"Here might a man dwell in peace," said the Chevalier.
"Not with ambition for his bride," was the vicomte's observation.
The beginning of the end came on the seventh of October, after a famous
hunting day. A great fire was built on the shores of the lake. The
moon, crooked in shape and mellow as a fat pumpkin, hung low over the
forest crests. The water was golden and red: the moon and the flames.
The braves were holding a hunting dance in honor of the kill. There
were at this time about sixty warriors encamped around the mission.
The main body was at the Long House, far back among the hills. A weird
chanting broke the stillness of the night. The outer circle was
composed of the older braves and chieftains, the colonists, the
Jesuits, and the four unhappy men who were their guests. None of the
four took particular interest in the unique performance. Here they
were, but little better situated than at Oneida. True, they were no
longer ill-treated and food was plentiful, but they were held here in a
captivity no less irksome. They were prisoners of impotency. Chance
and the god of whims had put them upon a sorry highway to the heart's
desire.
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