"Hoh!" grunted the fighting braves, who frankly admired this exhibition
of strength.
"Curse it, why didn't I think of that?" said the vicomte, his hand
seeking his injured mouth again.
"God bless you for that, Paul," murmured Victor, the sparkle of tears
in his eyes. "My hands do not hurt half so much now."
"Would to God, lad, you had gone to Spain. I am content to suffer
alone; that is my lot; but it triples my sufferings to see you in pain."
"Good!" said D'Hérouville. "The cursed fool of a medicine man has
stopped his din. We shall be able to sleep." He doubled up his knees
and wrapped his arms around them.
A squaw gave Victor some bears' grease, and he rubbed his palms with
it, easing the pain and the smart.
One by one the Indians dozed off, some on their bellies, some on their
backs, some with their heads upon their knees, while others curled
themselves up among the warm-bodied dogs. Monsieur Chouan hooted once
more; the panther's whine died away in the distance; from another part
of the village a cur howled: and stillness settled down.
Victor, kept awake by his throbbing hands, which he tried to ease by
gently rocking his body, listened dully to all these now familiar
sounds. Across his shoulders was flung the historic grey cloak. In
the haste to pursue madame's captors, it had mysteriously slipped into
the bundle they had packed. Like a Nemesis it followed them
relentlessly. This inanimate witness of a crime had followed them with
a purpose; the time for its definition had not yet arrived. The
Chevalier refused to touch it, and heaped curses upon it each time it
crossed his vision. But Victor had ceased to feel any qualms; it kept
out the chill at night and often served as a pillow. Many a time
D'Hérouville and the vicomte discovered each other gaping at it. If
caught by D'Hérouville, the vicomte shrugged and smiled; on the other
hand, D'Hérouville scowled and snarled his beard with his fingers.
There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to that
grey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would.
Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, and
a woman's hand if not her heart.
Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escaped
him.
"Does it pain you much, lad?" asked the Chevalier, turning his head.
"I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."
The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomte
and the poet alone were awake and watchful.
A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer.
The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A dog
lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, human
and designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several
short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth,
uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes
later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin
and entered the hut.