"It was but a moment ago that we talked of it." "Yes, I have not forgotten. But what do you mean now?" "You promised me to wait before deciding. It may be that I was wrong. If you are to make the speech, you will need to prepare it carefully. There is none too much time." "Yes," said Menard. Then suddenly he stopped and took the priest's arm. "I did not think, Father; I did not understand. What a fool I am!" "No, no, M'sieu." "You have talked with her. He is her cousin, and yet it did not come to me. It will pain her." "Yes," said Father Claude, slowly, "it will pain her. But I have been thinking. I fear that you are right. It has passed beyond the simple matter of our own lives; now it is New France that must be thought of. You have said that it was Captain la Grange's treachery that first angered the Onondagas. We must lay this before them. If his punishment will satisfy them, will save the rear-guard, why then, my son, it is our duty." They paced back and forth in silence. Menard's heavy breathing and his quick glances toward the hut told the priest something of the struggle that was going on in his mind. Suddenly he said:-- "I will go to her, Father. I will tell her. I cannot pledge myself to this act if--if she--" "No, M'sieu, you must not; I have told her. She understands. And she has begged me to ask you not to speak with her. She has a brave heart, but she cannot see you now." "She asked you,--" said the Captain, slowly. "She asked you--I cannot think. I do not know what to say." The priest quietly walked back to the stone by the door, and left the soldier to fight out the battle alone. It was half an hour before he came back and stood before Father Claude. "Well, M'sieu?" Menard spoke shortly, "Yes, Father, you are right." That was all, but it told the priest that the matter had been finally settled. He had seen the look in the Captain's eyes when the truth had come to him; and he knew now what he had not dreamed before, that the soldier's heart had gone out to this maid, and now he must set his hand against one of her own blood. The Father knew that he would do it, would fight La Grange to the end. A word was trembling on his tongue, but as he looked at the seamed face before him, he could not bring himself to add a deeper sorrow to that already stamped there. "You must help me with the speech, Father. My wits are not at their best, I fear." "Willingly, M'sieu. And the presents,--we must think of that." "True. We have not the wampum collars. It must be something of great value that will take their place. You know how much tradition means to these people. Of course I have nothing. But you--you have your bale. And Mademoiselle--together you should find something." "I fear that I have little. My blankets and my altar they would not value. One moment--" He stepped to the door, and spoke softly, "Mademoiselle."