We held short council:  Pierre the peasant, Singing Arrow the squaw, and I, the Seignior de Montlivet.  We mingled suggestions and advice, and struck a balance.  The sunset flamed in the woods behind us, and I knew that the moon rose early.  I could have used a knife upon Pierre for the time it took me to convince him that our canoes could carry one man more.  Heretofore my nod had been enough to bring him to my heels, but now he thought his head in danger, so he fought with me like an animal or an equal.  The equal I would not tolerate, and the animal I cowed in brute fashion.  Then I sent Singing Arrow to do her work, and I went to the Englishman.

The Englishman saw me from the window, and was at the door before I could lift the latch.  Yet his eagerness did not trip him into carelessness, and so long as the guards could see, he greeted me with a hostile stare.

I pushed him within, and closed the door.  “Have you seen any one?” I asked.

“Only the guard with my supper.”

I drew a freer breath.  “Good tidings.  Then Cadillac has succeeded in holding off the Indians until moonrise.”

He glanced out at the dusk.  “That is not long,” he said dispassionately.

I put out my hand.  Somehow this youth could move me curiously by his calmness, although I was no stranger to brave men.

“The time is terribly short,” I agreed, “but we will make it suffice.  And we need not haste.  We can do nothing till it is a little darker, then we shall move swiftly.  A young squaw, Singing Arrow, will be here in a few minutes.  You are to escape in her dress.”

He wasted no time in comment.  “Am I dark enough?” he demurred.  “My neck, where I am not sunburned, is very white.”

I had thought of this, and had warned Singing Arrow.  “There is no opportunity to stain your skin,” I said, “so we must trust to the dark, and a blanket wrapping.  The Indian will wear leggings, skirt and blouse of skin, so you will be fairly covered.  The hands and hair are the weak points.  You will have to keep them in the blanket.”

He hesitated.  “You can trust this girl?” he asked slowly.

Now why should he ask what he knew I could not answer?  “Can you trust me—­or I you, for the matter of that?” I jerked out with a frown.  “This is an outlaw’s land, and the wise man trusts no one except under compulsion.  I would not trust Singing Arrow for a moment if I could help myself, but she is our only hope, so I trust her implicitly.  I advise you to do the same.  Half measures are folly.  If you try to be cautious in your dealings with her, you will tie her hands so that the whole thing will fall through.  If she betrays us—­well, you are in no worse estate than now, and we will still have my sword and my men to depend on.  But that is a slender hope, and we will save it for a last resort.  Now we will hazard everything on this plan.”