"I saw a dance once, at home. The Ottawas--there were but a few of them--had a war-dance. It seemed to be just for amusement." "They enjoy it. It is not uncommon for them to dance for a day when there is no hunt to occupy them." Father Claude had been silent. Now he rose and walked slowly away, leaving them to talk together. They could see him moving about with bowed head. "The Father is sad, M'sieu." "Yes. But it is not for himself." "Does he fear now? Does he not think that the Big Throat will come?" "I think he will come." The maid looked down at her clasped hands. Menard watched her,--the firelight was dancing on her face and hair,--and again the danger seemed to slip away, the chant and the fire to be a part of some mad dream that had carried him in a second from Quebec to this deep-shadowed spot, and had set this maid before him. "You are wearing the daisy, Mademoiselle." She looked up, half-startled at the change in his voice. Then her eyes dropped again. "See," he continued, "so am I. Is it not strange that we should be here, you and I. And yet, when I first saw you, I thought--" "You thought, M'sieu?" Menard laughed gently. "I could not tell you, without telling you what I think now, and that would--be--" He spoke half playfully, and waited; but she did not reply. "I do not know what it is that has come to me. It is not like me. Or it may be that the soldier, all these years, has not been me. Would it not be strange if I were but now to find myself,--or if you were to find me, Mademoiselle? If it is true, if this is what I have waited so long to find, it would be many years before I could repay you for bringing it to me,--it would be a long lifetime." Again he waited, and still she was silent. Then he talked on, as madly now as on the night of their capture, when he had fought, shouting, musket and knife in hand, at the water's edge. But this was another madness. "It is such a simple thing. Until you came out here under the trees my mind was racked with the troubles about us. But now you are here, and I do not care,--no, not if this were to be my last night, if to-morrow they should--" She made a nervous gesture, but he went on. "You see it is you, Mademoiselle, who come into my life, and then all the rest goes out." "Don't," she said brokenly. "Don't." Father Claude came slowly toward them. "My child," he said, "if you are not too wearied, I wish to talk with you." She rose with an air of relief and joined him. Menard watched them, puzzled. He could hear the priest speaking in low, even tones; and then the maid's voice, deep with emotion. Finally they came back, and she went hurriedly into the hut without a glance at the soldier, who had risen and stood by the door. "Come, M'sieu, let us walk." Menard looked at him in surprise, but walked with him. "It is about the speech to the council--and Captain la Grange. It may be that you are right, M'sieu." "Right? I do not understand."