“‘Lastly,’ he said, ’I have now assisted you to form a mighty league, a covenant of strength and friendship.  If you preserve it, without admission of other people, you will always be free, numerous and mighty.  If other nations are admitted into your councils, they will sow jealousies among you, and you will become enslaved, few and feeble.  Remember these words; they are the last you will hear from Hiawatha.  Listen, my friends, the Great Master of Breath calls me to go.  I have patiently awaited his summons.  I am ready; farewell.’

“And as the wise man closed his speech, there burst upon the air the sound of wondrous music.  The whole sky was filled with sweetest melody.  Amid the general confusion which prevailed, Hiawatha was seen majestically seated in his white canoe, gracefully rising higher and higher above their heads through the air, until the clouds obscured it from view.  Thus, as he came, he left them; but he had brought wisdom and had not taken it away, the godlike Taounyawatha, and son of the Great and Good Spirit Hawahneu.  It is the learning of these poetical legends that has convinced us that some day we shall convert these heretics into Christians.  It is . . .”  Brother Jacques seemed turned into stone.

A hand, dark and glistening with water resting upon the gunwale of the boat, just back of madame, had caught his eye.  Both women saw the horror grow in his face.

“What is it?” they cried.

Without replying he caught up the oars.  The water boiled around the broad blades:  the boat did not turn, but irresistibly maintained its course up the river.  With an exclamation of despair, he wrenched loose one of the oars, lifted it above his head and brought it swiftly down toward the hand.  The blade splintered on the gunwale.  The hand had been withdrawn too swiftly.  At the same instant the boat careened and a bronzed and glistening savage raised himself into the boat; and another, and another.  They were captives, madame, Anne, and Brother Jacques.  There stood the frowning fortress in the distance, help; but no voice could reach that distance.  They were lost.

One of the Indians drew a knife and held it suggestively against Brother Jacques’s breast.  Neither madame nor Anne screamed; they were daughters of soldiers.

There were four Indians in all.  They had daringly breasted the stream, and had grasped the towing line and the stern and had silently propelled the boat up the current.

“For myself I do not care,” said Brother Jacques, his voice breaking.  “But God forgive me for not being firm when I warned you.”

“You are not to blame, Father,” said madame.  She was pale, but calm.

“What will they do with us?” asked Anne, a terrible thought dazing her.

“We are in the hands of God.”

The boat moved diagonally across the river.  When the forest-lined shore was gained, the leader motioned his captives to disembark, which they did.  He put the remaining oar into the lock and pushed the governor’s pleasure craft down stream, smiling as he did so.  Next he drew forth two canoes from under drooping elderberry bushes and motioned to the women and Brother Jacques to enter.