“What new law has the sagamore made?” she inquired.

“He says he will no more allow a man to put away his first and true wife, for he is convinced that God does not love inconstancy in men.”

“The sagamore should have kept his first wife himself.”

“But he says he has not yet had her,” answered the Etchemin woman, glancing aside at the princess.  “The sagamore will not see the end of the sugar-making to-night.”

“Because he sits alone every night by his fire,” said Madockawando’s daughter; “there is too much talk about the sagamore.  It is the end of the sugar-making that your mind is set on.”

“My husband is at the camps,” said the Etchemin plaintively.  “Besides, I am very tired.”

“Rest yourself, therefore, by tramping far to wait on your husband and keep his hands filled with warm sugar.  I am tired, and I go to my lodge.”

“But there is a feast in the camps, and nobody has thought of putting a kettle on in the village.  I will first get your meat ready.”

“No, I intend to observe a fast to-night.  Go on to the camps, and serve my family there.”

The Etchemin looked toward the darkening bay, and around them at those thickening hosts of invisible terrors which are yet dreaded by more enlightened minds than hers.

“No,” responded the princess, “I am not afraid.  Go on to the camps while you have the courage to be abroad alone.”

The Etchemin woman set off at a trot, her heavy body shaking, and distance soon swallowed her.  Madockawando’s daughter stood still in the humid dimness before turning aside to her lodge.  Perhaps the ruddy light which showed through the open fortress gate from the hall of Pentegoet gave her a feeling of security.  She knew a man was there; and there was not a man anywhere else within half a league.  It was the last great night of sugar-making.  Not even an Abenaqui woman or child remained around the fort.  Father Petit himself was at the camps to restrain riot.  It would be a hard patrol for him, moving from fire to fire half the night.  The master of Pentegoet rested very carelessly in his hold.  It was hardly a day’s sail westward to the English post of Pemaquid.  Saint-Castin had really made ready for his people’s spring sowing and fishing with some anxiety for their undisturbed peace.  Pemaquid aggressed on him, and he seriously thought of fitting out a ship and burning Pemaquid.  In that time, as in this, the strong hand upheld its own rights at any cost.

The Abenaqui girl stood under the north-west bastion, letting early night make its impressions on her.  Her motionless figure, in indistinct garments, could not be seen from the river; but she discerned, rising up the path from the water, one behind the other, a row of peaked hats.  Beside the hats appeared gunstocks.  She had never seen any English, but neither her people nor the French showed such tops, or came stealthily up from the boat landing under cover of night.  She did not stop to count them.  Their business must be with Saint-Castin.  She ran along the wall.  The invaders would probably see her as she tried to close the gate; it had settled on its hinges, and was too heavy for her.  She thought of ringing the chapel bell; but before any Abenaqui could reach the spot the single man in the fortress must be overpowered.