D'ri and I left the chateau that afternoon, putting up in the red tavern at Morristown about dusk.
My companion rode away proudly, the medal dangling at his waistcoat lapel.
"Jerushy Jane!" said he, presently, as he pulled rein. "Ain't a-goin' t' hev thet floppin' there so—meks me feel luk a bird. Don't seem nohow nat'ral. Wha' d' ye s'pose he gin me thet air thing fer?"
He was putting it away carefully in his wallet.
"As a token of respect for your bravery," said I.
His laughter roared in the still woods, making my horse lift and snort a little. It was never an easy job to break any horse to D'ri's laughter.
"It'sreedic'lous," said he, thoughtfully, in a moment.
"Why?"
"'Cause fer the reason why they don't no man deserve nuthin' fer doin' what he 'd orter," he answered, with a serious and determined look.
"You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."
"Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but git licked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an' could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a boss tied 'n the stall, an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t' death."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after a little silence.
"Silver," said I.
"Pure silver?"
"Undoubtedly," was my answer.
"Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look at the trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."
"More than a year's salary," said I.
He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.
"Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put the medal away.
"It's a badge of honor," said I. "It shows you 're a brave man."
"Got 'nough on 'em," said D'ri. "This 'ere rip 'n the forehead's 'bout all the badge I need."
"It's from the emperor—the great Napoleon," I said. "It's a mark of his pleasure."
"Wall, by Judas Priest!" said D'ri, "I would n't jump over a stump over a stun wall t' please no emp'ror, an' I would n't cut off my leetle finger fer a hull bushel basket o' them air. I hain't a-fightin' fer no honor."
"What then?" said I.
His face turned very sober. He pursed his lips, and spat across the ditch; then he gave his mouth a wipe, and glanced thoughtfully at the sky.
"Fer liberty," said he, with decision. "Same thing my father died fer."
Not to this day have I forgotten it, the answer of old D'ri, or the look of him as he spoke. I was only a reckless youth fighting for the love of peril and adventure, and with too little thought of the high purposes of my country. The causes of the war were familiar to me; that proclamation of Mr. Madison had been discussed freely in our home, and I had felt some share in the indignation of D'ri and my father. This feeling had not been allayed by the bloody scenes in which I had had a part. Now I began to feel the great passion of the people, and was put to shame for a moment.
"Liberty—that is a grand thing to fight for," said I, after a brief pause.
"Swap my blood any time fer thet air," said D'ri. "I can fight sassy, but not fer no king but God A'mighty. Don't pay t' git all tore up less it's fer suthin' purty middlin' vallyble. My life ain't wuth much, but, ye see, I hain't nuthin' else."
We rode awhile in sober thought, hearing only a sough of the wind above and the rustling hoof-beat of our horses in the rich harvest of the autumn woods. We were walking slowly over a stretch of bare moss when, at a sharp turn, we came suddenly in sight of a huge bear that sat facing us. I drew my pistol as we pulled rein, firing quickly. The bear ran away into the brush as I fired another shot.
"He 's hit," said D'ri, leaping off and bidding me hold the bit. Then, with a long stride, he ran after the fleeing bear. I had been waiting near half an hour when D'ri came back slowly, with a downhearted look.
"'Tain' no use," said he. "Can't never git thet bear. He's got a flesh-wound high up in his hin' quarters, an' he's travellin' fast."
He took a fresh chew of tobacco and mounted his horse.
"Terrible pity!" he exclaimed, shaking his head with some trace of lingering sorrow. "Ray," said he, soberly, after a little silence, "when ye see a bear lookin' your way, ef ye want 'im, alwus shute at the end thet'stowardye."
There was no better bear-hunter in the north woods than D'ri, and to lose a bear was, for him, no light affliction.
"Can't never break a bear's neck by shutin' 'im in the hin' quarters," he remarked.
I made no answer.
"Might jest es well spit 'n 'is face," he added presently; "jest eggzac'ly."
This apt and forceful advice calmed a lingering sense of duty, and he rode on awhile in silence. The woods were glooming in the early dusk when he spoke again. Something revived his contempt of my education. He had been trailing after me, and suddenly I felt his knee.
"Tell ye this, Ray," said he, in a kindly tone. "Ef ye wan' t' git a bear, got t' mux 'im up a leetle for'ard—right up 'n the neighborhood uv 'is fo'c's'le. Don't dew no good t' shute 'is hams. Might es well try t' choke 'im t' death by pinchin' 'is tail."
We were out in the open. Roofs and smoking chimneys were silhouetted on the sky, and, halfway up a hill, we could see the candle-lights of the red tavern. There, in the bar, before blazing logs in a great fireplace, for the evening had come chilly, a table was laid for us, and we sat down with hearty happiness to tankards of old ale and a smoking haunch. I have never drunk or eaten with a better relish. There were half a dozen or so sitting about the bar, and all ears were for news of the army and all hands for our help. If we asked for more potatoes or ale, half of them rose to proclaim it. Between pipes of Virginia tobacco, and old sledge, and songs of love and daring, we had a memorable night. When we went to our room, near twelve o'clock, I told D'ri of our dear friends, who, all day, had been much in my thought.
"Wus the letter writ by her?" he inquired.
"Not a doubt of it."
"Then it's all right," said he. "A likely pair o' gals them air—no mistake."
"But I think they made me miss the bear," I answered.
"Ray," said D'ri, soberly, "when yer shutin' a bear, ef ye want 'im, don't never think o' nuthin' but the bear." Then, after a moment's pause, he added: "Won't never hev no luck killin' a bear ef ye don' quit dwellin' so on them air gals."
I thanked him, with a smile, and asked if he knew Eagle Island.
"Be'n all over it half a dozen times," said he. "'T ain' no more 'n twenty rod from the Yankee shore, thet air island ain't. We c'u'd paddle there in a day from our cove."
And that was the way we planned to go,—by canoe from our landing,—and wait for the hour at Paleyville, a Yankee village opposite the island. We would hire a team there, and convey the party by wagon to Leraysville.
We were off at daybreak, and going over the hills at a lively gallop. Crossing to Caraway Pike, in the Cedar Meadows, an hour later, we stampeded a lot of moose. One of them, a great bull, ran ahead of us, roaring with fright, his antlers rattling upon bush and bough, his black bell hanging to the fern-tops.
"Don' never wan't' hev no argyment with one o' them air chaps 'less ye know purty nigh how 't's comin' out," said D'ri. "Alwus want a gun es well es a purty middlin' ca-a-areful aim on your side. Then ye 're apt t' need a tree, tew, 'fore ye git through with it." After a moment's pause he added: "Got t' be a joemightyful stout tree, er he 'll shake ye out uv it luk a ripe apple."
"They always have the negative side of the question," I said."Don't believe they 'd ever chase a man if he 'd let 'em alone."
"Yis, siree, they would," was D'ri's answer. "I 've hed 'em come right efter me 'fore ever I c'u'd lift a gun. Ye see, they're jest es cur'us 'bout a man es a man is 'bout them. Ef they can't smell 'im, they 're terrible cur'us. Jes' wan' t' see what 's inside uv 'im an' what kind uv a smellin' critter he is. Dunno es they wan' t' dew 'im any pertic'lar harm. Jes' wan' t' mux 'im over a leetle; but they dew itawful careless, an' he ain't never fit t' be seen no more."
He snickered faintly as he spoke.
"An' they don't nobody see much uv 'im efter thet, nuther," he added, with a smile.
"I 'member once a big bull tried t' find out the kind o' works I hed in me. 'T wa'n' no moose—jest a common ord'nary three-year-ol' bull."
"Hurt you?" I queried.
"No; 't hurt 'im." said he, soberly. "Sp'ilt 'im, es ye might say. Could n't never bear the sight uv a man efter thet. Seem so he did n't think he wus fit t' be seen. Nobody c'u'd ever git 'n a mild o' th' poor cuss. Hed t' be shot."
"What happened?"
"Hed a stout club 'n my hand," said he. "Got holt uv 'is tail, an' begun a-whalin' uv 'im. Run 'im down a steep hill, an' passin' a tree, I tuk one side an' he t' other. We parted there fer the las' time."
He looked off at the sky a moment.
Then came his inevitable addendum, which was: "I hed a dam sight more tail 'an he did, thet 's sartin."
About ten o'clock we came in sight of our old home. Then we hurried our horses, and came up to the door with a rush. A stranger met us there.
"Are you Captain Bell?" said he, as I got off my horse.
I nodded.
"I am one of your father's tenants," he went on. "Ride over the ridge yonder about half a mile, and you will see his house." I looked at D'ri and he at me. He had grown pale suddenly, and I felt my own surprise turning into alarm.
"Are they well?" I queried.
"Very well, and looking for you," said he, smiling.
We were up in our saddles, dashing out of the yard in a jiffy. Beyond the ridge a wide mile of smooth country sloped to the river margin. Just off the road a great house lay long and low in fair acres. Its gables were red-roofed, its walls of graystone half hidden by lofty hedges of cedar. We stopped our horses, looking off to the distant woods on each side of us.
"Can't be," said D'ri, soberly, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.
"Wonder where they live," I remarked.
"All looks mighty cur'us," said he. "'Tain' no way nat'ral."
"Let's go in there and ask," I suggested.
We turned in at the big gate and rode silently over a driveway of smooth gravel to the door. In a moment I heard my father's hearty hello, and then my mother came out in a better gown than ever I had seen her wear. I was out of the saddle and she in my arms before a word was spoken. My father, hardy old Yankee, scolded the stamping horse, while I knew well he was only upbraiding his own weakness.
"Come, Ray; come, Darius," said my mother, as she wiped her eyes;"I will show you the new house."
A man took the horses, and we all followed her into the splendid hall, while I was filled with wonder and a mighty longing for the old home.
It was a fine house—that in which I spent many happy years back in my young manhood. Not, indeed, so elegant and so large as this where I am now writing, but comfortable. To me, then, it had an atmosphere of romance and some look of grandeur. Well, in those days I had neither a sated eye, nor gout, nor judgment of good wine. It was I who gave it the name of Fairacres that day when, coming out of the war, we felt its peace and comfort for the first time, and, dumfounded with surprise, heard my mother tell the story of it.
"My grandfather," said she, "was the Chevalier Ramon Ducet de Trouville, a brave and gallant man who, for no good reason, disinherited my father. The property went to my uncle, the only other child of the chevalier, and he, as I have told you, wrote many kind letters to me, and sent each year a small gift of money. Well, he died before the war,—it was in March,—and, having no children, left half his fortune to me. You, Ramon, will remember that long before you went away to the war a stranger came to see me one day—a stout man, with white hair and dark eyes. Do you not remember? Well, I did not tell you then, because I was unable to believe, that he came to bring the good news. But he came again after you left us, and brought me money—a draft on account. For us it was a very large sum, indeed. You know we have always been so poor, and we knew that when the war was over there would be more and a-plenty coming. So, what were we to do? 'We will build a home,' said I; 'we will enjoy life as much as possible. We will surprise Ramon. When he returns from the war he shall see it, and be very happy.' The architect came with the builders, and, voila! the house is ready, and you are here, and after so long it is better than a fortune to see you. I thought you would never come."
She covered her face a moment, while my father rose abruptly and left the room. I kissed the dear hands that long since had given to heavy toil their beauty and shapeliness.
But enough of this, for, after all, it is neither here nor there. Quick and unexpected fortune came to many a pioneer, as it came to my mother, by inheritance, as one may see if he look only at the records of one court of claims—that of the British.
"Before long you may wish to marry," said my mother, as she looked up at me proudly, "and you will not be ashamed to bring your wife here."
I vowed, then and there, I should make my own fortune,—I had Yankee enough in me for that,—but, as will be seen, the wealth of heart and purse my mother had, helped in the shaping of my destiny. In spite of my feeling, I know it began quickly to hasten the life-currents that bore me on. And I say, in tender remembrance of those very dear to me, I had never a more delightful time than when I sat by the new fireside with all my clan,—its number as yet undiminished,—or went roistering in wood or field with the younger children.
The day came when D'ri and I were to meet the ladies. We started early that morning of the 12th. Long before daylight we were moving rapidly down-river in our canoes.
I remember seeing a light flash up and die away in the moonlit mist of the river soon after starting.
"The boogy light!" D'ri whispered. "There 't goes ag'in!"
I had heard the river folk tell often of this weird thing—one of the odd phenomena of the St. Lawrence.
"Comes alwus where folks hev been drownded," said D'ri. "Thet air's what I've hearn tell."
It was, indeed, the accepted theory of the fishermen, albeit many saw in the boogy light a warning to mark the place of forgotten murder, and bore away.
The sun came up in a clear sky, and soon, far and wide, its light was tossing in the rippletops. We could see them glowing miles away. We were both armed with sabre and pistols, for that river was the very highway of adventure in those days of the war.
"Don' jes' like this kind uv a hoss," said D'ri. "Got t' keep whalin' 'im all the while, an' he 's apt t' slobber 'n rough goin'."
He looked thoughtfully at the sun a breath, and then trimmed his remark with these words; "Ain't eggzac'Iy sure-footed, nuther."
"Don't require much feed, though," I suggested.
"No; ye hev t' dew all the eatin', but ye can alwus eat 'nough fer both."
It was a fine day, and a ride to remember. We had a warm sun, a clear sky, and now and then we could feel the soft feet of the south wind romping over us in the river way. Here and there a swallow came coasting to the ripples, sprinkling the holy water of delight upon us, or a crow's shadow ploughed silently across our bows. It thrilled me to go cantering beside the noisy Rapides du Plats or the wild-footed Galloup, two troops of water hurrying to the mighty battles of the sea. We mounted reeling knolls, and coasted over whirling dips, and rushed to boiling levels, and jumped foamy ridges, and went galloping in the rush and tumble of long slopes.
"Let 'er rip!" I could hear D'ri shouting, once in a while, as he flashed up ahead of me. "Let 'er rip! Consarn 'er pictur'!"
He gave a great yell of triumph as we slowed in a long stretch of still, broad water. "Judas Priest!" said he, as I came alongside, "thet air's rougher 'n the bog trail."
We came to Paleyville with time only for a bite of luncheon before dark. We could see no sign of life on the island or the "Canuck shore" as we turned our bows to the south channel. That evening the innkeeper sat with us under a creeking sign, our chairs tilted to the tavernside.
D'ri was making a moose-horn of birch-bark as he smoked thoughtfully. When he had finished, he raised it to his lips and moved the flaring end in a wide circle as he blew a blast that rang miles away in the far forest.
"Ef we heppen t' git separated in any way, shape, er manner 'cept one," said he, as he slung it over his shoulder with a string, "ye'll know purty nigh where I be when ye hear thet air thing."
"You said, 'in any way, shape, er manner 'cept one.'" I quoted."What do you mean by that?"
My friend expectorated, looking off into the night soberly a moment.
"Guess I didn't mean nuthin'," said he, presently. "When I set out t' say suthin', don't never know where I 'm goin' t' land. Good deal luk settin' sail without a compass. Thet 's one reason I don't never say much 'fore women."
Our good host hurried the lagging hours with many a tale of the river and that island we were soon to visit, once the refuge of Tadusac, the old river pirate, so he told us, with a cave now haunted by some ghost. We started for the shore near ten o'clock, the innkeeper leading us with a lantern, its light flickering in a west wind. The sky was cloudy, the night dark. Our host lent us the lantern, kindly offering to build a bonfire on the beach at eleven, to light us home.
"Careful, boys," said the innkeeper, as we got aboard. "Aim straight fer th' head o' th' island, Can't ye see it—right over yer heads there? 'Member, they 's awful rough water below."
We pushed off, D'ri leading. I could see nothing of the island, but D'ri had better eyes, and kept calling me as he went ahead. After a few strokes of the paddle I could see on the dark sky the darker mass of tree-tops.
"Better light up," I suggested. We were now close in.
"Hush!" he hissed. Then, as I came up to him, he went on, whispering: "'T ain't bes' t' mek no noise here. Don' know none tew much 'bout this here business. Don' cal'late we 're goin' t' hev any trouble, but if we dew—Hark!"
We had both heard a stir in the bushes, and stuck our paddles in the sand, listening. After a little silence I heard D'ri get up and step stealthily into the water and buckle on his sword. Then I could hear him sinking the canoe and shoving her anchor deep into the sand. He did it with no noise that, fifty feet away, could have been distinguished from that of the ever-murmuring waters. In a moment he came and held my canoe, while I also took up my trusty blade, stepping out of the canoe into the shallow water. Then he shoved her off a little, and sank her beside the other. I knew not his purpose, and made no question of it, following him as he strode the shore with measured paces, the lantern upon his arm. Then presently he stuck his paddle into the bushes, and mine beside it. We were near the head of the island, walking on a reedy strip of soft earth at the river margin. After a few paces we halted to listen, but heard only the voice of the water and the murmur of pines. Then we pushed through a thicket of small fir trees to where we groped along in utter darkness among the big tree trunks on a muffle-footing. After a moment or so we got a spray of light. We halted, peering at the glow that now sprinkled out through many a pinhole aperture in a fairy lattice of pine needles.
My heart was beating loudly, for there was the promised lantern. Was I not soon to see the brighter light of those dear faces? It was all the kind of thing I enjoyed then,—the atmosphere of peril and romance,—wild youth that I was. It is a pity, God knows, I had so little consideration for old D'ri; but he loved me, and—well, he himself had some pleasure in excitement.
We halted for only a moment, pushing boldly through a thicket of young pines into the light. A lantern hung on the bough of a tall tree, and beneath it was a wide opening well carpeted with moss and needles. We peered off into the gloom, but saw nothing.
D'ri blew out a thoughtful breath, looking up into the air coolly, as he filled his pipe.
"Consarned if ever I wanted t' have a smoke s' bad 'n all my born days," he remarked.
Then he moved his holster, turned his scabbard, and sat down quietly, puffing his pipe with some look of weariness and reflection. We were sitting there less than five minutes when we heard a footfall near by; then suddenly two men strode up to us in the dim light. I recognized at once the easy step, the long, lithe figure, of his Lordship in the dress of a citizen, saving sword and pistols.
"Ah, good evening, gentlemen," said he, quietly. "How are you?"
"Better than—than when we saw you last," I answered.
D'ri had not moved; he looked up at me with a sympathetic smile.
"I presume," said his Lordship, in that familiar, lazy tone, as he lighted a cigar, "there was—ah—good room for improvement, was there not?"
"Abundant," said I, thoughtfully. "You were not in the best of health yourself that evening."
"True," said he; "I—I was in bad fettle and worse luck."
"How are the ladies?"
"Quite well," said he, blowing a long puff.
"Ready to deliver them?" I inquired.
"Presently," said he. "There are—some formalities."
"Which are—?" I added quickly.
"A trifle of expenses and a condition," said he, lazily.
"How much, and what?" I inquired, as D'ri turned his ear.
"One thousand pounds," said his Lordship, quickly. "Not a penny more than this matter has cost me and his Majesty."
"What else?" said I.
"This man," he answered calmly, with a little gesture aimed at D'ri.
My friend rose, struck his palm with the pipe-bowl, and put up his knife.
"Ef ye're goin' t' tek me," said he, "better begin right off, er ye won't hev time 'fore breakfust."
Then he clapped the moose-horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast. It made the two men jump and set the near thicket reeling. The weird barytone went off moaning in the far wastes of timber. Its rush of echoes had begun. I put my hand to my sabre, for there in the edge of the gloom I saw a thing that stirred me to the marrow. The low firs were moving toward us, root and branch, their twigs falling. Gods of war! it made my hair stand for a jiffy to see the very brush take feet and legs. On sea or land I never saw a thing that gave me so odd a feeling. We stood for a breath or two, then started back, our sabres flashing; for, as the twigs fell, we saw they had been decorating a squad of the British. They came on. I struck at the lantern, but too late, for his Lordship had swung it away. He stumbled, going to his knees; the lantern hit the earth and went out. I had seen the squad break, running each way, to surround us. D'ri grabbed my hand as the dark fell, and we went plunging through the little pines, hitting a man heavily, who fell grunting. We had begun to hear the rattle of boats, a shouting, and quick steps on the shore. We crouched a moment. D'ri blew the moose-horn, pulling me aside with him quickly after the blast. Lights were now flashing near. I could see little hope for us, and D'ri, I thought, had gone crazy. He ran at the oncomers, yelling, "Hey, Rube!" at the top of his lungs. I lay low in the brush a moment. They rushed by me, D'ri in the fore with fending sabre. A tawny hound was running in the lead, his nose down, baying loudly. Then I saw the truth, and made after them with all the speed of my legs. They hustled over the ridge, their lights flashing under. For a jiffy I could see only, here and there, a leaping glow in the tree-tops. I rushed on, passing one who had tumbled headlong. The lights below me scattered quickly and stopped. I heard a great yelling, a roar of muskets, and a clash of swords. A hush fell on them as I came near, Then I heard a voice that thrilled me.
"Your sword, sir!" it commanded.
"Stop," said I, sharply, coming near.
There stood my father in the lantern-light, his sword drawn, his gray hair stirring in the breeze. Before him was my old adversary, his Lordship, sword in hand. Near by, the squad of British, now surrounded, were giving up their arms. They had backed to the river's edge; I could hear it lapping their heels. His Lordship sneered, looking at the veteran who stood in a gray frock of homespun, for all the world, I fancy, like one of those old yeomen who fought with Cromwell.
"Your sword, sir," my father repeated.
"Pardon me," said the young man, with a fascinating coolness of manner, "but I shall have to trouble you—"
He hesitated, feeling his blade.
"How?" said my father.
"To fight for it," said his Lordship, quietly.
"Surrender—fool!" my father answered. "You cannot escape."
"Tut, tut!" said his Lordship. "I never heard so poor a compliment. Come in reach, and I shall make you think better of me."
"Give up your sword."
"After my life, then my sword," said he, with a quick thrust.
Before I could take a step, their swords were clashing in deadly combat. I rushed up to break in upon them, but the air was full of steel, and then my father needed no help. He was driving his man with fiery vigor. I had never seen him fight; all I had seen of his power had been mere play.
It was grand to see the old man fighting as if, for a moment, his youth had come back to him. I knew it could not go far. His fire would burn out quickly; then the blade of the young Britisher, tireless and quick as I knew it to be, would let his blood before my very eyes. What to do I knew not. Again I came up to them; but my father warned me off hotly. He was fighting with terrific energy. I swear to you that in half a minute he had broken the sword of his Lordship, who took to the water, swimming for his life. I leaped in, catching him half over the eddy, where we fought like roadmen, striking in the air and bumping on the bottom. We were both near drowned when D'ri swam out and gave me his belt-end, hauling us in.
I got to my feet soon. My father came up to me, and wiped a cut on my forehead.
"Damn you, my boy!" said he. "Don't ever interfere with me in a matter of that kind. You might have been hurt."
We searched the island, high and low, for the ladies, but with no success. Then we marched our prisoners to the south channel, where a bateau—the same that brought us help—had been waiting. One of our men had been shot in the shoulder, another gored in the hip with a bayonet, and we left a young Briton dead on the shore. We took our prisoners to Paleyville, and locked them overnight in the blockhouse.
The channel was lighted by a big bonfire on the south bank, as we came over. Its flames went high, and made a great, sloping volcano of light in the darkness.
After the posting of the guard, some gathered about my father and began to cheer him. It nettled the veteran. He would take no honor for his defeat of the clever man, claiming the latter had no chance to fight.
"He had no foot-room with the boy one side and D'ri t' other," said he. "I had only to drive him back."
My father and the innkeeper and D'ri and I sat awhile, smoking, in the warm glow of the bonfire.
"You 're a long-headed man," said I, turning to my comrade.
"Kind o' thought they'd be trouble," said D'ri. "So I tuk 'n ast yer father t' come over hossback with hef a dozen good men. They got three more et the tavern here, an' lay off 'n thet air bateau, waitin' fer the moosecall. I cal'lated I did n't want no more slidin' over there 'n Canady."
After a little snicker, he added: "Hed all 't wus good fer me the las' time. 'S a leetle tew swift."
"Gets rather scary when you see the bushes walk," I suggested.
"Seen whut wus up 'fore ever they med a move," said D'ri. "Them air bushes did n't look jest es nat'ral es they'd orter. Bet ye they're some o' them bushwhackers o' Fitzgibbon. Got loops all over their uniforms, so ye c'u'd stick 'em full o' boughs. Jerushy! never see nuthin' s' joemightful cur'us 'n all my born days—never." He stopped a breath, and then added: "Could n't be nuthin' cur'user 'n thet."
We hired team and wagon of the innkeeper, and a man to paddle up-river and return with the horses.
I had a brief talk with our tall prisoner while they were making ready.
"A word of business, your Lordship," I said as he came out, yawning, with the guard.
"Ah, well," said he, with a shiver, "I hope it is not so cold as the air."
"It is hopeful; it is cheering," was my answer.
"And the topic?"
"An exchange—for the ladies."
He thought a moment, slapping the dust off him with a glove.
"This kind of thing is hard on the trousers," he remarked carelessly. "I will consider; I think it could be arranged. Meanwhile, I give you my word of honor, you need have no worry."
We were off at daybreak with our prisoners; there were six of them in all. We put a fold of linen over the eyes of each, and roped them all together, so that they could sit or stand, as might please them, in the wagonbox.
"It's barbarity," said his Lordship, as we put on the fold. "YouYankees never knew how to treat a prisoner."
"Till you learnt us," said D'ri, quickly. "Could n't never fergit thet lesson. Ef I hed my way 'bout you, I 'd haul ye up t' th' top o' thet air dead pine over yender, 'n' let ye slide down."
"Rather too steep, I should say," said his Lordship, wearily.
"Ye wouldn't need no grease," said D'ri, with a chuckle.
We were four days going to the Harbor. My father and his men came with us, and he told us many a tale, that journey, of his adventures in the old war. We kept our promise, turning over the prisoners a little before sundown of the 16th. Each was given a great room and every possible comfort. I arranged soon for the release of all on the safe return of the ladies.
In the evening of the 17th his Lordship sent for me. He was a bit nervous, and desired a conference with the general and me. De Chaumont had been over to the headquarters that day in urgent counsel. He was weary of delay and planning an appeal to the French government. General Brown was prepared to give the matter all furtherance in his power, and sent quickly for the Englishman. They brought him over at nine o'clock. We uncovered his eyes and locked the door, and "gave him a crack at the old Madeira," as they used to say, and made him as comfortable as might be at the cheery fireside of the general.
"I've been thinking," said his Lordship. after a drink and a word of courtesy. I never saw a man of better breeding or more courage, I am free to say. "You may not agree it is possible, but, anyhow, I have been trying to think. You have been decent to me. I don't believe you are such a bad lot, after all; and while I should be sorry to have you think me tired of your hospitality, I desire to hasten our plans a little. I propose an exchange of—of—"
He hesitated, whipping the ashes off his cigar.
"Well—first of confidence," he went on. "I will take your word if you will take mine."
"In what matter?" the general inquired.
"That of the ladies and their relief," said he. "A little confidence will—will—"
"Grease the wheels of progress?" the general suggested, smiling.
"Quite so," he answered lazily. "To begin with, they are not thirty miles away, if I am correct in my judgment of this locality."
There was a moment of silence.
"Mydearsir," he went on presently, "this ground is quite familiar to me. I slept in this very chamber long ago. But that is not here nor there. Day after to-morrow, a little before midnight, the ladies will be riding on the shore pike. You could meet them and bring them out to a schooner, I suppose—if—"
He stopped again, puffing thoughtfully.
"If we could agree," he went on. "Now this would be my view of it: You let me send a messenger for the ladies. You would have to take them by force somehow; but, you know, I could make it easy—arrange the time and place, no house near, no soldiers, no resistence but that of the driver, who should not share our confidence—no danger. You take them to the boats and bring them over; but, first—"
He paused again, looking at the smokerings above his head in a dreamy manner.
"'First,'" my chief repeated.
"Well," said he, leaning toward him with a little gesture, "to me the word of a gentleman is sacred. I know you are both gentlemen. I ask for your word of honor."
"To what effect?" the general queried.
"That you will put us safely on British soil within a day after the ladies have arrived," said he.
"It is irregular and a matter of some difficulty," said the general. "Whom would you send with such a message?"
"Well, I should say some Frenchwoman could do it. There must be one here who is clever enough."
"I know the very one," said I, with enthusiasm. "She is as smart and cunning as they make them."
"Very well," said the general; "that is but one step. Who is to capture them and take the risk of their own heads?"
"D'ri and I could do it alone," was my confident answer.
"Ah, well," said his Lordship, as he rose languidly and stood with his back to the fire, "I shall send them where the coast is clear—my word for that. Hang me if I fail to protect them."
"I do not wish to question your honor," said the general, "or violate in any way this atmosphere of fine courtesy; but, sir, I do not know you."
"Permit me to introduce myself," said the Englishman, as he ripped his coat-lining and drew out a folded sheet of purple parchment.
"I am Lord Ronley, fifth Earl of Pickford, and, cousin of his MostExcellent Majesty the King of England; there is the proof."
He tossed the parchment to the table carelessly, resuming his chair.
"Forgive me," said he, as the general took it. "I have little taste for such theatricals. Necessity is my only excuse."
"It is enough," said the other. "I am glad to know you. I hope sometime we shall stop fighting each other—we of the same race and blood. It is unnatural."
"Give me your hand," said the Englishman, with heartier feeling than I had seen him show, as he advanced. "Amen! I say to you."
"Will you write your message? Here are ink and paper," said the general.
His Lordship sat down at the table and hurriedly wrote these letters:—
"PRESCOTT, ONTARIO, November 17, 1813.
"To SIR CHARLES GRAVLEIGH, The Weirs, above Landsmere, Wrentham,Frontenac County, Canada.
"MY DEAR GRAVLEIGH: Will you see that the baroness and her two wards, the Misses de Lambert, are conveyed by my coach, on the evening of the 18th inst, to that certain point on the shore pike between Amsbury and Lakeside known as Burnt Ridge, there to wait back in the timber for my messenger? Tell them they are to be returned to their home, and give them my very best wishes. Lamson will drive, and let the bearer ride with the others.
"Very truly yours,"RONLEY."
To whom it may concern.
"Mme. St. Jovite, the bearer, is on her way to my house at Wrentham, Frontenac County, second concession, with a despatch of urgent character. I shall be greatly favored by all who give her furtherance in this journey.
"Respectfully, etc.,"Ronley,"Colonel of King's Guard."
For fear of a cipher, the general gave tantamount terms for each letter, and his Lordship rewrote them.
"I thought the name St. Jovite would be as good as any," he remarked.
The rendezvous was carefully mapped. The guard came, and hisLordship rose languidly.
"One thing more," said he. "Let the men go over without arms—if—if you will be so good."
"I shall consider that," said the general.
"And when shall the messenger start?"
"Within the hour, if possible," my chief answered.
As they went away, the general sat down with me for a moment, to discuss the matter.
Herein is the story of the adventures of his Lordship's courier, known as Mme. St. Jovite, on and after the night of November 17, 1813, in Upper Canada. This account may be accepted as quite trustworthy, its writer having been known to me these many years, in the which neither I nor any of my friends have had occasion to doubt her veracity. The writer gave more details than are desirable, but the document is nothing more than a letter to an intimate friend. I remember well she had an eye for color and a taste for description not easy to repress.
When I decided to go it was near midnight, The mission was not all to my taste, but the reward was handsome and the letter of Lord Ronley reassuring. I knew I could do it, and dressed as soon as possible and walked to the Lone Oak, a sergeant escorting. There, as I expected, the big soldier known as D'ri was waiting, his canoe in a wagon that stood near. We all mounted the seat, driving pell-mell on a rough road to Tibbals Point, on the southwest corner of Wolf Island. A hard journey it was, and near two o'clock, I should say, before we put our canoe in the water. Then the man D'ri helped me to an easy seat in the bow and shoved off. A full moon, yellow as gold, hung low in the northwest. The water was calm, and we cut across "the moon way," that funnelled off to the shores of Canada.
"It is one ver' gran' night," I said in my dialect of the rude Canuck; for I did not wish him, or any one, to know me. War is war, but, surely, such adventures are not the thing for a woman.
"Yis, mahm," he answered, pushing hard with the paddle. "Yer a friend o' the cap'n, ain't ye—Ray Bell?"
"Ze captain? Ah, oui, m'sieu'," I said. "One ver' brave man, ain't it?"
"Yis, mahm," said he, soberly and with emphasis. "He 's more 'n a dozen brave men, thet's whut he is. He's a joemightyful cuss. Ain't nuthin' he can't dew—spryer 'n a painter, stouter 'n a moose, an' treemenjous with a sword."
The moon sank low, peering through distant tree-columns, and went out of sight. Long stubs of dead pine loomed in the dim, golden afterglow, their stark limbs arching high in the heavens—like mullions in a great Gothic window.
"When we git nigh shore over yender," said my companion, "don't believe we better hev a grea' deal t' say. I ain't a-goin' t' be tuk—by a jugful—not ef I can help it. Got me 'n a tight place one night here 'n Canady."
"Ah, m'sieu', in Canada! How did you get out of it?" I queried.
"Slipped out," said he, shaking the canoe with suppressed laughter."Jes' luk a streak o' greased lig-htnin'," he added presently.
"The captain he seems ver' anxious for me to mak' great hurry," I remarked.
"No wonder; it's his lady-love he 's efter—faster 'n a weasel t' see 'er," said he, snickering.
"Good-looking?" I queried.
"Han'some es a pictur'," said he, soberly.
In a moment he dragged his paddle, listening.
"Thet air's th' shore over yender," he whispered. "Don't say a word now. I 'll put ye right on the p'int o' rocks. Creep 'long careful till ye git t' th' road, then turn t' th' left, the cap'n tol' me."
When I stepped ashore my dress caught the gunwale and upset our canoe. The good man rolled noisily into the water, and rose dripping. I tried to help him.
"Don't bother me—none," he whispered testily, as if out of patience, while he righted the canoe.
When at last he was seated again, as I leaned to shove him off, he whispered in a compensating, kindly manner: "When ye 're goin' ashore, an' they 's somebody 'n the canoe, don't never try t' tek it with ye 'less ye tell 'im yer goin' tew."
There was a deep silence over wood and water, but he went away so stealthily I could not hear the stir of his paddle. I stood watching as he dimmed off in the darkness, going quickly out of sight. Then I crept over the rocks and through a thicket, shivering, for the night had grown chilly. I snagged my dress on a brier every step, and had to move by inches. After mincing along half an hour or so, I came where I could feel a bit of clear earth, and stood there, dancing on my tiptoes, in the dark, to quicken my blood a little. Presently the damp light of dawn came leaking through the tree-tops. I heard a rattling stir in the bare limbs above me. Was it some monster of the woods? Although I have more courage than most women, it startled me, and I stood still. The light came clearer; there was a rush toward me that shook the boughs. I peered upward. It was only a squirrel, now scratching his ear, as he looked down at me. He braced himself, and seemed to curse me loudly for a spy, trembling with rage and rushing up and down the branch above me. Then all the curious, inhospitable folk of the timber-land came out upon their towers to denounce.
I made my way over the rustling, brittle leaves, and soon found a trail that led up over high land. I followed it for a matter of some minutes, and came to the road, taking my left-hand way, as they told me. There was no traveller in sight. I walked as fast as I could, passing a village at sunrise, where I asked my way in French at a smithy. Beyond there was a narrow clearing, stumpy and rank with briers, on the up-side of the way. Presently, looking over a level stretch, I could see trees arching the road again, from under which, as I was looking, a squad of cavalry came out in the open. It startled me. I began to think I was trapped, I thought of dodging into the brush. But, no; they had seen me, and I would be a fool now to turn fugitive. I looked about me. Cows were feeding near. I picked up a stick and went deliberately into the bushes, driving one of them to the pike and heading her toward them. They went by at a gallop, never pulling up while in sight of me. Then I passed the cow and went on, stopping an hour later at a lonely log house, where I found French people, and a welcome that included moose meat, a cup of coffee, and fried potatoes. Leaving, I rode some miles with a travelling tinker, a voluble, well-meaning youth who took a liking for me, and went far out of his way to help me on. He blushed proudly when, stopping to mend a pot for the cook at a camp of militia, they inquired if I was his wife.
"No; but she may be yet," said he; "who knows?"
I knew it was no good place for me, and felt some relief when the young man did me this honor. From that moment they set me down for a sweetheart.
"She 's too big for you, my boy," said the general, laughing.
"The more the better," said he; "can't have too much of a good wife."
I said little to him as we rode along. He asked for my address, when I left him, and gave me the comforting assurance that he would see me again. I made no answer, leaving him at a turn where, north of us, I could see the white houses of Wrentham. Kingston was hard by, its fort crowning a hill-top by the river.
It was past three by a tower clock at the gate of the Weirs when I got there. A driveway through tall oaks led to the mansion of dark stone. Many acres of park and field and garden were shut in with high walls. I rang a bell at the small gate, and some fellow in livery took my message.
"Wait 'ere, my lass," said he, with an English accent. "I 'll go at once to the secretary."
I sat in a rustic chair by the gate-side, waiting for that functionary.
"Ah, come in, come in," said he, coolly, as he opened the gate a little.
He said nothing more, and I followed him—an oldish man with gray eyes and hair and side-whiskers, and neatly dressed, his head covered to the ears with a high hat, tilted backward. We took a stone path, and soon entered a rear door.
"She may sit in the servants' hall," said he to one of the maids,
They took my shawl, as he went away, and showed me to a room where, evidently, the servants did their eating. They were inquisitive, those kitchen maids, and now and then I was rather put to it for a wise reply. I said as little as might be, using the dialect, long familiar to me, of the French Canadian. My bonnet amused them. It was none too new or fashionable, and I did not remove it.
"Afraid we 'll steal it," I heard one of them whisper in the next room. Then there was a loud laugh.
They gave me a French paper. I read every line of it, and sat looking out of a window at the tall trees, at servants who passed to and fro, at his Lordship's horses, led up and down for exercise in the stable-yard, at the twilight glooming the last pictures of a long day until they were all smudged with darkness. Then candle-light, a trying supper hour with maids and cooks and grooms and footmen at the big table, English, every one of them, and set up with haughty curiosity. I would not go to the table, and had a cup of tea and a biscuit there in my corner. A big butler walked in hurriedly awhile after seven. He looked down at me as if I were the dirt of the gutter.
"They 're waitin'," said he, curtly. "An' Sir Chawles would like to know if ye would care for a humberreller?"
"Ah, m'sieu'! he rains?" I inquired.
"No, mum."
"Ah! he is going to rain, maybe?"
He made no answer, but turned quickly and went to a near closet, from which he brought a faded umbrella.
"There," said he, as he led me to the front door, "see that you send it back."
On the porch were the secretary and the ladies—three of them.
"Ciel! what is it?" one of them whispered as I came out.
The post-lights were shining in their faces, and lovelier I never saw than those of the demoiselles. They stepped lightly to the coach, and the secretary asked if I would go in with them.
"No, m'sieu'," was my answer; "I sit by ze drivaire."
"Come in here, you silly goose," said one of the ladies in French, recognizing my nationality.
"Grand merci!" I said, taking my seat by the driver; and then we were off, with as lively a team as ever carried me, our lights flashing on the tree trunks. We had been riding more than two hours when we stopped for water at a spring-tub under a hill. They gave me a cup, and, for the ladies, I brought each a bumper of the cool, trickling flood.
"Ici, my tall woman," said one of them, presently, "my boot is untied."
Her dainty foot came out of the coach door under ruffles of silk.I hesitated, for I was not accustomed to that sort of service.
"Lambine!" she exclaimed. "Make haste, will you?" her foot moving impatiently.
My fingers had got numb in the cold air, and I must have been very awkward, for presently she boxed my ears and drew her foot away.
"Dieu!" said she. "Tell him to drive on."
I got to my seat quickly, confident that nature had not intended me for a lady's-maid. Awhile later we heard the call of a picket far afield, but saw no camp. A horseman—I thought him a cavalry officer—passed us, flashing in our faces the light of a dark lantern, but said nothing. It must have been near midnight when, as we were going slowly through deep sand, I heard the clang of a cow-bell in the near darkness. Another sounded quickly a bit farther on. The driver gave no heed to it, although I recognized the signal, and knew something would happen shortly. We had come into the double dark of the timber when, suddenly, our horses reared, snorting, and stopped. The driver felt for his big pistol, but not in the right place; for two hours or more it had been stowed away in the deep pocket of my gown. Not a word was spoken. By the dim light of the lanterns we could see men all about us with pikes looming in the dark. For a breath or two there was perfect silence; then the driver rose quickly and shouted: "Who are you?"
"Frien's o' these 'ere women," said one I recognized as theCorporal D'ri.
He spoke in a low tone as he opened the door.
"Grace au ciel!" I heard one of the young ladies saying. "It isD'ri—dear old fellow!"
Then they all hurried out of the coach and kissed him.
"The captain—is he not here?" said one of them in French. ButD'ri did not understand them, and made no answer.
"Out wi' the lights, an' be still," said D'ri, quickly, and the lights were out as soon as the words. "Jones, you tie up a front leg o' one o' them hosses. Git back in the brush, ladies. Five on 'em, boys. Now up with the pike wall!"
From far back in the road had come again the clang of the cow-bell. I remember hearing five strokes and then a loud rattle. In a twinkling I was off the seat and beside the ladies.
"Take hold of my dress," I whispered quickly, "and follow me."
I led them off in the brush, and stopped. We could hear the move and rattle of cavalry in the near road. Then presently the swish of steel, the leap and tumble of horses, the shouting of men. My companions were of the right stuff; they stood shivering, but held their peace. Out by the road lights were flashing, and now we heard pistols and the sound of a mighty scuffle. I could stay there in the dark no longer.
"Wait here, and be silent," I said, and ran "like a madwoman," as they told me long after, for the flickering lights.
There a squad of cavalry was shut in by the pikes. Two troopers had broken through the near line. One had fallen, badly hurt; the other was sabre to sabre with the man D'ri. They were close up and striving fiercely, as if with broadswords. I caught up the weapon of the injured man, for I saw the Yankee would get the worst of it. The Britisher had great power and a sabre quick as a cat's paw. I could see the corporal was stronger, but not so quick and skilful. As I stood by, quivering with excitement, I saw him get a slash in the shoulder. He stumbled, falling heavily. Then quickly, forgetting my sex, but not wholly, I hope, the conduct that becomes a woman, I caught the point of the sabre, now poised to run him through, with the one I carried. He backed away, hesitating, for he had seen my hat and gown. But I made after him with all the fury I felt, and soon had him in action. He was tired, I have no doubt; anyway, I whirled his sabre and broke his hold, whipping it to the ground. That was the last we saw of him, for he made off in the dark faster than I could follow. The trouble was all over, save the wound of the corporal, which was not as bad as I thought. He was up, and one of them, a surgeon, was putting stitches in his upper arm. Others were tying four men together with rope. Their weapons were lying in a little heap near by. One of the British was saying that Sir Charles Gravleigh had sent for them to ride after the coach.
"Jerushy Jane Pepper!" said the man D'ri. "Never see no sech wil'cat uv a woman es thet air."
I looked down at my gown; I felt of my hat, now hanging over one ear. Sure enough, I was a woman.
"Who be ye, I 'd like t' know?" said the man D'ri.
"Ramon Bell—a Yankee soldier of the rank of captain," I said, stripping off my gown. "But, I beg of you, don't tell the ladies I was ever a woman."
"Judas Priest!" said D'ri, as he flung his well arm around me.
I felt foolish for a moment. I had careful plans for Mme. St. Jovite. She would have vanished utterly on our return; so, I fancy, none would have been the wiser. But in that brief sally I had killed the madame; she could serve me no more. I have been careful in my account of this matter to tell all just as it happened, to put upon it neither more nor less of romantic color than we saw. Had I the skill and license of a novelist, I could have made much of my little mystery; but there are many now living who remember all these things, and then, I am a soldier, and too old for a new business. So I make as much of them as there was and no more.
In private theatricals, an evening at the Harbor, I had won applause with the rig, wig, and dialect of my trip to Wrentham Square. So, when I proposed a plan to my friend the general, urging the peril of a raw hand with a trust of so much importance, he had no doubt of my ability.
I borrowed a long coat, having put off my dress, and, when all was ready, went with a lantern to get the ladies. Louise recognized me first.
"Grace au ciel! le capitaine!" said she, running to meet me.
I dropped my lantern as we came face to face, and have ever been glad of that little accident, for there in the dark my arms went around her, and our lips met for a silent kiss full of history and of holy confidence. Then she put her hand upon my face with a gentle caressing touch, and turned her own away.
"I am very, very glad to see you," I said.
"Dieu!" said her sister, coming near, "we should be glad to see you, if it were possible."
I lighted the lantern hurriedly.
"Ciel! the light becomes him," said Louison, her grand eyes aglow.
But before there was time to answer I had kissed her also.
"He is a bold thing," she added, turning soberly to the baroness.
"Both a bold and happy thing," I answered. "Forgive me. I should not be so bold if I were not—well—insanely happy."
"He is only a boy," said the baroness, laughing as she kissed me.
"Poor little ingenu!" said Louison, patting my arm.
Louise, tall and lovely and sedate as ever, stood near me, primping her bonnet.
"Little ingenu!" she repeated, with a faint laugh of irony as she placed the dainty thing on her head.
"Well, what doyouthink of him?" said Louison, turning to help her.
"Dieu! that he is very big and dreadful," said the other, soberly."I should think we had better be going."
These things move slowly on paper, but the greeting was to me painfully short, there being of it not more than a minuteful, I should say. On our way to the lights they plied me with whispered queries, and were in fear of more fighting. The prisoners were now in the coach, and our men—there were twelve—stood on every side of it, their pikes in hand. The boats were near, and we hurried to the river by a toteway. Our schooner lay some twenty rods off a point. A bateau and six canoes were waiting on the beach, and when we had come to the schooner I unbound the prisoners.
"You can get ashore with this bateau," I said. "You will find the horses tied to a tree."
"Wha' does thet mean?" said D'ri.
"That we have no right to hold them," was my answer. "Ronley was, in no way responsible for their coming."
Leaning over the side with a lantern, while one of our men held the bateau, I motioned to the coachman.
"Give that 'humberreller' to the butler, with my compliments," I whispered.
Our anchors up, our sails took the wind in a jiffy.
"Member how we used ye," D'ri called to the receding Britishers, "an' ef ye ever meet a Yankee try t' be p'lite tew 'im."
Dawn had come before we got off at the Harbor dock. I took the ladies to an inn for breakfast, wrote a report, and went for my horse and uniform. General Brown was buttoning his suspenders when they admitted me to his room.
"What luck, my boy?" said he.
"All have returned safely, including the ladies," I replied quickly, "and I have the honor to submit a report."
He took a chair, and read the report carefully, and looked up at me, laughing.
"What a lucky and remarkable young man!" said he. "I declare, you should have lived in the Middle Ages."
"Ah, then I should not have enjoyed your compliments or your friendship," was my answer.
He laughed again heartily.
"Nor the demoiselles'," said he. "I congratulate you. They are the loveliest of their sex; but I'm sorry they're not Americans."
"Time enough. I have decided that one of them shall become anAmerican," said I, with all the confidence of youth.
"It is quite an undertaking," said he. "You may find new difficulties. Their father is at the chateau."
"M'sieur de Lambert?" I exclaimed.
"M'sieur de Lambert. Came yesterday, via Montreal, with a fine young nobleman—the Count Esmon de Brovel," said he. "You must look out for him; he has the beauty of Apollo and the sword of a cavalier."
"And I no fear of him," I answered soberly, with a quick sense of alarm.
"They rode over in the afternoon with Chaumont," he went on. "It seems the young ladies' father, getting no news of them, had become worried. Well, you may go and have three days for your fun; I shall need you presently."
Breakfast over, I got a team for the ladies, and, mounting my own horse, rode before them. I began to consider a very odd thing in this love experience. While they were in captivity I had begun to think less of Louison and more of Louise. In truth, one face had faded a little in my memory; the other, somehow, had grown clearer and sweeter, as if by a light borrowed from the soul behind it. Now that I saw Louison, her splendid face and figure appealed to me with all the power of old. She was quick, vivacious, subtle, aggressive, cunning, aware and proud of her charms, and ever making the most of them. She, ah, yes, she could play with a man for the mere pleasure of victory, and be very heartless if—if she were not in love with him. This type of woman had no need of argument to make me feel her charms. With her the old doubt had returned to me; for how long? I wondered. Her sister was quite her antithesis—thoughtful, slow, serious, even-tempered, frank, quiet, unconscious of her beauty, and with that wonderful thing, a voice tender and low and sympathetic and full of an eloquence I could never understand, although I felt it to my finger-tips. I could not help loving her, and, indeed, what man with any life in him feels not the power of such a woman? That morning, on the woods-pike, I reduced the problem to its simplest terms: the one was a physical type, the other a spiritual.
"M'sieur le Capitaine," said Louison, as I rode by the carriage, "what became of the tall woman last night?"
"Left us there in the woods," I answered. "She was afraid of you."
"Afraid of me! Why?"
"Well, I understand that you boxed her ears shamefully."
A merry peal of laughter greeted my words.
"It was too bad; you were very harsh," said Louise, soberly.
"I could not help it; she was an ugly, awkward thing," saidLouison. "I could have pulled her nose'"
"And it seems you called her a geante also," I said. "She was quite offended."
"It was a compliment," said the girl. "She was an Amazon—like the count's statue of Jeanne d'Arc."
"Poor thing! she could not help it," said Louise.
"Well," said Louison, with a sigh of regret, "if I ever see her again I shall give her a five-franc piece."
There was a moment of silence, and she broke it.
"I hope, this afternoon, you will let me ride that horse," said she.
"On one condition," was my reply.
"And it is—?"
"That you will let me ride yours at the same time."
"Agreed," was her answer. "Shall we go at three?"
"With the consent of the baroness and—and your father," I said.
"Father!" exclaimed the two girls. /
"Your father," I repeated. "He is now at the chateau."
"Heavens!" said Louison.
"What will he say?" said the baroness.
"I am so glad—my dear papa!" said Louise, clapping her hands.
We were out of the woods now, and could see the chateau in the uplands.