"It is not that, Father. But if we fight, and the Big Throat does not come,--there is the maid. They would not spare her then." The priest looked at the Captain, and in the dim, uncertain light he saw something of the thought that lay behind those wearied eyes. "True," he said; "true." Menard walked up and down, a half-dozen steps forward, a half-dozen back, without a glance at the priest, who watched him closely. Suddenly he turned, and the words that were in his mind slipped unguarded from his tongue, low and stern:-- "If they come, Father,--if they harm her,--God! if they even wake her, I will kill them." Father Claude looked at him, but said nothing. They walked together up and down; then, as if weary, they sat again by the door. "There are some things which I could not talk over with you," said the priest, finally. "It was best that I should not. And now I hardly know what is the right thing for me to do, or to say." "What troubles you?" "When you are cooler, it will come to you. For to-night,--until our last moment of choice,--I must ask one favour, M'sieu. You will not decide on this course until it comes to the end. You will think of other ways; you will--" "What else have I been doing, Father? There is no other way." "But you will not decide yet?" "No. We need not, to-night." The priest seemed relieved. "M'sieu," came in a low voice from the darkness within the hut, "may I not sit with you?" "You are awake, Mademoiselle? You have not been sleeping?" "No, I could not. I--I have not heard you, M'sieu,--I have not listened. But I wanted to very much. I have only my thoughts, and they are not the best of company to-night." "Come." Menard rose and got one of the priest's blankets, folding it and laying it on the ground against the wall. "I fear that we may be no better than the thoughts; but such as we are, we are at the service of Mademoiselle." She sat by them, and leaned back, letting her hands fall into her lap. Menard was half in the shadow, and he could let his eyes linger on her face. It was a sad face now, worn by the haunting fears that the night had brought,--fears that had not held their substance in the sunlight; but the eyes were still bright. Even at this moment she had not forgotten to catch up the masses of hair that were struggling to be free; and there was a touch of neatness about her torn dress that the hardships of the journey and the dirt and discomforts of an Indian shelter had not been able to take away. They all three sat without talking, watching the sparks from the fire and the tips of flame that now and then reached above the huts. "How strange their song is, M'sieu." "Yes. They will keep it up all night. If we were nearer, you would see that as soon as a brave is exhausted with the dancing and singing, another will rush in to take his place. Sometimes they fall fainting, and do not recover for hours."