We reached the outside.  I was in advance.  A great canoe was at the shore and Onanguisse was directing his oarsmen.  In the bow of the canoe sat the woman.

I reached her first; I caught her from the canoe.  Yes, she was alive; she was unhurt.  Her hands were warm.  I heard her breathe.  I dropped on my knees at her feet.

And then she bent over me and whispered, “Monsieur, monsieur, you are unhurt!” Her voice had all its old inflections, and I rose and looked at her in wonder.  Yes, she was alive.  She was grave-eyed and haggard, but she was alive.  The hands that I held were warm and trembling, though my own were cold and leaden as my palsied tongue.  She was dressed in skins, and I could see the brown hollow in her throat.  I could not speak.  I laid my lips upon her hand and trembled.

French and savages pressed around us in a gaping, silent ring.  Cadillac had given us the moment together, but he edged nearer, bewildered by my silence.

“Madame, we welcome you,” he cried.  “Your husband has not been like himself since he heard of your danger.  Give him time to recover.  We have been a camp of mourning for you.  Tell us of your escape.”

And then I spoke.  I drew her hand through my arm and turned her to face the crowd.  “They are your friends, madame,” I said, as if it were the conclusion of a long talk between us.  “Thank them, and tell them of your escape.”

But she halted and turned again to me.  She looked up with her face close to mine, and for the first time she met my eyes fully.  We stood so a moment, and as she stood she flushed under what was in my look; a wave of deepening pink crept slowly up through her brown pallor, but she did not look away.  I felt my face harden to iron.  It was I who turned from her, and the faces before me swam in red.  Up to that time I had grasped only the fact that she was alive, that she stood there, warm, beautiful, unscathed, that I could see her, touch her, hear the strange rise and fall of her voice.  But with the clinging of her glance to mine I remembered more, and sweat poured out on my forehead.  She was my wife.  I had forfeited the right to touch her hand.

The French began to murmur questions and she turned back toward them.  She stood close by my side with her hand in mine, and looked into the faces, French and savage, that hemmed her round.  I think she saw tears in some eyes, for her voice suddenly faltered.  She made a gesture of courtesy and greeting.

“I escaped days ago when we were traveling,” she said in her slow-moving French, that all around might hear.  “I made my way to the Pottawatamie Islands.  Onanguisse had called me daughter, and I knew that if I could find his people I was safe.”

The crowd breathed together in one exclamation.  “You have not been in this camp at all?”

I felt her draw closer to me.  “No, I have not been in this camp.  You thought that I was here?” Her grasp on my hand tightened.  “Then this is the Seneca camp.  The battle is over,” she said under her breath, and she turned to me.  Her eyes were brave, but I knew from her trembling lips that she understood.  “Where is my cousin?”