Henri moved to keep from backing into one of the Indian girls, and then he realized his danger: He was directly in front of the stairway. Seizing his advantage, Jean-Claude lunged forward with a quick thrust to the body, and involuntarily, Henri stepped back to the brink of the top stair. Now Henri’s peril was great, and Jean-Claude became even more reckless. He took a cut across the chin but charged forward with his body like a bull, as if to grab Henri about the waist and hurl him down the stairs. Jean-Claude was a brute of a man, and to avoid grappling with him, Henri moved backward down the stairs.
His only hope was to keep Jean-Claude at a safe distance with the rapier-sharp point of his sword and try for a mortal thrust to the fellow’s heart or abdomen. To this end, he slowly retreated down the stairs, waiting for the right moment to deliver the blow. As it seemed that the duel would be a long one, the other officers stayed on the third floor with the Indian girls. The duelists continued down the flight of steps until they were a short distance from the first floor. Henri then began to formulate a more charitable plan: Being the more agile man, when both reached the first floor he would whirl around, mount a few steps, and leap upon Jean-Claude, pinning him to the floor. If he could execute the move quickly enough, he was sure his opponent would admit defeat.
But as Henri’s foot reached the third step from the bottom, he tripped and lost his balance. His head struck the stone floor, and all went black. In a moment of insane anger, Jean-Claude raised his sword arm and ran the helpless man through.
A little sanity, or at least the need for self-preservation, then began to return to Jean-Claude de Rochefort. He had committed murder, a deed for which he could hang. Before his crime was discovered, he must somehow get rid of the body. Henri was by no means a small man and would be too heavy to carry. Besides, Jean-Claude had only a short time to dispose of the evidence. What was he to do? He decided to dismember the body and throw the pieces into Lake Ontario. If they were found later, everyone would think that a soldier had been the victim of hostile Indians.
He began his grisly work. Using his already bloodied sword, he first cut off the head and ran with it to the lake. Returning, he noticed the blood he had left on the floor and, finding some rags, mopped it up quickly. Ready to resume his horrible task, he heard the sound of voices from above and realized that the party was ending. The officers and girls would be coming down the stairs at any moment. There was only one thing to do. With all his strength, Jean-Claude carried the body to the well and threw it in. From the depths of the well came a distant splash, and it was done.
The partygoers stumbled back to their barracks in a much more drunken condition than the one in which they had arrived. If there were any who wondered about Henri and Jean-Claude, they probably thought both men had retired to their own quarters. Within the week some of the officers noticed the absence of Henri, and a search was organized, but it was fruitless. There were those, including Onita, who were convinced that Henri had been murdered by Jean-Claude, but they lacked the evidence with which to step forward and accuse him.
Onita was certain that Henri was dead, for she knew he would have come back to her if he had been alive. Several months passed, and she did not have the heart to go to any parties at the Castle. But one September night when there was to be a party, she decided to go, for the purpose of listening and learning whatever she could that might give some clue to Henri’s fate.
The girls and officers left the village together, and some were surprised to see Onita, for she had not been to the Castle since the duel. That night she made it a point to mingle with as many of the officers as possible but not to become deeply involved in conversation with any one of them. Her objective was to find someone who was a friend of Henri’s and who had been there the night he disappeared. The evening passed, but she was not successful. Finally, as she was preparing to leave with the other girls, a young man named Jacques came up and spoke to her admiringly.
“I know you. You were with Henri the night of the duel. I often admired you, but Henri was my dear friend, and I knew how much he cared about you. Your name was on his lips often.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I shall see you again here at the Castle.”
Jacques nodded, his face flushed with pleasure.
Two weeks later Jacques went to the Seneca village. It was on a night when the moon was huge and round with a cast to it, sometimes described as “blood on the moon.” However often we see it, there is always something ominous about a full moon that is red. Jacques and Onita sat talking with some of the other members of the tribe, and this time it was Onita who brought the subject around to Henri.
But Jacques stopped her. “Onita, it is not wise for us to say too much about it here. Let’s go to the Castle.”
The building was empty, for it was by now almost midnight, and the men were in the barracks. They sat down on the bottom step of the same stairs where the duel had occurred, and Jacques began to tell her how he had lingered after the others had left on the night of
