Truly one part of my plan had succeeded.  The house was the centre of an ant-like swarm skurrying here and there, apparently without method, but with a jerkiness of movement that suggested attack and recoil.  I could distinguish the nose pendants of the Ottawas and the bristling crests of the Hurons.  It was a crew with choice potentialities for mischief.  Cadillac was justified in feeling that his scalp sat but unsteadily upon his head.

I had given Singing Arrow fifteen minutes to hide her brandy and send word to the braves, and I counted off the time to myself, trying to numb my anxiety.  But among savages news runs underground as well as over, and I had scarcely covered half the space that I had set for myself before the crowd began to disappear.  It slipped away like water between the fingers, and in a moment there remained only the guards, Pemaou, and a few Ottawas.  The guards, relieved from immediate anxiety of a riot, leaned listlessly on their muskets, the Ottawas would not interfere with a girl of their own tribe, and Pemaou could not watch all quarters at once.  Now was certainly the time to act; but where was Singing Arrow?  My inaction pressed on me like a hideous weight.  It seemed days instead of hours that I had sat like a crone by her distaff and let others do my work—­or fail to do it.  Why was Singing Arrow so slow to come?

I thought that I had not shifted my gaze from the house for more than an instant; but now, as I watched the door, I learned, and not for the first time, that a white man should have a score of eyes instead of two when it comes to watching an Indian.  For the commandant’s door suddenly opened, and out came a blanket-draped, skin-clad figure.  My muscles stiffened.  It was the Englishman.  Singing Arrow had brought him the clothing, and I had not seen.

So the moment had come.  I gripped my sword as one turns instinctively to the friend loved best.  Would the prisoner act his part?  So keen was my anxiety, that I felt my spirit leap out to stand by his side, and I shut my teeth upon the cry of encouragement that welled within me.

But he needed no help of mine.  He made his way leisurely past the great fire, walking with wonderful mimicry of a woman’s gait, and he kept his face well in the shelter of the blanket in a way that suggested coquetry rather than disguise.

And in this manner he came straight to me.  He came, unerringly as a sleep-walker, past fires, past Indians, and through the gaunt rows of maize.  He looked neither to right nor left, and no one molested him.  He came to where I stood silent, and put out his hand to touch mine.

“It is done,” he said quietly.

His fingers were warm, and his touch tingled.  I marveled.  “It is a miracle,” I said.

He looked at me in question.  “Your hand is very cold.  Monsieur, monsieur, did you fear for me so much?”

I bowed.  “Yes.  I did not think it could be done.  You are an able man, monsieur.”