I touched his sleeve.  “Monsieur, I have been alone.  I have thought it out.  There is no escape.  I do not know why life should give a man such a thing to do, but it is here.  I have told the Indians that I represented the king; that I stood for government, protection.  I have called them here in the name of law.  It is a new word to them, and I have forced its meaning into their minds.  And so they trust me.  They trust me in the name of this law I talk about.  If I desert them now, they will lapse into savagery of the worst kind.  We shall have anarchy.  Blood will flow for years.  No Frenchman’s life will be safe.  I have the best men of six tribes here, and they will think themselves deceived and pay us in red coin.  I have been alone.  I have thought it out.  I cannot do wholesale murder to save one life, even if it is my wife whose life is to be forfeit.  We must go on.”

Cadillac put out his hand and caught my shoulder.  I had reeled against him as I spoke.  He removed his hat.

“I await your plans, Monsieur de Montlivet.  My troops are ready.”

When I found Onanguisse he examined me from under drooping lids.  Despite his age, he was wont to hold his head like a deer, but now his look was on the ground.  He handed me a richly feathered bow and a sheaf of arrows.

“I cannot use them,” he said.  “I called her daughter.  I gave her a robe in token.  It is only a porcupine who turns against his own.  A chief remembers.”

I pressed the bow back.  “Take it, and save her.  I do not know how.  You are an old man in knowledge, I am a child.  I trust to you to bring her to me.”

He looked up at that, and shook his head in sorrow when he saw my face.  But he would not take his bow.  “One man cannot save her,” he said, and he bowed his head again and went away.

I did not speak.  I saw him summon his warriors and reembark.  In the general tumult his leaving made little stir.  The Pottawatamies were arrogant, called themselves “lords,” and exacted tribute of the other tribes of La Baye.  Yet they accomplished this more by diplomacy than warfare.  I knew that Onanguisse’s desertion was well in tune with his reputation and would not be combated.

I found Pierre, and told him about the woman.  “You are to save her.  You are to get her away.  It is for you to do.  You are to think nothing else, work for nothing else.  You can do it.  I depend on you to do it.  You are never to come to me again if you fail.”

But he, too, looked away.  “It cannot be done.  The Indians will kill her.”  He turned his head from me, and his voice was thick and grating.

I raged at him.  “I shall give the Indians orders to spare all women,” I declared.

He nodded his great head.  “I will help the master.  I will do all I can.”  He humored me as one hushes an ailing child, but I saw the caution and blankness in his look.  As soon as he could he slipped out of my sight.