“Good!” said D’Herouville.  “The cursed fool of a medicine man has stopped his din.  We shall be able to sleep.”  He doubled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them.

A squaw gave Victor some bears’ grease, and he rubbed his palms with it, easing the pain and the smart.

One by one the Indians dozed off, some on their bellies, some on their backs, some with their heads upon their knees, while others curled themselves up among the warm-bodied dogs.  Monsieur Chouan hooted once more; the panther’s whine died away in the distance; from another part of the village a cur howled:  and stillness settled down.

Victor, kept awake by his throbbing hands, which he tried to ease by gently rocking his body, listened dully to all these now familiar sounds.  Across his shoulders was flung the historic grey cloak.  In the haste to pursue madame’s captors, it had mysteriously slipped into the bundle they had packed.  Like a Nemesis it followed them relentlessly.  This inanimate witness of a crime had followed them with a purpose; the time for its definition had not yet arrived.  The Chevalier refused to touch it, and heaped curses upon it each time it crossed his vision.  But Victor had ceased to feel any qualms; it kept out the chill at night and often served as a pillow.  Many a time D’Herouville and the vicomte discovered each other gaping at it.  If caught by D’Herouville, the vicomte shrugged and smiled; on the other hand, D’Herouville scowled and snarled his beard with his fingers.  There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to that grey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would.  Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, and a woman’s hand if not her heart.

Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escaped him.

“Does it pain you much, lad?” asked the Chevalier, turning his head.

“I shut them, not thinking.  I shall be all right by morning.”

The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed.  The vicomte and the poet alone were awake and watchful.

A sound.  It drifted from afar.  After a while it came again, nearer.  The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up.  A dog lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled.  Once more.  It was a cry, human and designed.  It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several short yells.  The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth, uttered a similar call.  It was immediately answered; and a few minutes later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin and entered the hut.

“Chaumonot!” exclaimed the Chevalier.

The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white men respectfully brushed them with their lips.  It was a tribute less to his office than to his appearance; for not one of them saw in his coming aught else than a good presage and probable liberation.