The Indian woman seemed surprised.  “It is strange to me,” she said, “that you should think of what befalls me when you are yourselves under the same shadow.  But our fate will be as I said.”

“Ah!”

“You and I are to die at the stake.  She is to be given to the dog who has left us.”

“Ah!”

“Adele!  Adele!  What shall I do!” He tore his hair in his helplessness and distraction.

“No, no, fear not, Amory, for my heart will not fail me.  What is the pang of death if it binds us together?”

“The younger chief pleaded for you, saying that the Mitche Manitou had stricken you with madness, as could be seen by your swimming to their canoe, and that a blight would fall upon the nation if you were led to the stake.  But this Bastard said that love came often like madness among the pale-faces, and that it was that alone which had driven you.  Then it was agreed that you should die and that she should go to his wigwam, since he had led the war-party.  As for me, their hearts were bitter against me, and I also am to die by the pine splinters.”

De Catinat breathed a prayer that he might meet his fate like a soldier and a gentleman.

“When is it to be?” he asked.

“Now!  At once!  They have gone to make all ready!  But you have time yet, for I am to go first.”

“Amory, Amory, could we not die together now?” cried Adele, throwing her arms round her husband.  “If it be sin, it is surely a sin which will be forgiven us.  Let us go, dear.  Let us leave these dreadful people and this cruel world and turn where we shall find peace.”

The Indian woman’s eyes flashed with satisfaction.

“You have spoken well, White Lily,” said she.  “Why should you wait until it is their pleasure to pluck you.  See, already the glare of their fire beats upon the tree-trunks, and you can hear the howlings of those who thirst for your blood.  If you die by your own hands, they will be robbed of their spectacle, and their chief will have lost his bride.  So you will be the victors in the end, and they the vanquished.  You have said rightly, White Lily.  There lies the only path for you!”

“But how to take it?”

Onega glanced keenly at the two warriors who stood as sentinels at the door of the hut.  They had turned away, absorbed in the horrible preparations which were going on.  Then she rummaged deeply within the folds of her loose gown and pulled out a small pistol with two brass barrels and double triggers in the form of winged dragons.  It was only a toy to look at, all carved and scrolled and graven with the choicest work of the Paris gunsmith.  For its beauty the seigneur had bought it at his last visit to Quebec, and yet it might be useful, too, and it was loaded in both barrels.

“I meant to use it on myself,” said she, as she slipped it into the hand of De Catinat.  “But now I am minded to show them that I can die as an Onondaga should die, and that I am worthy to have the blood of their chiefs in my veins.  Take it, for I swear that I will not use it myself, unless it be to fire both bullets into that Bastard’s heart.”