CHAPTER XXXI

A SEARCH, AND ITS REWARD

I slept at last, soundly, for several hours, lying well hidden behind the skins at the back of the lodge.  There seemed nothing else to do; for poor De Croix had no thought other than that of the woman who had just left us, and I was exhausted by hours of excitement and toil.  He was asleep when I awoke, lying just as I had left him, his face still buried in the short trodden grass that carpeted the floor.

It was so quiet without that I listened in vain for a sound to indicate the presence of Indians.  Silence so profound was in strange contrast with the hideous uproar of the preceding night, and curiosity led me finally to project my head from beneath the lodge covering and gain a cautious glimpse of the camp without.  The yellow sunshine of the calm summer afternoon rested hot and glaring on the draped skins of the tepees, and on the brown prairie-grass, trampled by hundreds of passing feet.  I could perceive a few squaws working lazily in the shade of the trees near the bank of the river; but no other moving figures were visible.  Several recumbent forms were within my sight, their faces toward the sun, evidently sleeping off the heavy potations of the night.  Otherwise the great encampment appeared completely deserted; there were no spirals of smoke rising above the lodge-poles, no gossiping groups anywhere about.

It was plain enough to me.  Those of the warriors capable of further action were elsewhere engaged upon some fresh foray, while the majority, overcome by drinking, were asleep within their darkened lodges.  Surely, daylight though it was, no safer moment could be expected in which to establish communication with Toinette.  With night the camp would be again astir; and even if I succeeded in reaching her at some later hour it would leave small margin of darkness for our escape.  Every moment of delay now added to our grave peril, and there was much planning to be done after we met.  Possibly I should have waited, as I had been told to do; but it was ever in my blood to act rather than reason, and I am sure that in this case no cause remains for regret.

I must confess that my heart beat somewhat faster, as I crept slowly forth and peered cautiously around the bulging side of the big lodge I had just left, to assure myself no savages were stirring.  It was not that I greatly feared the venture, nor that a sense of danger excited my nerves; but rather the one thought in my mind was that now my way lay toward Mademoiselle.  How would she greet me?  Should I learn my fate from her tell-tale eyes, or by a sudden gleam of surprise in her lovely face?  These were the reflections that inspired me, for a new hope had been born within me through the forced confession of De Croix.