And together they returned to the shore of the lake.  The vibrant song of the bugle stirred the hush.  It was five o’clock.  The soldiers had finished the day’s work, and the settlers had thrown down the ax.  All were mustered on the parade ground before the palisade.  The lilies of France fluttered at the flagstaff.  There were fifty muskets among the colonists, muskets of various makes and shapes.  They shone dully in the mean light.  Here and there a comparatively new uniform brightened the rank and file.  They had been here for more than a year, and the seventeenth of May, the historic date of their departure from Quebec, seemed far away.  Few and far between were the notes which came to their ears from the old world, the world they all hoped to see again some day.  The drill was a brave sight; for the men went through their manoeuvers with all the pomp of the king’s musketeers.  A crowd of savages looked on, still awed.  But some of the Onondagas laughed or smiled.  There was something going on at the Long House in the hills which these Frenchmen knew nothing about.  And other warriors watched the scene with the impassiveness of a spider who sees a fly moving toward the web.

The pioneers were hardy men; that some wore skins of beasts, ragged silks and velvets which had once upon a time aired themselves among the fashionable in Paris, and patched and faded uniforms, mattered but little.  They were men; and even the Iroquois were impressed by this fact more than any other.  Du Puys and Nicot saw that there was no slipshod work; for while the drilling was at present only for show and to maintain awe, the discipline would prove effective in time of need.  Neither of these good soldiers had the faith in the Iroquois which made the Jesuit Fathers so trustful.  Who could say that all this was not a huge trap, the lid of which might fall any day?

Madame had wandered off by herself to view the scene from a distance; but her interest soon died away and her thoughts became concerned with her strange fate.  She regretted her beauty; for she was conscious that she possessed this physical attribute.  It had been her undoing; she had used it in play, to this miserable end.  It was only when large drops of rain splashed on her face that she realized where she was or that a storm had burst upon the valley.

“Madame, will you do me the honor to accept my cloak?”

Drearily she inclined her head toward the voice, and became awake to the actualities of the moment.  For the speaker was D’Herouville.  It was the first opportunity he had found to address her, and he was determined to make the most of it.

“Will you accept my cloak, Madame?” he repeated.  “It is raining.”

“Accept your cloak?  Touch anything which belongs to you?  I think not, Monsieur!” She went on.  She even raised her face toward the cold, sweet-smelling torrents.

“Madame!”

“Monsieur, is it not a grey cloak which you have to offer?” with sudden inspiration.  For madame had been thinking lately of that garment which had played so large a part in her destiny.  “Have you not the cloak to offer which made me a widow?  Monsieur, the sight of you makes me ill.  Pray, go about your affairs and leave me in peace.  Love you?  I abhor you.  I can not speak in plainer language.”