The boat was therefore turned, and thus took the same course that the girls had taken.  The current was at right angles with its advance, though the houses on the north somewhat broke that force.  The roofless building, ridiculously shortened in its height, had more the look of a fortress than when it was used as one.  The walls had been washed out above both great entrances, making spacious jagged arches through which larger craft than theirs could pass.  Colonel Menard was quick to see this; he steered and directed his men accordingly.  The Jesuit College was too well built to crumble on the heads of chance passers, though the wind and the flood had battered it; to row through it would shorten their course.

Angelique did not say a word about the changed aspect of her world.  A warmth in the pearly light over the bluffs promised a clear day:  and how Kaskaskia would look with the sun shining on her predicament!  The boat cut through braiding and twisting water, and shot into the college.  Part of the building’s upper floor remained; everything else was gone.

The walls threw a shadow upon them, and the green flicker, dancing up and down as they disturbed the inclosure, played curiously on their faces.  The stones suddenly echoed a slap.  Tante-gra’mere’s struggling wrath, which Wachique had tried to keep bound in the coverlet, having found an outlet, was swift as lightning in its reprisal.  The stings of the whiplash had exhilaration and dignity compared to this attack.  It was the climax of her midget rages.  She forgot the breeding of a gentlewoman, and furiously struck her slave in the face.

Wachique started up, her Pottawatomie blood painting her cheek bones.  That instant she was an Indian, not a slave.  She remembered everything this petted despot had done to her, and, lifting her bundle, threw it as far as her arms could send it across the water floor of the college.  The pitiful little weight sunk with a gurgling sound.

“Sit down, woman!” shouted Colonel Menard.

Wachique cowered, and tried to obey.  But the motion she had given the boat was not to be overcome.  It careened, and the water rushed over their knees, filled it full, and became a whirlpool of grasping hands and choking heads.

The overturned boat, wedged partially under the flooring, lodged against the eastern wall.  Both negro rowers came up from their plunge and climbed like cats upon this platform, smearing a mire of sodden plastering over their homespun trousers as they crawled.  One of them reached down and caught the half-breed by the hair, as she rose at the edge of the flooring.  Between them they were able to draw her up.