where did you get these clothes?" "It matters not where I got them. It is my affair." "Who gave you these clothes?" "It is enough that I have friends, if those whom I thought friends will not aid me." The priest was pained by the boy's rough words. "I am sorry for this, my son,--for this strange disorder. Did you not receive a message from your Captain?" Danton hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "I received a message,--an order to lie quiet, and let these red beasts burn me to death. Menard is a fool. Does he not know that they will kill him? Does he not know that this is his only chance to escape? He is a fool, I say." "You forget, my son." "Well, if I do? Must I stay here for the torture because my Captain commands? Why do you hold me here? Let me go. They will be after me." "Wait, Danton. What have you said to Mademoiselle?" The boy looked at him, and for a moment could not speak. "Do you, too, throw that at me, Father? It was all I could do. I thought she cared for her life more than for--for Menard. No, let me go on. I have risked everything to come for her, and she--she--I did not know it would be like this." "But what do you plan?" The priest's voice was more gentle. "Where are you going? You cannot get to Frontenac alone." "I don't know," replied Danton wearily, turning away. "I don't care now. I may as well go to the devil." Without a word of farewell he walked boldly off through the trees, drawing his blanket about his shoulders. Father Claude stood watching him, half in mind to call Menard, then hesitating. Already the boy was committed: he had broken his bonds, and to make any effort to hold him meant certain death for him. Perhaps it was better that he should take the only chance left to him. The hut was silent. He looked within, and saw the maid still standing by the wall. Her eyes were on him, but she said nothing, and he turned away. He walked slowly up and down under the great elms that arched far up over his head. At last he looked about for the Captain, and finding him some little way back in the woods, told him the story. Menard's face had aged during the day. His eyes had a dull firmness in place of the old flash. He heard the account without a word, and, at the close, when the priest looked at him questioningly for a reply, he shook his head sadly. His experiment with Danton had failed. "He didn't tell you who had helped him?" "No, M'sieu. It is very strange." "Yes," said Menard, "it is."