Brother Jacques was up instantly. He grasped the brawny arms of the

Onondaga and drew him toward him.

"The little Father has lost none of his strength," observed the

Onondaga, smiling.

"No, my son; and the tears in his eyes are of rage, not of weakness.

Let Dominique forget what he has seen."

"He has already forgotten. And when will my brother start out for the

stone house of Onontio?"

"As soon as possible." Aye, how fared Monsieur le Marquis these days?

"But not alone," said the Black Kettle. "The silence will drive him

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mad, like a brother of his I knew."

"The Great Master of Breath wills it; I must go alone," said Brother

Jacques. He was himself again. The tempest in his soul was past.

"I should like to see Onontio's house again;" and the Indian waited.

"Perhaps; if the good Fathers can spare you."

And together they returned to the shore of the lake. The vibrant song

of the bugle stirred the hush. It was five o'clock. The soldiers had

finished the day's work, and the settlers had thrown down the ax. All

were mustered on the parade ground before the palisade. The lilies of

France fluttered at the flagstaff. There were fifty muskets among the

colonists, muskets of various makes and shapes. They shone dully in

the mean light. Here and there a comparatively new uniform brightened

the rank and file. They had been here for more than a year, and the

seventeenth of May, the historic date of their departure from Quebec,

seemed far away. Few and far between were the notes which came to

their ears from the old world, the world they all hoped to see again

some day. The drill was a brave sight; for the men went through their

manoeuvers with all the pomp of the king's musketeers. A crowd of

savages looked on, still awed. But some of the Onondagas laughed or

smiled. There was something going on at the Long House in the hills

which these Frenchmen knew nothing about. And other warriors watched

the scene with the impassiveness of a spider who sees a fly moving

toward the web.

The pioneers were hardy men; that some wore skins of beasts, ragged

silks and velvets which had once upon a time aired themselves among the

fashionable in Paris, and patched and faded uniforms, mattered but

little. They were men; and even the Iroquois were impressed by this

fact more than any other. Du Puys and Nicot saw that there was no

slipshod work; for while the drilling was at present only for show and

to maintain awe, the discipline would prove effective in time of need.

Neither of these good soldiers had the faith in the Iroquois which made

the Jesuit Fathers so trustful. Who could say that all this was not a

huge trap, the lid of which might fall any day?




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