Du Lhut shook his head moodily.

“If you stand by the fort I will not desert you,” said he, “and yet it is a pity to sacrifice brave men for nothing.”

“The canoes will hardly hold the women and children as it is,” cried Theuriet.  “There are but two large and four small.  There is not space for a single man.”

“Then that decides it,” said De Catinat.  “But who are to row the women?”

“It is but a few leagues with the current in their favour, and there are none of our women who do not know how to handle a paddle.”

The Iroquois were very quiet now, and an occasional dropping shot from the trees or the stockade was the only sign of their presence.  Their losses had been heavy, and they were either engaged in collecting their dead, or in holding a council as to their next move.  The twilight was gathering in, and the sun had already sunk beneath the tree-tops.  Leaving a watchman at each window, the leaders went round to the back of the house where the canoes were lying upon the bank.  There were no signs of the enemy upon the river to the north of them.

“We are in luck,” said Amos.  “The clouds are gathering and there will be little light.”

“It is luck indeed, since the moon is only three days past the full,” answered Du Lhut.  “I wonder that the Iroquois have not cut us off upon the water, but it is likely that their canoes have gone south to bring up another war-party.  They may be back soon, and we had best not lose a moment.”

“In an hour it might be dark enough to start.”

“I think that there is rain in those clouds, and that will make it darker still.”

The women and children were assembled and their places in each boat were assigned to them.  The wives of the censitaires, rough hardy women whose lives had been spent under the shadow of a constant danger, were for the most part quiet and collected, though a few of the younger ones whimpered a little.  A woman is always braver when she has a child to draw her thoughts from herself, and each married woman had one now allotted to her as her own special charge until they should reach the fort.  To Onega, the Indian wife of the seigneur, who was as wary and as experienced as a war sachem of her people, the command of the women was entrusted.

“It is not very far, Adele,” said De Catinat, as his wife clung to his arm.  “You remember how we heard the Angelus bells as we journeyed through the woods.  That was Fort St. Louis, and it is but a league or two.”

“But I do not wish to leave you, Amory.  We have been together in all our troubles.  Oh, Amory, why should we be divided now?”

“My dear love, you will tell them at the fort how things are with us, and they will bring us help.”

“Let the others do that, and I will stay.  I will not be useless, Amory.  Onega has taught me to load a gun.  I will not be afraid, indeed I will not, if you will only let me stay.”