These were sad times for old Quebec and for the little girl who was blossoming into a womanhood that should have been joyous and serene, she asked so little of life.
When the news of the reverse and the loss of the stores reached them, they were still more greatly burthened by the influx from Tadoussac and the settlements around. Then, too, the wandering Indians joined in the clamor for food. Trade was stopped. Mont Réal took the furs and disposed of them in other channels. No one knew how many English vessels were lying outside, ready to confiscate anything valuable.
Madame Destournier was in a state of ungovernable terror.
"Why should we stay here and be murdered?" she would cry. "Or starve to death! Let us return to France, as we planned. Am I of not as much consideration as an Indian squaw, that you all profess so much anxiety for?"
"It would not be prudent to cross the ocean now," her husband said. "We might be taken prisoners and carried to England. You are in no state to face hardships."
"As if I did not face them continually! Oh, I should have gone at once, when Laurent died. And if the English take the town, where will be the fortune he struggled for! I wish I had never seen the place."
She would go on bewailing her hard fate until utterly exhausted. There were days when she would not let Rose out of her sight, except when her husband entered the room. It was well that he had a motive of the highest honor, to hold himself well in hand, though there were times when his whole heart went out in pity for Rose. Was there another soul in the world that would have been so pitiful and tender?
Eustache Boullé had come from Tadoussac, since so little could be done toward rehabilitating that, and proved himself a most worthy compatriot to Champlain. Rose was sorely troubled at first, but she soon found that miladi no longer cared for the marriage. She was too selfish to think of losing one who was so useful to her. The girl's vigor and vivacity were a daily tonic to her. Would she sap the strength out of this splendid creature? Ralph Destournier wondered, with a pang. Yet to interfere was not possible. He understood the jealous nature, that if given the slightest ground would precipitate anesclandre.
Among the Indians flocking in was Savignon, who had gone to France years before with Champlain, and who had been in demand as an interpreter. He had spent a year or two up at the strait, where there was quite a centre, and the priests had established a station, and gone further on to the company's outpost. An unusually fine-looking brave, with many of the white man's graces, that had not sunk deep enough to be called real qualities. But they were glad to see him, and gave him a warm welcome.
And now what was to be done? All supplies being cut off, the grain fields laid in ruin, the crops failing, how were they to sustain themselves through the winter? Various plans were suggested. One of the most feasible, though fraught with danger, was to lead a party of Algonquins against the Iroquois, and capture some of their villages. The tribe had proved itself deceitful and unfriendly on several occasions. The Algonquins were ready for this. Another was to accept the proffer of a number settled at Gaspé, who had been warm friends with Pontgrave, and who would winter about twenty of the suffering people.
Ralph Destournier offered to head the expedition, as it needed a person of some experience to restrain the Indians, and good judgment in not wasting supplies, if any could be found. Savignon consented to accompany them, and several others who were weary of the suffering around them and preferred activity. They would be back before winter set in if they met with any success.
Destournier planned that his wife should be made comfortable while he was gone. At first she protested, then she sank into a kind of sullen silence. She had seemed stronger for some weeks.
Rose had gone for her daily walk late in the afternoon. She read miladi to sleep about this time and was sure of an hour to herself. She was feeling the severe drain upon her quite sensibly, and though she longed to throw herself on a couch of moss and study the drifting clouds in the glory of the parting day, when the sun had gone behind the hills and the wake of splendor was paling to softer colors; lavender and pale green, that mingled in an indescribable tint, for which there could be no name. There was a little coolness in the air, but the breath of the river was sweet and revived her. Many of the leaves had dried and fallen from the drought, yet the juniper and cedar were bluish-green in the coming twilight, with their clusters of berries frostily gray.
But she walked on. There was a craving in her heart for a change, a larger outlook. It would not be in marrying M. Boullé, though more than once when she had surprised his eyes bent wistfully upon her, a pang of pity for him had gone to her heart. Could she spend years waiting on miladi, whose strength of will kept her alive. Or was it that horrible fear of death? If it was true as the priests taught—oh, yes, it must be. God could not be so cruel as to put creatures in this world to toil and suffer, and then drop back to dust, to nothingness. Even the Indians believed in another sphere, in their crude superstitious fashion, and there must be some better place as a reward for the pain here that was not one's own fault. She loved to peer beyond the skies as she thought, and to drift midway between them and the grand woods, the changeful sea. What if one floated off and never came back!
There was a step beside her, and she drew a long breath, though she was not alarmed, for she almost felt a presence, and turned, waited.
"Rose," the voice said, "I have wanted to find you alone. I have several things to say. I have promised to go on this expedition because I felt it was necessary. You will not blame me. I have made all arrangements for you and miladi, and I shall be back before the real cold weather sets in. I only pray that we may be successful."
"Yes," she said under her breath, yet in vague surprise.
"It is a hard burthen to lay upon you. Do not imagine I have not seen it. At first I thought it only the restless whim of failing health, but I believe she loves you as much as she can love any human being. I realize now that she should have gone to her own sunny France long ago. She is formed for pleasure and brightness, variety, and to have new people about her when she exhausts the old. I should not have married her, but it seemed the best step then. I truly believed——"
No, he would not drag his weak justification before this pure, sweet girl, though he had almost said "I believed she loved me." And he had learned since that she loved no one but her own self. Laurent Giffard had never awakened to the truth. But he had taken the best of her youth.
"Oh, you must know that I am glad to make some return for all your kindness in my childhood. And she was sweet and tender. I think it is the illness that has changed her. Oh, I can recall many delightful hours spent with her. I should be an ingrate if I could not minister to her now of my best."
"You could never be an ingrate," he protested.
"I hope not," fervently.
"I count confidently on returning. I can't tell why, for we shall risk the fate of war, but I can almost see myself here again in the old place. Like our beloved Commandant I, too, have dreams of what Quebec can be made, a glorious place to hand down to posterity. Meanwhile you will care for her as you do now, and comfort her with your many pleasant arts. I am a man formed for business and active endeavor, and cannot minister in that manner. Perhaps Providence did not intend me for a husband, and I have thwarted the will of Providence."
There was a humorous strain in his voice at the last sentence.
"Oh, you need not fear but that I will do my best. And I, too, shall look for your home-coming, believe in it, pray for it."
"The women will remain, and Pani will serve you to the uttermost. When this weary time is ended, and we are in better condition, you will have your reward."
"I do not want any reward, it is only returning what has been given."
He knew many things miladi had grudged her, most of all the home, since it was of his providing and intent.
They wandered on in silence for some time. Both hearts were too full for commonplace talk, and he did not dare venture out of safe lines. He could not pretend to fatherly love, even that cloaked by brotherliness would be but a sham, he knew. He had his own honor to satisfy, as well as her guilelessness.
Now it was quite dark.
"Oh, I must go back. It has been so pleasant that I have loitered. Let us run down this slope."
She held out her hand, and he took it. They skimmed over the ground like children. Then there were the steps to climb, but she was up the first.
"Good-night." She waved her white hand, and he saw it in the darkness.
"The saints bless and keep you."
She ran over to the level and then up again toward the kitchen end. There was a savory smell of supper. A moose had been killed and divided around.
"Oh, how delightful! Is there enough for two bites? One will not satisfy me. But I must see miladi."
"No," interposed Wanamee. "I took in a cup of broth, but she was soundly asleep. Have some steak while it is hot. The saints be praised for a mouthful of decent food."
Yes, it was good. Pani watched with eager, hungry eyes and lips aquiver. Rose felt almost conscience-smitten that she should have been satisfied first.
"Was there much to be divided?" she asked of him.
"He was a noble, big fellow. And they have gone up in the woods for deer."
Miladi was still asleep when she entered the room. She held the lamp a little close with a sudden fear, but she saw the tranquil movement of her chest and was reassured. There was a young moon coming up, a golden crescent in a sky of flawless blue. It was too small to light the savage cliffs, but she could hear the plash of the incoming tide that swirled along with the current of the river. If the English came, what then?
It was near ten when miladi woke.
"What time is it?" she asked. "Not quite morning, for it is dark. I have had such a splendid sleep. Why, I feel quite well."
She sat up in the bed.
"Come and bathe my face, Rose. Do you know whether Madame Hébert has the recipe of this fragrant water? Mine is nearly gone. It is so refreshing."
"I am quite sure she has. You have had no supper. There is some tasty meat broth."
"I'm tired of pease and greens, and make-believe things that don't nourish you at all. And there was such nice fish. Why do they not get some? The river certainly hasn't dried up."
"No, Madame," in almost a merry tone, as if it might take the edge off of complaining. "But there is such a scarcity of hooks. Petit Gabou is making a net of dried grass that he thinks will answer the purpose. And we have always had such a plentiful supply of fish."
The broth was very nourishing. Then Rose must sit with both of miladi's hands in hers, so warm and soft, hers being little beside bone and joints. She talked of France and her youth, when she was a pretty girl, just out of the convent, and went to Paris. "You will like it so much. I can hardly wait for the summer to come. I shall not mind if Monsieur has so much business on hand that he cannot leave," and her tone had a little mocking accent. "When men get older they lose their nice ways of compliment and grace. They care less for their wives. Even M. de Champlain does not fret after his, who is no doubt enjoying herself finely. She was wise not to return."
The slim, golden crescent had wandered away to other worlds, and the stars grew larger and brighter in their bed of blue. She watched them through the open window. A screen was set up so that no draught should annoy miladi. Presently she fell asleep again, and Rose stole to her own couch, the other side of the screen, where she could still watch the stars.
Savignon had come in with news. The Algonquins knew of a storehouse of the Iroquois, who had gone on the war-path, and would hardly be back for a whole moon. It would be best to start at once, and they began preparations. Some of the Indian women volunteered, they were used to carrying burthens. Bags were packed up. They trusted to find most of their food upon the route.
Miladi took the parting tranquilly. M. Ralph had spent weeks on exploring expeditions. If there was any danger in this, she did not heed it. She held up her face to be kissed, and he noted how dry and parched the lips were.
He gave a brief good-bye to Rose, who was standing near.
"Surely, he does not care for women," Miladi thought exultingly. "Even her fresh, young beauty is nothing to him. He has no tender, eager soul."
Rose went down to the plateau to see the start.
"You are much interested, Mam'selle?" Savignon said. "Give us the charm of your thoughts and prayers."
"You have both, most truly." What a fine, stalwart fellow Savignon was, lighter than the average, and picturesque in his Indian costume, though he often wore the garb of civilization. French had become to him almost a mother tongue.
Yet Rose wondered a little if it was right to rob the storehouse where the industrious Indians had been making preparations for the coming winter. Was it easier for one race to starve than another?
"And wish us a safe return."
The look in his eyes disconcerted her for an instant. Her own drooped. She was acquiring a woman's wisdom.
"I do that most heartily," she made answer, turning aside; but the admiration lingered over her fine, yet strong figure, with its grace of movement. The beautiful eyes haunted him, if they were turned away.
Such forays were not uncommon among the tribes. The Iroquois had planted more than one storehouse in the wilderness, in most secluded places. It saved carrying burthens, as they wandered about, or if in desperate weather, they set up their wigwams, and remained eating and sleeping, until hunger drove them elsewhere.
A ship had come down from Acadia with news that several English vessels were hovering about. They offered to take some of the women and children, and M. de Champlain was thankful for this. By spring there must be some change in affairs. The mother country could not wholly forget them.
Rose wondered at times that miladi remained so tranquil. She slept a great deal, and it was an immense relief. It seemed occasionally that her mind wandered, though it was mostly vague mutterings.
Once she said quite clearly—"I will not have the child. You will come to love her better than you do me."
Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on Rose, with a hard, cold stare.
"Go away," she cried. "Go away. I will not have you here to steal his love from me. You are only a child, but one day you will be a woman. And I shall be growing old, old! A woman's youth ought to come back to her for a brief while."
Rose's heart swelled within her. Was this why miladi had taken such queer spells, and sometimes been unkind to her for days? And M. Destournier had always stood her friend.
Yet she felt infinitely sorry for miladi, and that calmed her first burst of indignation. She went out to the forest to walk. The withered leaves lay thick on the ground, they had not been as beautiful as in some autumns, the drought had turned them brown too soon. The white birches seemed like lovely ghosts haunting the darkened spaces. Children were digging for fallen nuts, even edible roots, and breaking off sassafras twigs. What would they do before spring, if relief did not come!
Suppose she went away with the next vessel that came in. But then she had promised. Oh, yes, she must look after miladi, just as carefully as if there were depths of love between them. How did she come to know so much about love? Surely she had never loved any one with her whole soul. Neither had she craved an overwhelming affection. But now the world seemed large, and strange, and empty to her. She rustled the leaves under her feet, as if they made a sort of company in the loneliness. Perhaps it would not have been so bad to have taken M. Boullé's love. If only love did not mean nearness, some sacred rites, kisses. She felt if she raised her hand in permission it might still be hers. No, no, she could not take it, and she shivered. Why, it was nearly dark, and cold. She must run to warm her blood.
She came in bright and glowing, her eyes in cordial shining.
"Thank the Holy Mother that you have come," cried Mawha. "Miladi has been crying and going on and saying that you have deserted her. Wanamee could not comfort her. Run, quick."
Miladi was sobbing as if her heart would break. Rose bent over her, smoothed her brow and hair, chafed the cold hands.
"The way was so long and dark," she cried, "such a long, long path. Will I have to go all alone?" and Rose could feel the terrified shiver.
"You will not have to go anywhere," began the girl, in a soothing tone. "I shall stay here with you."
"But you were gone," complainingly.
"I will not go again."
"Then sit here and hold my hands. I think it was a dream. I am not going to die. I am really better. I walked about to-day. Is there word from Monsieur? You know we are going to France in the summer. Do you know what happens when one dies? I've seen the little Indian babies die. Do you suppose they really have souls?"
"Every one born in the world has. The priest will tell you." Rose gained a little courage. "Perhaps you would like to see Father Jamay."
"I went to confession a long while ago. The priest wanted my French books. M. Ralph said I need not give them up. I prayed to the Virgin. I prayed for many things that did not come. But we will go to France, M. Ralph promised, and he never breaks his word, so I do not need to pray for that. I am cold. Cover me up warm, and get something for my feet. Then sit here and put your arms around me. Promise me you will never go away again."
"I promise"—in a sweet, soft tone.
Then she sat on the side of the bed and placed her arm about the shoulders. How thin they were.
"Sing something. The silence frightens me."
Rose sang, sometimes like a chant, lines she could recall that had a musical sound. The leaning figure grew heavier, the breathing was slow and tranquil. Wanamee came in.
"Help me put her down," Rose said, for she was weary with the strained position.
They laid her down tenderly, without waking her.
"Stay with me," pleaded Rose. "You know when I went away M. Destournier used to come in. I do not like to leave her alone."
"It is curious," exclaimed Wanamee. "This morning she seemed so well, and walked about. Then she sinks down. How long she has been ill, this way."
Rose wanted to ask a solemn question, but she did not dare. Presently Wanamee dozed off, but Rose watched until the eastern sky began to show long levels of light. There seemed an awesome stillness in the room.
"Wanamee," she said faintly.
The woman rose and looked at the figure on the bed, standing some seconds in silence.
"Go out quietly,ma fille, and find Mawha. Send her in." Then she turned Rose quite around, and the girl uttered no question.
"What is the matter?" asked Pani. "Mam'selle, you are white as a snowdrift."
"I think miladi is dead," and she drew a long, strangling breath, her figure trembling with unknown dread.
Pani bowed and crossed himself several times.
Wanamee came in presently. "The poor lady is gone," she said reverently. "She was so afraid of dying, and it was just like a sleep. Pani, you must row up to the convent at once, and ask some of the fathers to come down. Stop first at the fort and tell the Governor."
That Madame Destournier should die surprised no one, but it was unexpected, for all that. It appeared to accentuate the other sorrows and anxieties. And that M. Destournier should be away seemed doubly sad. Two of the priests came down with Pani, and held some services over the body. Her ill health was the excuse of her not having paid more attention to the offices of the Church, that so far had not flourished at all well. The convent was really too far, and the chapel service had waned since the departure of Madame de Champlain.
When Rose gained courage to go into the room where a few tapers were dimly burning, she lost her fear in an instant. It was a thin and wrinkled face, but it had a certain placid sweetness that often hallows it, when pain and fear are ended. Rose pressed her lips to the cold forehead, and breathed a brief prayer that miladi had found entrance to a happier land. A new thought took possession of her. Miladi belonged wholly to Laurent Giffard now. The tie that bound her to M. Destournier was broken, and it was as if it had never been. She remembered he had once said he would relinquish her in that other country. She had simply been given to him in her sorrow, to care for a brief while. And how grandly he had done it. Rose was too just, perhaps with some of the incisive energy of youth, to cover up miladi's faults at once. If she had been grateful to him for his devotion she would have thought more tenderly of love. Yet she experienced a profound pity.
There had been set aside a burial plot, one end for the white inhabitants. Thither the body was taken, and laid beside her true husband, with the rites of the Church. M. de Champlain headed the procession, but on the outskirts there was a curious throng.
The Héberts pressed their hospitality upon Rose, but even they were in great straits. Then Wanamee was less superstitious than most of her race, and made no demur at remaining in the house, if Rose desired to stay. It was home to the girl, and she could almost fancy the better part of miladi's spirit hovered about it, released from suffering.
How would M. Destournier take it? Would he regret he had not been here?
Day after day they waited the return of the party. Had there been a battle? Sometimes Rose felt as if she must join them, the suspense seemed the hardest of all to endure.
At last most of the Indians returned, with bags and blankets of supplies. There had been no battle. They had come unexpectedly upon a storehouse, cunningly hidden in the wood. There were no guards about. So they had entered, and after satisfying their hunger, packed corn and dried meats, onions, which would be a great treat, and nuts. They divided the party, and sent one relay on ahead, to travel as fast as possible, with the good news, and relieve the famishing people.
Quebec greeted them with the wildest joy. Savignon headed this party. They had two days' start, and though the ground was frozen, there had been no deep snow to prevent the others from a tolerably comfortable march. They would no doubt be in soon. It seemed a large addition to their scanty store. A great joy pervaded the little colony.
Two days passed, then a third. A party, headed by Savignon, went out to meet them. They found a few men, dragging and carrying weary loads. There had been an accident to M. Destournier. He had stumbled into an unseen pitfall and broken his leg. They had carried him on a litter for two days, then he had begged the others to leave him with an attendant, and hurry onward, coming back for him as soon as possible.
Rose was all sympathy and anxiety. She flew to one of the half-breeds, who had borne the litter. Was there much injury beside the broken leg?
"He was a good deal shaken up, but he knew what to do about bandaging, and he uttered no groans. But when he attempted to walk the next morning he died for a few moments, as your women sometimes do. And when he came to life, they made the litter. He was very brave. So we rigged up a sort of tent in the woods, as he insisted on being left."
The Commandant ordered that a party be formed at once to rescue him. They could not allow him to perish there in the wilderness. He might be ill.
"He might die," Rose said to herself. And then an intense ungovernable longing came over her to see him once again. Women could minister to him better than men. And if Wanamee and Pani would go. Pani had been so much with women that he had lost many of the virile Indian traits.
Yes, they would go, but Wanamee did not quite approve of the journey. No one could tell how deep a snow would set in.
"But it will be only a six days' journey, and most of it through the forests. Savignon will be an excellent guide. And no one must speak of the great sorrow that awaits him here."
M. de Champlain opposed the plan. It was too severe for women. But curiously enough Savignon said—"The blossom of Quebec is no dainty flower, to be crushed by wind and storm. If she wants to go, I am on her side."
When Rose heard this she flew out to thank him, catching one hand in both of hers, her eyes luminous with gladness.
"Oh, I cannot truly thank you, Monsieur. I must go, even if I ran away and followed on behind. And I am no delicate house-plant."
"Thou art a brave girl," admiringly. "Thou hast been used to woods and rocks, and art strong and courageous."
To be called monsieur was one of Savignon's great delights. He had tired not a little of the roughness of savage life, and though he had caressed pretty Indian maidens he had never been much in love with them. And this girl was different from most of the white women. The courage in every line of her face, the exuberant bounding life that flushed her veins, her straight lithe figure, and the grace of every movement, appealed strongly to him.
"Thou wilt find it hard going, Mam'selle, keeping step to the men, and sleeping in the woods. But three days are soon spent, and we need not march back so hastily. Our women have stood more than that."
"You will see how much I can stand," she answered proudly. She believed the admiring eyes were for her courage alone.
Go she must. She did not stop to question. There was only one thing uppermost in her mind. If he died she must see him; if he lived, she must wait upon him, comfort him in his sorrow, for although in a vague way she knew he had not come up to the highest joy in his marriage, any more than her dear Sieur de Champlain, he had cared very tenderly for miladi, and would sorrow to know her shut out of life. And it had been so quiet at the last, just falling asleep. Her arms had been around her, her voice the last sound miladi had heard. He would rejoice in his sorrow that all had been so tranquil.
Rose and Wanamee came down in their robes of fur, with their deerskin frocks underneath. Rose's cap had its visor turned up and it framed in her beautiful face. Her hair fell in loose curls, the way she had always worn it, and the morning sun sent golden gleams amongst it. There was a small crowd to wish them God-speed.
The horses that De Champlain had brought over and a few mules that had been at Cape Tourmente were carried off in the English raid. True, they would not have been of much account in the overgrown brush of the wilderness.
"Mam'selle," Savignon said, after an hour or two, "do not hurry ahead so. You will tire before night."
"I feel as if I could run, or fly," she made answer, and she looked so.
The weather was splendid, the sky cloudless, the air scented with the resinous fragrance of cedar, fir, and pine. They paused for a midday lunch and then kept on until dark. In a clearing in an almost impenetrable forest they paused, built a fire, and prepared to camp. Savignon drew some young saplings together and filled up the interstices with boughs, ordering smaller ones inside that a sort of bed should be raised off the ground. One of the men had shot some squirrels, and their broiling over the coals was appetizing.
"You and Wanamee will be quite safe," the guide said. "We shall wrap in our blankets and sleep about the fire. If you hear the cry of wolves, do not be alarmed."
"How good you are," Rose returned, her eyes glorious with grateful emotions. "M. Destournier will never forget your service. It cannot be rewarded."
"Mam'selle, a man would give his life for your pleasure. Sleep well and do not fear."
And sleep she did, with the slumber of youth and health. Naught came to alarm them.
Their second day's journey was uneventful, though it was not so clear and sunny, and again they camped for the night. Was there only one day more? Rose's heart beat with alternate fear and joy. Indeed, they might meet the cavalcade on the way.
She would not admit fatigue, indeed she did not feel it. Her grand hope gave lightness to her step and color to her cheeks, which were like a delicious opening rose, and you were fain to declare they had the same fragrance. When she talked to Wanamee, Savignon did not listen for any girlish secrets, but simply the music of her voice. That day some bird astray in the forest gave his whistle, perhaps to his mate, and she answered it with the most enchanting music. He came so near they could hear the flutter of his wings. Cadotte started up with his gun.
"You shall not kill it!" she cried. "Do you think I would lure a bird to such a cruel, treacherous death!"
Her face was bewitching in its indignation. What spirit, what strength of purpose shone in it!
"He will freeze before spring, Mam'selle," Cadotte returned sullenly.
"Then let him die as the good God intends."
"Mam'selle, I never heard a human voice so like a bird's," Savignon declared, in a tone of admiration. "Do you know other voices that range in Quebec?"
She laughed, her present anger vanishing.
"I used to tame them when I was a child. They would come at my call. I loved them so. And a tame deer knew my voice and followed me."
"As anything would. Mam'selle, sing or whistle, and it will make our steps lighter. Among the Bostonnais they march to music not as sweet as thine."
She was glad to give them pleasure.
The last day seemed long indeed, to her. Once they mistook the path and had to pick their way back. Savignon's acute eyes told him another party had crossed it, and he went on warily.
Presently, in the coming darkness, two scouts ran on ahead.
"Art thou tired, Mam'selle?" asked the well-modulated voice that had lost the guttural Indian tone.
"Not tired, but impatient. Do you suppose we have missed them? What if they should have started in some other direction?"
"I hardly think that. I have expected to meet them. M. Destournier must have been more disabled than we supposed. But we shall soon know."
Oh, what if he were dead! A blackness fell over everything. She caught Wanamee's arm for support. It was growing so dark they kept closer together. The dead leaves rustled under their feet, now and then in an opening they saw the sky in the soft, whitish-gray tints before it turns to blue.
There was a shrill, prolonged whistle.
"They are coming back with news." Savignon guessed it was not cheering. He answered through his fingers.
The two scouts came hurrying forward.
"They are gone. They must have taken some other road. The campfire is out, the stones are missing. What shall we do?"
Rose gave a soft, appealing cry, that she vainly strove to restrain.
"We had better go on. We must stop for the night. It is too dark to find their trail."
It seemed to Rose as if she would sink to the ground with indescribable terror.
"Oh, do you think——" She caught Savignon's arm.
"They have started on and missed the trail," he replied, in an almost indifferent tone, but he guessed in his heart there had been some surprise. "We must find the old place and camp for the night. To-morrow we will seek out the trail."
"You do not think there can have been——" Her voice faltered for very fear.
"We had best think nothing. We should no doubt come wide of the mark. Let us push on," to the men.
There were heavy hearts and slow steps. It seemed as if it must be midnight when they reached the clearing, though it was not that late. They built their fire. Cadotte and Savignon took a survey.
"Another party has been here," Cadotte exclaimed, in a whisper. "There has been a struggle. They are carried off somewhere."
"Do not speak of it to-night. The women are tired. And Mam'selle will have a thousand fears."
They found the others busy with fire and supper. Rose sat apart, her face buried in her hands, a thousand wild fears chasing one another through her mind. Life would be dreary if—if what? If he were dead? Had he suffered long with no one to cheer? Or had he been suddenly despatched by some marauding party? Then they would find his poor body. Yes, to-morrow they would know all.
She did not want any supper and crept to bed, weeping out her fears in Wanamee's arms.
They were all astir the next morning at daybreak. It was a little cloudy. The three days had been unusually fine. Savignon had been tracing this and that clew, and presently came upon a piece of wampum, with a curious Huron design at one end. And a little further on he found a trail where things had been roughly dragged. But he came to breakfast with no explanation.
Did the Rose of Quebec care so much for this man? He had been like a father to her, perhaps it was only a child's love. But now M. Destournier was free to choose a new wife—if he were alive. He was a brave man, a fine man, but if he were dead! The Hurons would show scant pity to a disabled man. Savignon had done and would do his best, but somehow he could not feel so bitterly grieved. He loved this woman—he knew that now.
They were discussing plans when a near-by step startled them. Parting the undergrowth, a torn and dishevelled man appeared. It was Paul De Loie. He almost dropped on the ground at their feet.
"I have run all night," he cried gaspingly. "The Hurons! They took us prisoners, and the stores. They are expecting another relay of the tribe, and are going up north for the winter, to join the Ottawas. But first they are to have a carouse and dance," and the three prisoners are to be tortured and put to death. He had escaped. He supposed the party would be back for M. Destournier and the stores. They must fly at once, and return if they would save their lives. And what madness possessed them to bring women!
"Wait!" commanded Savignon. "Let us go apart, De Loie, and consider the matter," and taking the man by the arm, he raised him and walked him a little distance.
"Now tell me—M. Destournier—how did he progress?"
"Well, indeed. We made him a crutch. We decided to take what stores we could manage, and resume our journey, thinking we would be met by some of the party.Ma foi, if we had started a day earlier! There were not many of them, but twice too many for us. There was nothing to do, we could gain nothing by selling our lives, we thought, but now they will take them. In two days the rest of the party, thirty or forty, will join them. We cannot rescue the others. Vauban could have escaped, but he would not leave M. Destournier. And now retrace your steps at once."
Savignon buried his face in his hands, in deep thought. Should he try to rescue these men? The Hurons were superstitious. More than once he had played on Indian credulity. He held some curious secrets, he had the wampum belt that he could produce, as if by magic. He was fond, too, of adventure, of power. And he imagined he saw a way to win the prize he coveted. He was madly, wildly in love with Rose. She was heroic. If she would grant his desire, the safety of three people would accrue from it. And surely she had not loved the Frenchman, who until a brief while ago had a wife. As he understood, they had been as parents to her. She was young, but if a man could inspire her with love—with gratitude even——
He questioned De Loie very closely. The trouble with Destournier would be his inability to travel rapidly. They would soon be overtaken. Escape that way was not feasible.
"I will consider. Come and share our breakfast."
Rose was walking by herself, on the outskirts of the clearing, her slim hands clasped together, her head drooping, and even so her figure would have attracted a sculptor. The Indian was enchanted with it. To clasp it in his arms—ah, the thought set his hot blood in a flame.
She turned and raised her eyes beseechingly, her beautiful, fathomless eyes in whose depths a man easily lost himself, the curved sweetness of the mouth that one might drain and drain, and never quite have his fill.
"What is it, M'sieu? Is there any hope? Can nothing be done?" Her voice went to his heart.
"What would you be willing to do, Mam'selle?"
"If I were a man I would attempt his rescue, or die with him. It would not be so hard to die holding a friend's hand."
"You love him very much?"
The love Savignon meant had so little place in her thoughts that the question did not cause her to change color.
"He was so good to me when I was little, and ill for a long while. He used to hold me on his knee, and let my head rest on his strong breast. And when I was well again we climbed rocks, and he showed me where the choicest wild fruit grew. And we went out in the canoe. He taught me to read, he had books of strange, beautiful stories. And after he married miladi he took me in his home as if I was a child. Ah, I could not help loving one so kind, unless I had been made of stone. And I wanted to comfort him in his sorrow."
Her voice, in its pathos, the eyes luminous with tears that did not fall, swept through the man like a devouring flame. He must have her. He would risk all, he would test her very soul.
"You have not said what you would give."
"My life, M'sieu, if I could exchange it for his."
"It does not need that. Listen, Mam'selle: When I first looked upon you, I was swept away with a strange emotion. I had seen lovely girls, there are some in our own race, with eyes of velvet, and lips that tempt kisses. And I knew when I helped you get your way on this expedition, what it was; that I loved you, that I would have kissed the ground you had walked on. And on our journey here I have dreamed beautiful, thrilling dreams of you. I slept at the door of your improvised tent lest some danger should come upon you unawares. Last night when I noted your tired step I wanted to take you in my arms and carry you. You have filled my soul and my body with the rapture of love. I can think of nothing else but the bliss of straining you to my heart, of touching your lips with the fire that plays about mine, like the rosy lightning that flashes through the heavens, engendered by the heat of the day. Oh, take me for your husband, and your life shall be filled with the best I can give. You shall not weary your small hands with work, they shall be kept for a husband's kisses. I will worship you as the priests do their Virgin."
She had been transfixed at the outburst and flaming, passionate tone, that in its vehemence seemed to grow finer, loftier. Was that love's work?
"But it will not save M. Destournier," she wailed.
"Listen again." He stood up, manly and strong, and somehow touched her with a subtle influence. It is not in a woman's nature to listen to a tale of passionate love unmoved. "Once, among the Hurons an old witch woman was wild to adopt me for her son. She gave me a great many secret charms, many you white people would think the utmost foolishness. Some were curious. And my people are superstitious. I have used them more than once to the advantage of myself and others. I have brought about peace between warring tribes. I have prevented war. I will go to the Hurons, and try for M. Destournier's liberty. From what De Loie said, they mean to sacrifice the men to-morrow. There are horrid, agonizing tortures before death comes. If you will promise to marry me I will go at once and do my utmost to rescue him, them."
"And if you fail?" Her very breath seemed like a blast of winter cold.
"Then, Mam'selle, I can ask no reward, only a share in your sorrow. I will try to lighten their sufferings. That is all I can do."
She crossed her arms upon her breast and rocked herself to and fro.
"Oh, I cannot, I cannot," she said, with a cry of anguish. "Another man, our dear Madame de Champlain's brother asked this thing of me, and I could not. I do not want to marry."
"All women do in their hearts," he said moodily.
Was she not quite a woman yet? Had she just the soul of the little girl who had climbed trees, scaled rocks, and plunged headlong into the river to swim like a fish!
"It is three lives," he said, with the persuasive voice of the tempter.
Three lives! And among them her best friend! Something rose in her throat, and she thought she was dying.
"And if I cannot?" in a tone of desperate anguish.
"Then we must start homeward at once. When the Hurons have whet their appetite with their hellish pleasure, it is not easily satisfied. They will look about for more fuel to add to the flames. So we must decide. I cannot risk my own liberty for months for nothing. It will not make M. Destournier's death pang easier."
"Oh, go away, go away!" she almost shrieked, but the sorrow in her voice took off the harshness. "Let me think. I do not love you! I might run away. I might drown myself. I might not be able to keep my promise."
"I should love you so much that you would not want to break it. Ah, I could trust you, since you love no one else that you desire to marry."
She dropped on the ground and hid her face, too much stunned even to cry. "Three lives" kept singing in her ears. Was she not selfish and cruel? O God, what could she do!
"You know even the Sieur and the priests have approved of these mixed marriages, so there would be no voice raised against it. The children would belong to the Church and be reared in the ways of wisdom and honor. In my way I am well born. I could take you to Paris, where you would be well received. I have had some excellent training. Oh, it would be no disgrace."
They were calling to him from the group. He turned away. His intense love for her, his little understanding of a woman's soul, his passionate nature, not yet adjusted to the higher civilization, could not understand and appreciate the cruelty.
When he came back her small hands were nervously beating the dried turf. He could not see her face.
"They have decided to go at once," he exclaimed. "De Loie says there is no time to lose."
"I shall stay here and die," she said.
"That will not save any one's life."
Oh, that was the pity of it!
She rose with a strained white face. She looked like some of the beautiful carvings he had seen abroad. Not even anguish could make her unlovely.
"If you will go," she began hoarsely, and she seemed to strain her very soul to utter the words, "and bring back M. Destournier, and the others, I will marry you—not now, but months hence, when I can resolve upon the step. I shall have to learn—no, you must not touch me, nor kiss me, until I give you leave."
"But you must let me take your hand once, and promise by the Holy Mother of God."
His seriousness overawed her. She rose and held out her slim, white hand, from which the summer's brown had faded. Her lips shook as if with an ague, but she promised.
He wanted to kiss the hand, but he in turn was overawed.
She heard the voices raised in dissent around the fire. What if they would not let him go? She was chill and cold, and almost did not care. She would stay here and die. Perhaps they could take the strange, awesome journey together.
Wanamee joined her. "Savignon has determined to go to the rescue of the men," she began, "but De Loie thinks it a crazy step. And we must stay and risk being made prisoners. What is the matter,ma fille? You are as white as the river foam in a storm."
"I am tired," she made answer. "I slept poorly last night. Then they think there is no chance of success?"
"Oh, no, no! And we ought to escape."
She dropped down again, pillowing her head on a little rise of ground. Should she be glad, or sorry? Either way she seemed stunned.
The sky cleared up presently, and the sun came out. The few men walked about disconsolately. The rations were apportioned, some went farther in the woods, to find nuts, if possible. Now that the stores had been taken and two days added to the journey, want might be their portion.
Two of the men succeeded in finding some game. There was a small stream of water, but no fish were discernible in it. It froze over at night, but they could quench their thirst, and with some dried pennyroyal made a draught of tea.
Rose wondered if she had ever prayed before! All she could say now was: "Oh, Holy Mother of God, have pity on me."
The long night passed. De Loie said in the morning: "I think one of you had better start with the women. If we should be beset with the savages, they might find their way home. Here are some points I have marked out."
"No," returned Rose, "let us all perish together."
"Mon Dieu!Do you suppose they would let you perish? You would have to be squaw to some brave."
Rose shuddered. No, she could but die.
De Loie started out on the path he had come. It was mid-afternoon. A light snow began to fall, and the wind moaned in the trees. Rose and Wanamee huddled together at the fire, their arms around each other, under the blanket. It was easy to love Wanamee. But then she had begun it as a child—Was it easy to love when one was grown?
The darkness was descending when they heard a shout. Was it friend or foe? Another, and it came nearer. It was not the voice of an Indian.
De Loie rushed in upon them. "You men go and relieve those at the litter. Savignon is a wizard. He has the three men. I could not believe it at first, and I am afraid now it is a trick. You cannot trust an Indian."
Rose drew a long breath. Then her fate was sealed. Or, if they were attacked in the night, it would be some compensation to die together.
They came in at last, with Destournier on an improvised hemlock litter. The fire blazed up brightly, making a striking picture of the eager faces. The men lowered the litter to the ground, and they crowded around it. Destournier was ghostly pale, but full of thankfulness. When there was a little space open he reached out his hand to Rose.
"You two women have been very brave, but you should not have taken the journey. As for Savignon, we all owe him a debt that we can never repay."
"It is repaid already," returned the Indian, glancing over at Rose. "To have rescued you——"
"What arts and incantations you used! I could not have believed it possible to move their stony hearts."
"It was not their hearts." Savignon gave a grim smile. "It was their fears that were worked upon. I was afraid at one time that I would not succeed. But I had a reward before me."
"Quebec will pay you all honor. It is a grand thing to have saved three lives from torture and death. For there was no other escape."
That night Destournier related the surprise and capture. The stores were a great loss. But they would not let him bemoan them.
"We must get back as rapidly as we can," he said. "I do not trust the temper of the reinforcements, when they find they have been balked of their prey."
The snow had only been a light fall, and the trees in their higher branches were marvels of beauty. It had not reached the ground in many places.
After a frugal breakfast the cavalcade started. Destournier insisted upon walking at first, as he was freshened by his night's rest, comparatively free from anxiety. His broken leg was well bandaged, and he used two crutches. Rose noticed the thinness and pallor, and the general languid air, but she kept herself quite in the background. Savignon was really leader of the small party.
"Wanamee," she said, in a low tone, "will you tell M. Ralph about miladi?—I thought to do it, but I cannot. And I am so sorry she left no message for him. He was always so good to her. And you can tell him I held her a long while in my arms that night."
"You were an angel to her,ma fille. I used to wonder sometimes——"
"I suppose it was being ill so long, and trying so hard to get well, that made her unreasonable. It is better to go out of life suddenly, do you not think so?"
"I should like to know a little about the hereafter. You see our nation believe we go at once to another land, and do not stay in that miserable place they tell of. But many of the braves believe there are no women in the happy hunting grounds. One is swung this way and that," and Wanamee sighed.
Rose's mind was torn and distracted by her promise. Now and then an awful shudder took her in a giant grasp, and she thought she would drop down and ask them to leave her. Savignon would stay behind, if she proposed that. What if he had not gone to the Hurons? Frightful stories of torture she had heard rushed to her mind. Old Noko had witnessed them. So had some of the men at the fort. Death itself was not so hard, but to have burning sticks thrust into one's skin, to have fingers and toes cut off, piecemeal—oh, she had saved him from that. Yes, she would marry Savignon, and then throw herself into the river, after she had kept her promise.
The weather was growing colder. They halted for the night, and made a fire. They had shot nothing, but the supper was very light, indeed.
"Little Rose," said Destournier, "come over beside me, since I cannot well come to you. I have hardly seen you, and have not asked what has gone on at the fort. I feel as if I had been away half a lifetime. And miladi——"
"Wanamee will tell you, I cannot." She drew away the hand he held, and gently pushed the Indian woman forward, going out of the clear sound of her voice. Oh, would it be a great sorrow to him?
Wanamee's recital of that last night set a halo about Rose in the man's mind. He had known for years that he had not loved miladi as a man could love, but he also questioned whether such a light, frivolous nature could have appreciated the strong, earnest affection. Her great effort to keep herself young had led to a meretricious childishness. She had a vain, narrow soul, and this had dwarfed it still more. Many a night he had watched over her, pained by her passionate beseeching that he would not let her die, her awesome terror of death. He felt God had been merciful not to allow her to suffer that last rending pain. He had really become so accustomed to the thought of her dying that it did not seem new or strange to him, but one of the inevitable things that one must endure with philosophy. He realized the sweetness and patience of Rose through these last months.
When Wanamee came back she was snugly tucked in her blanket, and feigned sleep. She did not want to talk. She fancied she would like to lie beside miladi in the little burying ground. Young sorrow always turns to death as a comforter.
That night an adventure befell them, though most of them were sleeping from exhaustion. It was the Indian's quick hearing that caught a suspicious sound, and then heard a stealthy rustle. He reached for his gun, and his eyes roved sharply around the little circle. The sound came from nearly opposite. The fire was low, but his sight was keen, and presently he espied two glaring eyes drawing nearer Wanamee and her charge. There was a quick shot, a shriek, almost human, and a rush farther in the forest.
They were all awake in an instant. "An attack!" shouted two of the men.
"A wolf," rejoined Savignon. He took up a brand and peered about in the darkness. The body was still twitching, but the head was a mangled mass. There were no others in sight, but they heard their cry growing fainter and fainter.
Rose sat up in affright. How near it had been to her. Was she always to be in debt to this Indian?
"Go to sleep again," he said, in a low tone. "We shall have no more alarms to-night. I am keeping watch. I would give my life to save you from harm."
Wanamee drew the trembling, shrinking figure closer. Rose felt as if her heart would burst with the sorrow she could not confess.
They ate their last crumbs for breakfast. A fine, cutting sleet was in the air, but they kept quite inside of the forest, except when they were afraid of losing the trail. There was no stop for a midday meal, and they pushed on, carrying Destournier in a litter. Must they spend another night in the woods?
Suddenly a shout reaches them, the sound of familiar French voices, and every heart thrilled with joy, as they answered it. Blessed relief was at hand.
Being alarmed at the long delay, a party had been sent out to search for them. They halted, for indeed it seemed as if they could go no further. Weak and hungry, some of the men sat down and cried, for very joy.
"I have hardly been worth all the trouble," Destournier said, in a broken voice.
"It was not altogether you," replied one of the men. "And to have rescued some of our men from those fiendish Hurons was worth while. Savignon must have had some wonderful power to make them give up their prey."
The relief party were provided with food, dried meat that had come down from some friendly Indians. After they had eaten, they resolved to push on, and started with good courage. The storm had ceased and the stars were pricking through the blue. The moon would rise later on. But it was midnight when they came in sight of the fort. The warm welcome made amends for all.
Wanamee took Rose under her protection. She was nearly exhausted. M. de Champlain insisted upon caring for Destournier, and examining the leg, which was much swollen, but had been very well set. The story of the wonderful escape was told over, to interested listeners.
"We owe Savignon a great debt, and are too poor to pay it," said the Governor sorrowfully.
Poor indeed they were. It was the hardest winter the colony had known. The dearth of news was most trying, and the fear of the English descent upon them racked the brave heart of the Commandant, who saw his dream of a great city vanishing. Jealousy had done some cruel work, and the misgovernment of the mother country stifled the best efforts.
Rose lay listless in bed for many days. How could she meet Savignon, who haunted the place hourly, to inquire, and begged to see her? One day she told Wanamee to send him in, and braced herself for the interview.
Semi-famine had not told on him, unless it had added an air of refinement. That he was superior to most of his race, was evident.
He was not prepared for the white wraith-like being who did not rise from her chair, but nodded and motioned him to a seat at a distance.
"Oh, Mam'selle, you have been truly ill," he said, and there was a tender sort of pity in his tone. "I have been wild to see you, to hear you speak. Mam'selle, you must not die. I cannot give you up. I have been starved, I have been half-crazy with impatience. Oh, can you not have a little pity on me, when I love you so? And you have no one who has a right to protest. You will keep your promise? For I swear to you that I will kill any man who marries you. I cannot help if it brings grief upon you. It would be the sorrow of my life not to have you! Oh, let me touch your little white hand"—and he started from his seat with an eager gesture.
She put both behind her. "I do not love you," she began bravely. "It would take time——"
"I said I would wait, Rose of Quebec, wait months, for your sweetness to blossom for me. But I cannot see you go to another."
"There is no other. There will be no other." She was sure she told the whole truth. "But if you insist now, I shall die before a marriage comes. I could slip out of life easily. Perhaps when I am strong again, courage may come back to me. You must go away and let me be quite by myself, and think how brave you were, how patient you are. Then when you come again——"
She would be in her white winding sheet, then, and he would be afraid to kiss her.
"But I won you fairly, Mam'selle. And I had great trembling of heart, for the Huron chief was obdurate. I succeeded at length.Hehas had a wife, he does not need another. He might be your father. And you have repaid him for all care by giving him back his life, by saving him from torture you know little about. For if the party joining them had discovered the robbery of their storehouse, there would have been little mercy. Oh, Mam'selle, how can so sweet a being be so cold and unyielding?"
"I have told you the secret of it. I do not love you. I do not want you for a husband. But I will keep my promise. Give me time to get well. It may not look so terrible to me then."
How lovely she was in her pleading, even if it did deny. He could have snatched her to his heart and stifled her with kisses, yet he did not dare to touch so much as her little finger. What strange power held her aloof? But if she was once his wife——
"A month," he pleaded.
"Longer than that. Three months. Three whole moons. Then you may come again and I will answer you."
His face paled with anger, his eyes were points of flame, his blood was hot within him.
"I will not wait."
"Then you may have my dead body."
"But you break your promise."
"I ask you to wait," she said, in a steady tone. "That is all."
"And you will not seek to die, Mam'selle?"
"I will be your wife then. Now go. I am too tired to argue any more."
A sudden ray of hope kindled in the Indian's heart. He would see M. Destournier, and lay the case before him, and beg his assistance. Surely he could not refuse, when his life had been saved!
Rose leaned back in a half-faint. Oh, surely God would take her before that time. But she had promised in good faith. Matters might look different to her when she was strong once more.
Savignon meant to be armed at all points. He went up to the St. Charles and laid his case before one of the fathers. His fine bearing and intelligence won him much favor.
"Men often married Indian women, who made good wives. In this case if the woman desired to take him for her husband, there could be no real objection; it was between the two parties. No over-persuasion was to be used. And if her friends or parents consented, it would be right enough. Only they must truly love each other."
He knew now she did not truly love him. You might beat an Indian woman into obedience—he had never struck one since he had come to manhood. But this beautiful being, who was like a bit of flame, would be blown out by harshness or force, and one would have only the cold body left. If he could not make her love him at the end of the three months——
Then he sought Destournier, and laid the tale before him. He had won Mademoiselle honorably. She had given her promise. At the end of the three months he would come for her. Now he had resolved to go to the islands, since it would be wretched to stay here and not see Mam'selle.
"Yes, the best thing," Destournier said, but he was stunned by the bargain. Was his life to cost that sacrifice? There must be some way of preventing it.
As the days went on he considered various plans. This was why Rose was so languid and unlike herself. Perhaps the hard winter and poor food had something to do with it. She had bought his life at too great a sacrifice. And then came the sweet, sad knowledge that he loved her, also.
The spring was quite early. Men began to work in their gardens and mend the damages of the winter, but with a certain fear of what was to come. And one day Destournier found Rose sitting in the old gallery, where she had run about as a child. But she was a child no longer. The indescribable change had come. There were womanly lines in her figure, although it was thinner than of yore, and the light in her eyes deeper.
He had given up the house to her and the two Indian women, with Pani for attendant. M. Pontgrave had been a great invalid through the winter, and besought the younger man's company. The Sieur often came in and they talked over the glowing plans and dreams of the earlier days, when they were to rear a city that the mother country could be proud of.
He understood why Rose had shunned him, and whenever he resolved to take up this troublous subject his courage failed him. Saved from this marriage she surely must be. In a short time Savignon would return. He had known of two women who had cast in their lots with the better-class Indians at Tadoussac, and were happy enough. But they were not Rose.
He came slowly over to her now. She looked up and smiled. Much keeping indoors of late had made her skin fair and fine, but her soft hair had not shed all its gold.
"Rose," he began, then paused.
She flushed, but made a little gesture, as if he might be seated beside her.
"Rose," he said again, "in the winter you saved my life. I have known it for some time."
Her breath came with a gasp. How had he learned this, unless Savignon had come before the time?
"And you paid a great price for it."
"Oh, oh!" she clasped her hands in distress. "How did you know it?"
"Savignon told me before he went away. He asked my consent to your marriage. I could not give it then. He will soon return. I cannot give it now."
"But it was a promise. Monsieur, your life was of more account than mine."
"Do you think I will accept the sacrifice? I have been weak and cowardly not to settle this matter before, not to give you the assurance that I will make a brave fight for your release."
"I was very sad and frightened at first, partly ill, as well, and I hoped not to live. But the good God did not take me. And if He meant me to do this thing, keep my word, I must do it. I asked Father Jamay one time about promises, and he said when one had vowed a vow it must be kept. And I have prayed for courage when the time comes. See, I am quite tranquil."
She raised her face and he read in it a nobly spiritual expression. He recalled now that she had gone up to the convent quite often with Wanamee, and that more than once she had slipped into Madame de Champlain'sprie-dieu, that her husband never would have disturbed. Was she finding fortitude and comfort in a devotion to religion that would strengthen her to meet this tremendous sacrifice? She looked like a saint already.
She could not tell him that he knew only half, that he might still be the object of Savignon's vengeance, if she failed to keep her word.
"Perhaps the Sieur will have something to say, if my wishes fail. Unless you tell me you love this Indian, and that seems monstrous to me, this marriage shall never take place."
"It must, it must," she said, though her face was like marble, where it had been human before. "M'sieu, what is right must be done. I promised, and you were saved."
"Of your own free will? Rose," he caught both hands in a pressure that seemed to draw her soul along with it, "answer me truly."
"Of my will, yes, Monsieur." Her white throat swelled with the anguish she repressed.
"You have left out the 'free,'" but he knew well why she could not utter it.
"Monsieur, I think you would be noble enough to give your life for a friend"—she was about to say "whom you loved," but she caught her voice in time.
Was this heroic maiden the little girl who had run wild in the old town, and sung songs with the birds; who had been merry and careless, but always a sweet human Rose; the child he had taken to his heart long ago, the girl he had watched over, the woman—yes, the woman he loved with a man's first fervent passion! She should not go out of his life, now that God had made a space for her to come in it. Miladi he had given up to Laurent Giffard, she had never belonged to him in the deep sacredness of love. And as he watched her, his eyes seeming to look into her soul, through the motes of light that illumined them, he knew it was not simply that she had no love for the Indian, but that she loved him. It seemed the sublime moment of his life, the sweetest consciousness that he had ever known.
"You gave something greater than life. Listen," and he drew his brows into a resolute line. "When that man comes we will have it out between us. For I love you, too. I owe you a great reward that only a life's devotion can pay. I am much older, but I seem to have just awakened to the dream of bliss that sanctifies manhood. My darling, if a better man came, I could give you up, if I went hungering all the rest of my days. But you shall not go to certain wretchedness. And he must see the truth. That is the way a man should love."
Her slender, white throat rose and fell like a heartbeat. With Savignon she would be loved with a fierce passion, for the man's supreme joy; this man would love for the woman's joy.
"Monsieur, I have studied the subject, and I think it is right. I pray you, do not disturb my resolve. It has been made after many prayers. If the good Father should change His mind—but that is hardly to be thought of. Do not let us talk about it," and she rose.
For instead of throwing herself in the river, as she had thought in her wildness, she could cross to France, and enter a convent, if she could not endure it.
Ralph Destournier saw that argument was useless. When the time came, he would act.
But May passed without bringing the lover. Quebec was beginning to take courage, and what with hunting and fishing, semi-starvation was at an end. Emigrants came back and all was stir and activity in the little town.
There came a letter to Rose, after a long delay. Savignon had joined a party of explorers, who were pushing westward, and marvelled at the wonderful country. He had pondered much over his desires, and while his love was still strong, he did not want an unwilling bride. He would give her a longer time to consider—a year, perhaps. He had wrung a reluctant assent from her, he admitted, and taken an ungenerous advantage. For this he would do a year's penance, without sight of the face that had so charmed him.
Was he really brave enough to do that? Rose thought so. Destournier believed it some new attraction to the roving blood of the wilderness.
But Rose would not wholly accept her freedom. Still she was more like the Rose of girlhood, though she no longer climbed or ran races. The Sieur was whiling away the heavy hours of uncertainty by teaching several Indian girls, and Rose found this quite a pleasure.
The servant came in with some news. Not the French vessel they hoped for, but an English man-of-war, with two gunboats, was approaching.
If defence had been futile before, it was doubly so now. The fort was out of repair, the guns useless from lack of ammunition, there was no provision to sustain a siege. A small boat with a flag of truce rounded the point, and with a heavy heart Champlain displayed his on the fort.
The two brothers of Captain David Kirke, who was now at Tadoussac, had again been sent to propose terms of surrender. The English were to take possession in the name of their king.
It was a sad party that assembled around the large table, where so many plans and hopes had stirred the brave hearts of the explorers and builders-up of new France. Old men they were now, Pontgrave a wreck from rheumatism, a few dead, and Champlain, with the ruin of his ambitions before him. There was some vigorous opposition to the demands, but there was clearly no alternative but surrender. Hard as the terms were, they must be accepted. And on July 20, 1629, the lilies of France ceased to wave over Quebec, dear old Quebec, and Captain Louis Kirke took possession of the fort and the town, in the name of His Majesty, King Charles I, and the standard of England floated quite as proudly over the St. Lawrence.