"Much to be thankful for," was the Scotchman's comment. "Seven Oaks is avenged. It would ill 'a' become a Sutherland to give his daughter's hand to a conqueror, but I would na' say I'd refuse a wife to a man beaten as you were, Rufus Gillespie," and he strode off to attend to outdoor work.
And what next took place, I refrain from relating; for lovers' eloquence is only eloquent to lovers.
Nature is not unlike a bank. When drafts exceed deposits comes a protest, and not infrequently, after the protest, bankruptcy. From the buffalo hunt to the recapture of Fort Douglas by the Hudson's Bay soldiers, drafts on that essential part of a human being called stamina had been very heavy with me. Now came the casting-up of accounts, and my bill was minus reserve strength, with a balance of debt on the wrong side.
The morning after the escape from Fort Douglas, when Mr. Sutherland strode off, leaving his daughter alone with me, I remember very well that Frances abruptly began putting my pillow to rights. Instead of keeping wide awake, as I should by all the codes of romance and common sense, I—poor fool—at once swooned, with a vague, glimmering consciousness that I was dying and this, perhaps, was the first blissful glimpse into paradise. When I came to my senses, Mr. Sutherland was again standing by the bedside with a half-shamed look of compassion under his shaggy brows.
"How far," I began, with a curious inabilityto use my wits and tongue, "how far—I mean how long have I been asleep, sir?"
"Hoots, mon! Dinna claver in that feckless fashion! It's months, lad, sin' ye opened y'r mouth wi' onything but daft gab."
"Months!" I gasped out. "Have I been here for months?"
"Aye, months. The plain was snaw-white when ye began y'r bit nappie. Noo, d'ye no hear the clack o' the geese through yon open window?"
I tried to turn to that side of the little room, where a great wave of fresh, clear air blew from the prairie. For some reason my head refused to revolve. Stooping, the elder man gently raised the sheet and rolled me over so that I faced the sweet freshness of an open, sunny view.
"Did I rive ye sore, lad?" asked the voice with a gruffness in strange contradiction to the gentleness of the touch.
Now I hold that however rasping a man's words may be, if he handle the sick with gentleness, there is much goodness under the rough surface. Thoughtlessness and stupidity, I know, are patent excuses for half the unkindness and sorrow of life. But thoughtlessness and stupidity are also responsible for most of life's brutality and crime. Not spiteful intentions alone, but the dulled, brutalized, deadened sensibilities—that go under the names of thoughtlessness and stupidity—make a man treat something weaker than himself with roughness, or in an excessive degree,qualify for murder. When the harsh voice asked, "Do I rive ye sore?" I began to understand how surface roughness is as often caused by life's asperities as by the inner dullness akin to the brute.
Indeed, if my thoughts had not been so intent on the daughter, I could have found Mr. Sutherland's character a wonderfully interesting study. The infinite capacity of a canny Scot for keeping his mouth shut I never realized till I knew Mr. Sutherland. For instance, now that consciousness had returned, I noticed that the father himself, and not the daughter, did all the waiting on me even to the carrying of my meals.
"How is your daughter, Mr. Sutherland?" I asked, surely a natural enough question to merit a civil reply.
"Aye—is it Frances y'r speerin' after?" he answered, meeting my question with a question; and he deigned not another word. But I lay in wait for him at the next meal.
"I haven't seen your daughter yet, Mr. Sutherland," I stuttered out with a deal of blushing. "I haven't even heard her about the house."
"No?" he asked with a show of surprise. "Have ye no seen Frances?" And that was all the satisfaction I got.
Between the dinner hour and supper time I conjured up various plots to hoodwink paternal caution.
"Mr. Sutherland," I began, "I have a message for your daughter."
"Aye," said he.
"I wish her to hear it personally."
"Aye."
"When may I see her?"
"Ye maun bide patient, lad!"
"But the message is urgent." That was true; for had not forty-eight hours passed since I had regained consciousness and I had heard neither her footsteps nor her voice?
"Aye," said the imperturbable father.
"Very urgent, Mr. Sutherland," I added.
"Aye."
"When may I see her, Sir?"
"All in guid time. Ye maun bide quiet, lad."
"The message cannot wait," I declared. "It must be given at once."
"Then deleever it word for word to me, young mon, and I'll trudge off to Frances."
"Your daughter is not at home?"
"What words wu'l ye have me bear to her, lad?" he asked.
That was too much for a youth in a peevish state of convalescence. What lover could send his heart's eloquence by word of mouth with a peppery, prosaic father?
"Tell Mistress Sutherland I must see her at once," I quickly responded with a flash of temper that was ever wont to flare up when put to the test.
"Aye," he answered, with an amused look in the cold, steel eyes. "I'll deleever y'r message when—when"—and he hesitated in a way suggestiveof eternity—"I'll deleever y'r message when I see her."
At that I turned my face to the wall in the bitterness of spirit which only the invalid, with all the strength of a man in his whims and the weakness of an infant in his body, knows. I spent a feverish, restless night, with the hard-faced Scotchman watching from his armchair at my bedside. Once, when I suddenly awakened from sleep, or delirium, his eyes were fastened on my face with a gleam of grave kindliness.
"Mr. Sutherland," I cried, with all the impatience of a child, "please tell me, where is your daughter?"
"I sent her to a neighbor, sin' ye came to y'r senses, lad," said he. "Ye hae kept her about ye night and day sin' ye gaed daft, and losh, mon, ye hae gabbled wild talk enough to turn the head o' ony lassie clean daft. An' ye claver sic' nonsense when ye're daft, what would ye say when ye're sane? Hoots, mon, ye maun learn to haud y'r tongue——"
"Mr. Sutherland," I interrupted in a great heat, quite forgetful of his hospitality, "I'm sorry to be the means of driving your daughter from her home. I beg you to send me back to Fort Douglas——"
"Haud quiet," he ordered with a wave of his hand. "An' wa'd ye have me expose the head of a mitherless bairn to a' the clack o' the auld geese in the settlement? Temper y'r ardor wi' discretion, lad! 'Twas but the day beforeyesterday she left and she was sair done wi' nursing you and losing of sleep! Till ye're fair y'rsel' again and up, and she's weel and rosy wi' full sleep, bide patient!"
That speech sent my face to the wall again; but this time not in anger. And that dogged fashion Mr. Sutherland had of taking his own way did me many a good turn. Often have I heard those bragging captains of the Hudson's Bay mercenaries swagger into the little cottage sitting-room, while I lay in bed on the other side of the thin board partition, and relate to Mr. Sutherland all the incidents of their day's search for me.
"So many pounds sterling for the man who captures the rascal," declares D'Orsonnens.
"Aye, 'tis a goodly price for one poor rattle-pate," says Mr. Sutherland.
Whereupon, D'Orsonnens swears the price is more than my poor empty head is worth, and proceeds to describe me in terms which Mr. Sutherland will only tolerate when thundered from an orthodox pulpit.
"I'd have ye understand, Sir," he would declare with great dignity, "I'll have no papistical profanity under my roof."
Forthwith, he would show D'Orsonnens the door, lecturing the astonished soldier on the errors of Romanism; for whatever Mr. Sutherland deemed evil, from oaths to theological errors, he attributed directly to the pope.
"The ne'er-do-weel can hawk naething frae me," said he when relating the incident.
Once I heard a Fort Douglas man observe that, as the search had proved futile, I must have fallen into one of the air-holes of the ice.
"Nae doot the headstrong young mon is' gettin' what he deserves. I warrant he's warm in his present abode," answered Mr. Sutherland.
On another occasion D'Orsonnens asked who the man was that Mr. Sutherland's daughter had been nursing all winter.
"A puir body driven from Fort Douglas by those bloodthirsty villains," answered Mr. Sutherland, giving his visitor a strong toddy; and he at once improved the occasion by taking down a volume and reading the French officer a series of selections against Romanism. After that D'Orsonnens came no more.
"I hope I did not tell Nor'-West secrets in a Hudson's Bay house when I was delirious, Mr. Sutherland," I remarked.
The Scotchman had lugged me from bed in a gentle, lumbering, well-meant fashion, and I was sitting up for the first time.
"Ye're no the mon wi' a leak t' y'r mouth. I dinna say, though, ye're aye as discreet wi' the thoughts o' y'r heart as y'r head! Ye need na fash y'r noodle wi' remorse aboot company secrets. I canna say ye'll no fret aboot some other things ye hae told. A' the winter lang, 'twas Frances and stars and spooks and speerits and bogies and statues and graven images—wha' are forbidden by the Holy Scriptures—till the lassie thought ye gane clean daft! 'Twas a bonniee'e, like silver stars; or a bit blush, like the pippin; or laughter, like a wimplin' brook; or lips, like posies; or hair, like links o' gold; and mair o' the like till the lassie came rinnin' oot o' y'r room, fair red wi' shame! Losh, mon, ye maun keep a still tongue in y'r head and not blab oot y'r thoughts o' a wife till she believes na mon can hae peace wi'out her. I wad na hae ye abate one jot o' all ye think, for her price is far above rubies; but hae a care wi' y'r grand talk! After ye gang to the kirk, lad, na mon can keep that up."
His warning I laughed to the winds, as youth the world over has ever laughed sage counsels of chilling age.
I can compare my recovery only to the swift transition of seasons in those northern latitudes. Without any lingering spring, the cold grayness of long, tense winter gives place to a radiant sun-burst of warm, yellow light. The uplands have long since been blown bare of snow by the March winds, and through the tangle of matted turf shoot myriad purple cups of the prairie anemone, while the russet grass takes on emerald tints. One day the last blizzard may be sweeping a white trail of stormy majesty across the prairie; the next a fragrance of flowers rises from the steaming earth and the snow-filled ravines have become miniature lakes reflecting the dazzle of a sunny sky and fleece clouds.
My convalescence was similar to the coming of summer. Without any weary fluctuation fromwell to ill, and ill to well—which sickens the heart with a deferred hope—all my old-time strength came back with the glow of that year's June sun.
"There's nae accountin' for some wilful folk, lad," was Mr. Sutherland's remark, one evening after I was able to leave my room. "Ye hae risen frae y'r bed like the crocus frae snaw. An' Frances were hangin' aboot y'r pillow, lad, I'm nae sure y'd be up sae dapper and smart."
"I thought my nurse was to return when I was able to be up," I answered, strolling to the cottage door.
"Come back frae the door, lad. Dinna show y'rsel' tae the enemy. There be more speerin' for ye than hae love for y'r health. Have y'r wits aboot ye! Dinna be frettin' y'rsel' for Frances! The lassies aye rin fast enow tae the mon wi' sense to hold his ain!"
With that advice he motioned me to the only armchair in the room, and sitting down on the outer step to keep watch, began reading some theological disputation aloud.
"Odds, lad, ye should see the papist so'diers rin when I hae Calvin by me," he remarked.
"It's a pity you can't lay the theological thunderers on the doorstep to drive stray De Meurons off. Then you could come in and take this chair yourself," I answered, sitting back where no visitor could see me.
But Mr. Sutherland did not hear. He was deep in polemics, rolling out stout threats, thatused Scriptural texts as a cudgel, with a zest that testified enjoyment. "The wicked bend their bow," began the rasping voice; but when he cleared his throat, preparatory to the main argument, my thoughts went wandering far from the reader on the steps. As one whose dream is jarred by outward sound, I heard his tones quaver.
"Aye, Frances, 'tis you," he said, and away he went, pounding at the sophistries of some straw enemy.
A shadow was on the threshold, and before I had recalled my listless fancy, in tripped Frances Sutherland, herself, feigning not to see me. The gray eyes were veiled in the misty fashion of those fluffy things women wear, which let through all beauty, but bar out intrusion. I do not mean she wore a veil: veils and frills were not seen among the colonists in those days. But the heavy lashes hung low in the slumbrous, dreamy way that sees all and reveals nothing. Instinctively I started up, with wild thoughts thronging to my lips. At the same moment Mr. Sutherland did the most chivalrous thing I have seen in homespun or broadcloth.
"Hoots wi' y'r giddy claver," said he, before I had spoken a word; and walking off, he sat down at some distance.
Thereupon his daughter laughed merrily with a whole quiver of dangerous archery about her lips.
"That is the nearest to an untruth I have everheard him tell," she said, which mightily relieved my embarrassment.
"Why did he say that?" I asked, with my usual stupidity.
"I am sure I cannot say," and looking straight at me, she let go the barbed shaft, that lies hidden in fair eyes for unwary mortals.
"Sit down," she commanded, sinking into the chair I had vacated. "Sit down, Rufus, please!" This with an after-shot of alarm from the heavy lashes; for if a woman's eyes may speak, so may a man's, and their language is sometimes bolder.
"Thanks," and I sat down on the arm of that same chair.
For once in my life I had sense to keep my tongue still; for, if I had spoken, I must have let bolt some impetuous thing better left unsaid.
"Rufus," she began, in the low, thrilling tones that had enthralled me from the first, "do you know I was your sole nurse all the time you were delirious?"
"No wonder I was delirious! Dolt, that I was, to have been delirious!" thought I to myself; but I choked down the foolish rejoinder and endeavored to look as wise as if my head had been ballasted with the weight of a patriarch's wisdom instead of ballooning about like a kite run wild.
"I think I know all your secrets."
"Oh!" A man usually has some secrets he would rather not share; and though I had notswung the full tether of wild west freedom—thanks solely to her, not to me—I trembled at recollection of the passes that come to every man's life when he has been near enough the precipice to know the sensation of falling without going over.
"You talked incessantly of Miriam and Mr. Hamilton and Father Holland."
"And what did I say about Frances?"
"You said things about Frances that made her tremble."
"Tremble? What a brute, and you waiting on me day and——"
"Hush," she broke in. "Tremble because I am just a woman and not an angel, just a woman and not a star. We women are mortals just as you men are. Sometimes we're fools as well as mortals, just as you men are; but I don't think we're knaves quite so often, because we're denied the opportunity and hedged about and not tempted."
As she gently stripped away the pretty hypocrisies with which lovers delude themselves and lay up store for disappointment, I began to discount that old belief about truth and knowledge rendering a woman mannish and arrogant and assertive.
"You men marry women, expecting them to be angels, and very often the angel's highest ambition is to be considered a doll. Then your hope goes out and your faith——"
"But, Frances," I cried, "if any sensible manhad his choice of an angel and a fair, good woman——"
"Be sure to say fair, or he'd grumble because he hadn't a doll," she laughed.
"No levity! If he had choice of angels and stars and a good woman, he'd choose the woman. The star is mighty far away and cold and steely. The angel's a deal too perfect to know sympathy with faults and blunders. I tell you, Little Statue, life is only moil and toil, unless love transmutes the base metal of hard duty into the pure gold of unalloyed delight."
"That's why I tremble. I must do more than angel or star! Oh, Rufus, if I can only live up to what you think I am—and you can live up to what I think you are, life will be worth living."
"That's love's leverage," said I.
Then there was silence; for the sun had set and the father was no longer reading. Shadows deepened into twilight, and twilight into gloaming. And it was the hour when the brooding spirit of the vast prairie solitudes fills the stillness of night with voiceless eloquence. Why should I attempt to transcribe the silent music of the prairie at twilight, which every plain-dweller knows and none but a plain-dweller may understand? What wonder that the race native to this boundless land hears the rustling of spirits in the night wind, the sigh of those who have lost their way to the happy hunting-ground, and the wail of little ones whose feet are bruisedon the shadow trail? What wonder the gauzy northern lights are bands of marshaling warriors and the stars torches lighting those who ride the plains of heaven? Indeed, I defy a white man with all the discipline of science and reason to restrain the wanderings of mystic fancy during the hours of sunset on the prairie.
There is, I affirm, no such thing as time for lovers. If they have watches and clocks, the wretched things run too fast; and if the sun himself stood still in sympathy, time would not be long. So I confess I have no record of time that night Frances Sutherland returned to her home and Mr. Sutherland kept guard at the door. When he had passed the threshold impatiently twice, I recollected with regret that it was impossible to read theology in the dark. The third time he thrust his head in.
"Mind y'rselves," he called. "I hear men coming frae the river, a pretty hour, indeed, for visitin'. Frances, go ben and see yon back window's open!"
"The soldiers from the fort," cried Frances with a little gasp.
"Don't move," said I. "They can't see me here. It's dark. I want to hear what they say and the window is open. Indeed, Frances, I'm an expert at window-jumping," and I had begun to tell her of my scrape with Louis' drunken comrades in Fort Douglas, when I heard Mr. Sutherland's grating tones according the newcomers a curious welcome."Ye swearin', blasphemin', rampag'us, carousin' infidel, ye'll no darken my doorway this night. Y'r French gab may be foul wi' oaths for all I ken; but ye'll no come into my hoose! An' you, Sir, a blind leader o' the blind, a disciple o' Beelzebub, wi' y'r Babylonish idolatries, wi' y'r incense that fair stinks in the nostrils o' decent folk, wi' y'r images and mummery and crossin' o' y'rsel', wi' y'r pagan, popish practises, wi' y'r skirts and petticoats, I'll no hae ye on my premises, no, not an' ye leave y'r religion outside! An' you, Meester Hamilton, a respectable Protestant, I'm fair surprised to see ye in sic' company."
"'Tis Eric and Father Holland and Laplante," I shouted, springing to my feet and rushing to the doorway, but Frances put herself before me.
"Keep back," she whispered. "The priest and Mr. Hamilton have been here before; but father would not let them in. The other man may be a De Meuron. Be careful, Rufus! There's a price on your head."
"Ho—ho—myUrsus Major, prime guardian ofUrsa Major, first of the heavenly constellations in the north," insolently laughed Louis Laplante through the dusk.
"Let me pass, Frances," I begged, thrusting her gently aside, but her trembling hands still clung to my arm.
"Impertinent rascal," rasped the irate Scotchman. "I'd have ye understand my name'sSutherland, notMajor Ursus. I'll no bide wi' y'r impudence! Leave this place——"
"The Bruin growls," interrupted Louis with a laugh, and I heard Mr. Sutherland's gasp of amazed rage at the lengths of the Frenchman's insolence.
"I must, dearest," I whispered, disengaging the slender hands from my arm; and I flung out into the dusk.
In the gloom, my approach was unnoticed; and when I came upon the group, Father Holland had laid his hand upon Mr. Sutherland's shoulder and in a low, tense voice was uttering words, which—thank an all-bountiful Providence!—have no sectarian limits.
"And the King shall answer and say unto them, 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in: naked and ye clothed me not: sick and in prison and ye visited me not. Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me'——"
"Dinna con Holy Writ to me, Sir," interrupted Mr. Sutherland, throwing the priest's hand off and jerking back.
Then Louis Laplante saw me. There was a long, low whistle.
"Ye daft gommerel," gasped Mr. Sutherland, facing me with unutterable disgust. "Ye daft gommerel! A' my care and fret, waste—gane clean to waste. I wash m' hands o' ye——"
But Louis had knocked the Scotchman aside and tumbled into my arms, half laughing, halfcrying and altogether as hysterical as was his wont.
"I pay you back at las', my comrade! Ha—old solemncholy! You thought the bird of passage, he come not back at all! But the birds return! So does Louis! He decoy-duck the whole covey! You generous? No more not generous than the son of a seigneur, mine enemy! You give life? He give life! You give liberty! So does Louis! You help one able help himself? Louis help one not able help himself! Ha!Très bien! Noblesse oblige! La Gloire!She—near! She here! She where I, Louis Laplante, son of a seigneur, snare that she-devil, trap that fox, trick the tigress! Ha—ol' tombstone!Noblesse oblige—I say! She near—she here," and he flung up both arms like a frenzied maniac.
"Man! Are you mad?" I demanded, uncertain whether he were apostrophizing Diable's squaw, or abstract glory. "Speak out!" I shouted, shaking him by the shoulder.
"These—are they all friends?" asked Louis, suddenly cooled and looking suspiciously at the group.
"All," said I, still holding him by the shoulder.
"That—that thing—that bear—that bruin—he a friend?" and Louis pointed to Mr. Sutherland.
"Friend to the core," said I, laying both hands upon his shoulders."Core with prickles outside," gibed Louis.
"Louis," I commanded, utterly out of patience, "what of Miriam? Speak plain, man! Have you brought the tribe as you promised?"
It must have been mention of Miriam's name, for the white, drawn face of Eric Hamilton bent over my shoulder and fiery, glowing eyes burned into the very soul of the Frenchman. Louis staggered back as if red irons had been thrust in his face.
"Sacredie," said he, backing against Father Holland, "I am no murderer."
It was then I observed that Frances Sutherland had followed me. Her slender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the French adventurer.
"Monsieur Laplante will tell us what he knows," she said softly, and she waited for his answer.
"The daughter ofL'Aigle," he replied slowly and collectedly, all the while feasting upon that fair face, "comes down the Red with her tribe and captives, many captive women. They pass here to-night. They camp south the rapids, this side of the rapids. Last night I leave them. I run forward, I find Le Petit Garçon—how you call him?—Leetle Fellow? He take me to the priest. He bring canoe here. He wait now for carry us down. We must go to the rapids—to the camp! There my contract! My bargain, it is finished," and he shrugged his shoulders, for Frances had removed her hand from his.
Whether Louis Laplante's excitable nature were momentarily unbalanced by the success of his feat, I leave to psychologists. Whether some premonition of his impending fate had wrought upon him strangely, let psychical speculators decide. Or whether Louis, the sly rogue, worked up the whole situation for the purpose of drawing Frances Sutherland into the scene—which is what I myself suspect—I refer to private judgment, and merely set down the incidents as they occurred. That was how Louis Laplante told us of bringing Diable's squaw and her captives back to Red River. And that was how Father Holland and Eric and Louis and Mr. Sutherland and myself came to be embarking with a camping outfit for a canoe-trip down the river.
"Have the Indians passed, or are they to come?" I asked Louis as Mr. Sutherland and Eric settled themselves in a swift, light canoe, leaving the rest of us to take our places in a larger craft, where Little Fellow, gurgling pleased recognition of me, acted as steersman.
"They come later. The fast canoe go forward and camp. We watch behind," ordered Louis, winking at me significantly.
I saw Frances step to her father's canoe.
"You're no coming, Frances," he protested, querulously.
"Don't say that, father. I never disobeyed you in my life, and Iamcoming! Don't tell me not to! Push out, Mr. Hamilton," and she picked up a paddle and I saw the canoe dart swiftlyforward into mid-current, where the darkness enveloped it; and we followed fast in its wake.
"Louis," said I, trying to fathom the meaning of his wink, "are those Indians to come yet?"
"No. Simpleton—you think Louis a fool?" he asked.
"Why did you lie to them?"
"Get them out of the way."
"Why?"
"Because, stupid, some ones they be killed to-night! The Englishman, he have a wife—he not be killed! Mademoiselle—she love a poor fool—or break her pretty heart! The father—he needed to stick-pin you both—so you never want for to fight each other," and Louis laughed low like the purr of water on his paddle-blade.
"Faith, lad," cried the priest, who had been unnaturally silent, because, I suppose, he was among aliens to his faith, "faith, lad, 'tis a good heart ye have, if ye'd but cut loose from the binding past. May this night put an end to your devil pranks!"
And that night did!
I think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evil ventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to the merits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a cat over broken glass. And so, altogether apart from his services as guide, I felt Louis Laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage.
"The Lord is with us, lad. She shall be delivered! The Lord is with us; but don't you bungle His plans!" ejaculated Father Holland for the twentieth time; and each time the French trapper looked waggishly over his shoulder at me and winked.
"Bungle! Pah!" Louis clapped his paddle athwart the canoe and laughed a low, sly, defiant laugh. "Bungle! Pah! Catch Louis bungle his cards, ha, ha! Trumps! He play trumps—he hold his hand low—careless—nodings in it—he keep quiet—nodings worth play in his hand—but his sleeve—ha, ha!" and Louis laughed softly and winked at the full moon.
"The daughter of L'Aigle, she cuff Louis, sheslap his cheek, she call him lump—lout—slouch! Ha, ha!—Louis no fool—he pare the claws of L'Aigle to-night!"
At that, Little Fellow's stolid face took on a vindictive gleam, and he snapped out something in Indian tongue which set Louis to laughing. Suddenly the Indian's paddle was suspended in mid-air, and Little Fellow bent over the prow, gazing at the moon-tracked water.
"Sacredie!" cried Louis, catching up water that trickled through his fingers, "'tis dried rabbit thong! They are ahead of us! They have passed while that Scotch mule was balk! We must catch the Englishman," and he began hitting out with his paddle at a great rate.
We had overtaken Mr. Sutherland's canoe within half an hour of Louis' discovery, and Eric wheeled about with a querulous demand.
"What's wrong? Are they ahead? I thought you said they were behind," and he turned suspiciously to Laplante.
"You thought wrong," said Louis, ever facile with subterfuges. "You thought wrong, Mister High-and-Mighty! Camp here and watch; they come before morning!"
"No lies to me," shouted Eric, becoming uncontrollably excited. "If you mislead us, your life shall——"
"Pig-head! I no save your wife for back chin! Camp here, I say," and Louis' fitful temper began to show signs of sulking.
"For goodness' sake, Eric, do what you'retold! We've made a bad enough business of it——"
"Give the Frenchman a chance! Do what you're told, I say, ye blunderers! Troth, the Lord Himself couldn't bring success to such blundering idiots," was Father Holland's comment.
"I'll take na orders frae meddlesome papists," began the Scotchman; but Little Fellow had forcibly turned the prow of the canoe shoreward. I gave them a shove with my paddle. Frances took the cue, and while her father was yet scolding raised her paddle and had them close to the river bank.
"Get your tent up here," I called to conciliate them. "Then come to the bank and watch for the Indians."
A bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff.
"That's the ground," said I, as the other canoe bumped over the pebbles; and I stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water.
Something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers. Ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly a shudder of apprehension ran through my frame. I scarce had courage to look into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear through the watery depths. Clutching the water-soaked tangle, I jerked it up. Something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe.
"What's that, Rufus?" asked Father Holland."Don't know." I motioned him to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. Distinctly it was, or had been, red fringe.
"Do you think—" he began, then stopped. Our keel had rubbed bottom and Hamilton was springing out of the other canoe.
"Yes, I do," I replied, choking with dread. "This is too terrible! He'll kill himself! Go up the bank with him! Keep him busy at the tent! Little Fellow and I'll pole for it. The water's shallow there——"
"What doyouthink?" said the priest to Laplante.
"T'ink! I never t'ink! I finds out." But all the same, Louis' assurance was shaken and he peered searchingly into the river.
"Aren't you coming? What's your plan?" called Eric.
"Certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" I hoisted out the camp trappings. "I want to paddle out for something."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Something lost out there. I lost it out of my hand."
Frances Sutherland, I know, suspected trouble from the alarm which I could not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge.
"Get the tent ready," I urged.
"What's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted Hamilton sharply. "What have you lost?"
"Don't press him too closely. Faith, it maybe a love token," interjected Father Holland, as he stepped ashore; but he whispered in my ear as he passed, "You're wrong, lad! You're on the wrong track!"
I leaped back to the canoe, Little Fellow and the Frenchman following, and we paddled to the shallows where I had caught the fringe. I prodded the soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the clay bottom. Louis did likewise; but in vain. Only soft ooze came up on the blade. Then Little Fellow stripped and dived. Of course it was dark under water, as it always is dark under the muddy Red, and the Indian could not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. Had my jerk disturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? I asked Father Holland this when I came back.
"Tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'Tis only a trial of your faith."
I said something about trials of faith which I shall not repeat here, but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of such trials, have said for themselves.
"Faith! Pah!" exclaimed Louis, joining our whispered conference, while Eric and Mr. Sutherland were hoisting a tent. "That shawl, it mean nodings of things heavenly! It only mean rag stuck in the mud and reds nearabouts here! I have told the Great Bear and his snarl Englishman the Indians not come till morning. They get tent ready and watch! You follow Louis, helead you to camp. The priest—he good for say a little prayer; the Indian for fight; Louis—for swear; Rufus—to snatch the Englishwoman, he good at snatching the fair, ha-ha."
He darted to the shore, calling Little Fellow from the canoe and leaving Father Holland and me to follow as best we could.
"We'll be back soon, Eric," I shouted. "We're going to get the lie of the land. Keep watch here," and I broke into a run to keep up with the French trapper and the Indian, who were leading into the woods away from the river. I could hear Father Holland puffing behind like a wind-blown racer. Abruptly the priest came to a stop.
"By all the saints," he ordered. "Go back to the tent!"
I turned. A white form emerged from the foliage and Frances was beside me.
"May I not come?" she asked.
"No—dearest, there will be fighting."
"No—Lord—no," panted Father Holland coming up to us. "We're not swapping one woman for another. What would Rufus do without ye?"
"You are going for Miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "God speed you and bring you back safely!"
"Say rather—bring Miriam," and I unfastened the clinging hand almost roughly.
"Come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded Laplante impatiently, and we dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure alone against the shadowy thicket. She called outsomething, of which I heard only two words, "Miriam" and "Rufus"; but I knew those names were uttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope. Surely, we must succeed—for the Little Statue's prayers were following me—and I bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blind trust. Thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting, lithe figures of trapper and Indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf, while Father Holland and I floundered through the underbrush like ramping elephants. Then I found myself panting as hard as the priest and clinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the bravery out of my muscles, like champagne uncorked and left in the heat.
"Brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "The Lord is with us, but don't you bungle."
A long, low whistle came through the dark, a whistle that was such a perfect imitation of the night hawk, no spy might detect it for the signal of a runner. After the whistle, was the soft, ominous hiss of a serpent in the grass; and we were abreast of Louis Laplante and Little Fellow standing stock still sniffing forward as hounds might scent a foe.
"She may not be there! She may be drown;" whispered Louis, "but we creep on, quiet like hare, no noise like deer, stiller than mountain cat, hist—what that?"
The night breeze set the leaves all atremble—clapping their hands, as the Indians call it—and a whiff of burning bark tainted the air."That's it," said I under my breath.
The smoke was blowing from wooded flats between us and the river. Cautiously parting interlaced branches and as carefully replacing each bough to prevent backward snap, we turned down the sloping bank. I suppose necessity's training in the wilds must produce the same result in man and beast; and from that fact, faddists of the various "osophies" and "ologies" may draw what conclusions they please; but I affirm that no panther could creep on its prey with more stealth, caution and cunning than the trapper and Indian on the enemy's camp. I have seen wild creatures approaching a foe set each foot down with noiseless tread; but I have never seen such a combination of instincts, brute and human, as Louis and Little Fellow displayed. The Indian felt the ground for tracks and pitfalls and sticks, that might crackle. Louis, with his whole face pricked forward, trusted more to his eyes and ears and that sense of "feel," which is—contradictory as it may seem—utterly intangible. Once the Indian picked up a stick freshly broken. This was examined by both, and the Indian smelt it and tried his tongue on the broken edge. Then both fell on all fours, creeping under the branches of the thicket and pausing at every pace.
"Would that I had taken lessons in forest lore before I went among the Sioux," I thought to myself. Now I knew what had been incomprehensible before—why all my well-laid plans had been detected.
A wind rustled through the foliage. That was in our favor; for in spite of our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. At intervals a glimmer of light shone from the beach. Louis paused and listened so intently our breathing was distinctly audible. A vague murmur of low voices—like the "talking of the trees" in Little Fellow's language—floated up from the river; and in the moonlight I saw Laplante laugh noiselessly. Trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwood gave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deep foliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not at what moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. So we stretched out flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems to draw ourselves on a single pace. Presently, the murmur separated into distinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that make up Indian mirth. We could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormed forward like caterpillars.
There was a glare of light through the ferns, and Louis stopped. We all three pulled abreast of him. Lying there as a cat watches a mouse, we parted first one and then another of the fronds till the Indian encampment could be clearly seen.
"Is that the tribe?" I whispered; but Louis gripped my arm in a vice that forbade speech.
The camp was not a hundred feet away. Fire blazed in the centre. Poles were up for wigwams,and already skins had been overlaid, completing several lodges. Men lay in lazy attitudes about the fire. Squaws were taking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were putting things to rights for the night. Sitting apart, with hands tied, were other slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yet trusted unbound. Among these was one better clad than the others. Her wrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which was bowed low. In her lap was a sleeping child. Was this Miriam? Children were with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawl appeared reddish in the fire glow.
"Let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," I suggested; but Louis' grip tightened forbiddingly and Little Fellow's forefinger pointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'Twas a woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conquering warrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. The fire shone against her girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red. Father Holland breathed only one word in my ear, "Agates;" and the fire of the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being till brain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if every nerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out to destroy that creature of cruelty.
"Diable's squaw," I gasped out, beside myselfwith anger and joy. "Let me but within arm's length of her——"
"Hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder like a steel winch. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord! See that you save the white woman! Leave the evil-doer to God! The Lord's with us, but I tell you, don't you bungle!"
"Bungle!" I could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "Let go!" I ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "Let go, or I'll——"
But Louis Laplante's palm was forcibly slapped across my mouth and his other hand he laid significantly on his dagger, giving me one threatening look. By the firelight I saw his lips mechanically counting the numbers of the enemy and mechanically I audited his count.
"Twenty men, thirty squaws and the slaves," said he under his breath.
An Indian left the fire and approached the captives.
"See! Watch! Is that woman Miriam?" demanded the priest. "She'll take her hands from her face now."
"Of course it is!" I was furious at the restraint and hesitancy; but as I said before, the experienced intriguer proceeds as warily as a cat.
"You not sure—not for sure—Mon Dieu—no," muttered Laplante; and he was right. With the forest shadows across the captives, it was impossible to distinguish the color of their faces.Taking a knife from his belt, the Indian cut the cords of all but the woman with her hands across her face. A girl brought refuse of food; but this woman took no notice, never moving her hands. Thereupon the young squaw sneered and the Indian idlers jeered loud in harsh, strident laughter. This roused the big squaw. She strode up, Little Fellow all the while with glistening teeth following her motions as a cat's head turns to a mouse. With the flat of her hand she struck the silent woman, who leaped up and ran to a wigwam. In speechless fear, the child had scrambled to its feet and backed away from the angry group towards the ferns; but the light was fitful and shadowy, and we could recognize neither woman, nor child.
"I can't stand this any longer," I declared. "I must know if that's Miriam. Let's draw closer."
Father Holland and I crawled stealthily to the very border of fern growth, Louis and the Indian lying still and muttering over some plan of action.
"Hist," said the priest, "we'll try the child."
Unlike naked Indian children, the little thing had a loose garment banded about its waist; but its feet were bare and its hair as raven black as that of any young savage. It stood like some woodland elf in the maze of heavy sleepiness, at each harsh word from the camp, sidling shyly closer to our hiding-place. We dragged forward till I could have touched the child, but feared to startle it.
Putting his hand out slowly, Father Holland caught the little creature's arm. It gave a start, jerked back and looked in mute wonderment at our strange hiding-place.
"Pretty boy," crooned the priest in low, coaxing tones, gently tightening his hold.
"Is it white?" I whispered.
"I can't see."
"Good little man," he went on, slowly folding his hands about it. Drawing quickly back, he lifted the child completely into his arms.
"Is boy sleepy?" he asked.
"Call him 'Eric,'" I urged.
"Is Eric sleepy?"
The child's head fell wearily against the priest's shoulder. Snuggling closer, he lisped back in perfect English, "Eric's tired."
At once Father Holland's free hand caught my arm as if he feared I might rush out. For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then he said, "Give me your coat."
I ripped off my buckskin-smock. Wrapping the sleeping boy about, the priest laid him gently among the ferns.
"Where's the mother?" asked Father Holland with a catching intake of breath.
I pointed to the wigwam. The big squaw had come out, leaving Miriam alone and was engaged in noisy dispute with the men. Louis and Little Fellow had now wriggled abreast of us.
"Ha, ha,mon brave—your time, it come now! You save the white woman! I pay my devoirsto the lady, ha, ha—I owe her much—I pay you both back with one stroke, one grand stroke. Little Fellow, he watch for spring surprise and help us both! Swoop—snitch—snatch—snap her up! 'Tis done—tra-la!" and Louis drew up for all the world like a tiger about to spring, but the priest drew him down.
"Listen," commanded the churchman, in the slow, tense way of one who intended to be obeyed. "I'll go back and come up by the beach. I'll brow-beat them and tongue-whack them for having slaves. They'll offer fight; so'll I. They'll all run down; that's your chance. Wait till they all go. I'll make them, every one. That's your chance. You rush! Try that! If it fail, in the name of the Lord, have y'r weapons ready—and the Lord be with us!"
"They'll kill you," I protested. "Let me go!"
"You? What about Frances?"
"Pah!" said Louis. "I go myself—I trick—I trap—I snare 'em——"
"Hush to ye, ye braggart," interrupted the priest. "Gillespie is as flabby as dough from an illness. 'Tis here you sit quiet, and help with Miriam as ye'd save y'r soul! Howld down with y'r bouncing nonsense, lad, and the saints be with ye; for it's a fight there'll be, and there is the fightin' stuff of a soldier in ye! Never turn to me—mind ye never turn to help me, or the curse of the fool be on y'r head—and the Lord be with us!"
"Amen." But I spoke to vacancy.While a rising wind set the branches overhead grating noisily, he had risen and darted away. Louis Laplante, contrary to the priest's orders, also rose and disappeared in the woods. Little Fellow still lay by me, but I could not rely on him for intelligent action, and there came over me that sense of aloneness in danger, which I knew so well in the Mandane country. The child's slightest cry might alarm the camp, and I shivered when he breathed heavily, or turned in his sleep. The Indians might miss the boy and search the woods. Instinctively my hand was on my pistol. It was well to be as near Miriam's tent as possible; and I, too, took advantage of the wind to change my place. I moved back, signalling the Indian to follow, and skirted round the open till I was directly opposite Miriam's wigwam. Why had Louis gone off, and why did he not come back? Had he gone to keep secret guard over the priest, or to decoy the vigilant Sioux woman? In his intentions I had confidence enough, but not in his judgment. At that moment my speculations were interrupted by a loud shout from the beach. Every Indian in camp started up as if hostiles had uttered their war-cry.
"Hallo, there! Hallo! Hallo!" called the priest. Indians dashed to the river, while bedraggled squaws and naked children rushed from wigwams and stood in clamorous groups between the lodges and the water. The topmost branches of the trees swayed back and forward in the wind,alternately throwing shafts of moonlight and shadows across the opening of Miriam's wigwam. When the light flooded the tent a solitary, white-faced form appeared in dark, sharp outline. The bare arms were tied at the wrists, and beat aimlessly through the darkness. And there was a sound of piteous weeping.
Should I make the final, desperate dash now? "Don't bungle His plans," came the priest's warning; and I waited. The squaws were very near; and the angular figure of Diable's wife hung on the rear of the group. She was scolding like a termagant in the Sioux tongue, ordering the other women to the fray; but still she kept back, looking over her shoulder suspiciously at Miriam's tent, uncertain whether to go or stay. We had failed in every other attempt to rescue Miriam. If the Lord—as the priest believed—had planned the sufferer's aid, His instruments had blundered badly. There must be no more feeble-fingering.
"Thieves! Thieves! Cut-throats!" bawled Father Holland in a storm of abuse. "Ye rascals," he thundered, cutting the air with his stick and purposely backing away from the camp to draw the Indians off. Then his voice was lost in a chorus of shrill screams.
The moonlight shone across the wigwam opening. The captive had heard the English tongue, and was listening. But the Sioux squaw had also heard and recognized the voice of a former prisoner. She ran forward a pace, then hesitated,looking back doubtfully. As she turned her head, out from the gloom of the thicket with the leap of a lynx, lithe and swift, sprang the crouching form of Louis Laplante. I felt Little Fellow all in a tremor by my side; the tremor not of fear, but of the couchant panther; and he uttered the most vicious snarl I have ever heard from human throat. Louis alighted neatly and noiselessly, directly behind the Sioux woman. She must have felt his presence, for she turned round and round expectantly. Louis, silent and elusive as a shadow, circled about her, tripping from side to side as she turned her head. But the fire betrayed him. She had wheeled towards the forest as if spying for the unseen presence among the foliage, and Louis deftly dodged behind. The move put him between the fire and his antagonist, and the full profile of his queer, bending figure was shadowed clear past the woman. She turned like some vengeful, malign goddess, and I thought it all up with the daring trapper; but he doffed his red toque and swept the advancing fury the low bow of a French courtier. Then he drew himself erect and laughed insolently in the woman's face. His careless assurance allayed her suspicions.
"Oh, 'tis you!" she growled.
"'Tis I, fleet-foot, winged messenger, humble slave," laughed Louis, with another grotesque bow; but the rogue had cleverly put himself between the squaw and Miriam's tent.
I should have rushed to Miriam's rescue longsince, instead of watching this by-play between trapper and mountain cat; but as the foray waxed hotter with the priest, the young braves had run back to their tents for guns and clubs.
"Stand off, ye scoundrels," roared the priest, in tones of genuine anger; for the Indians were closing threateningly about him. "Stand back, ye knaves, ye sons of Satan," and every soul but Louis Laplante and the Sioux squaw ran with querulous shouts to the river.
"Cruel! Cruel! Cruel!" sobbed a voice from the wigwam; and there was a straining to break the thongs which bound her. "Cruel! Cruel! Hast Thou no pity? O my God! Hast Thou no pity? Shall not a sparrow fall to the ground without Thy knowledge? Is this Thy pity? O my God!" The voice broke in a torrent of heart-piercing cries.
I could endure it no longer.
"Have at ye, ye villains! Come out like men! Now, me brave bhoys, show the stuff that's in ye! A fig for y'r valor if ye fail! The curse o' the Lord on the coward heart! Back with ye; ye red divils! Out with ye, Rufus! The Lord shall deliver the captive! What, 'an wuld ye dare strike a servant o' the Lord? Let the deliverer appear, I say," he shouted, weaving in commands to us as he dealt stout blows about him and receded down the river bank. "Take that—and that—and that," I heard him shout, with a rat-tat-too of sharp thuds from the staff accompanying each word.Then I knew the quarrel on the beach was at its height; and Louis Laplante was still foiling the Sioux's approach to Miriam's wigwam like a deft fencer.
"Follow me, Little Fellow," I commanded. "Have your knife ready," and I had not finished speaking when three shrill whistles came from Louis. 'Twas his old-time signal of danger. Above the hubbub at the river the Sioux squaw was screaming to the braves.
Bounding from concealment, I tore off the layer roofing of the wigwam, plunged through the tapering pole frame, shaking the frail lean-to like a house of cards, and was beside Miriam. Again I heard Louis' whistle and again the squaw's angry scream; but Little Fellow had followed on my heels and stood with knife-blade glittering bare at the tent-entrance.
"Hush," I whispered, slashing my dagger through the thongs around her hands and cutting the rope that held her to the central stake. "We've found you at last. Come! Come!" and I caught her up.
"O my God!" she cried. "At last! At last! Where is the child? They have taken little Eric!"
"We have him safe! His father is waiting! Don't hesitate, Miriam!"
"Run, Little Fellow," I ordered, "Across the camp. Get the child," and I sprang from the wigwam, which crashed to the ground behind me. I had thought to save skirting thewoods by a run across the camping-ground; but when my Indian dashed for the child and the Sioux saw me undefended with the white woman in my arms, she made a desperate lunge at Laplante and called at the top of her voice for the braves.
Louis, with weapons in hand, still kept between the fury and Miriam; but I think his French chivalry must have been restraining him. Though the Sioux offered him many opportunities and was doing her best to sheathe a knife in his heart, he seemed to refrain from using either dagger or pistol. An insolent laugh was on his face. The life-and-death game which he was playing was to his daring spirit something novel and amusing.
"The lady is—perturbed," he laughed, dodging a thrust at his neck; "she fences wide, tra-la," this as the barrel of his pistol parried a drive of her knife; "she hits afar—ho—ho—not so fast, my fury—not so furious, my fair—zipp, ha—ha—ha—another miss—another miss—the lady's a-miss," for the squaw's weapon struck fire against his own.
"Look out for the braves, have a care," I shouted; for a dozen young bucks were running up behind to the woman's aid.
"Ha—ha—-prenez garde—my tiger-cat has kittens," he laughed; and he looked over his shoulder.
That backward look gave the fury her opportunity. In the firelight blue steel flashed bright.The Frenchman reeled, threw up his arms, and fell. One sharp, deep, broken draw of breath, and with a laugh on his lips, Louis Laplante died as he had lived. Then the tiger-cat leaped over the dead form at Miriam and me.
What happened next I can no more set down consecutively than I can distinguish the parts in a confused picture with a red-eyed fury striking at me, naked Indians brandishing war-clubs, flashes of powder smoke, a circle of gesticulating, screeching dark faces in the background, my Indian fighting like a very fiend, and a pale-faced woman with a little curly-headed boy at her feet standing against the woods.
"Run,Monsieur; I keep bad Indians off," urged Little Fellow. "Run—save white squaw and papoose—run,Monsieur."
Now, whatever may be said to the contrary, however brave two men may be, they cannot stand off a horde of armed savages. I let go my whole pistol-charge, which sent the red demons to a distance and intended dashing for the woods, when the Sioux woman put her hand in her pocket and hurled a flint head at Little Fellow. The brave Indian sprang aside and the thing fell to the ground. With it fell a crumpled sheet of paper. I heard rather than saw Little Fellow's crouching leap. Two forms rolled over and over in the camp ashes; and with Miriam on my shoulder and the child under the other arm, I had dashed into the thicket of the upper ground.
Overhead tossed the trees in a swelling wind,and up from the shore rushed the din of wrangling tongues, screaming and swearing in a clamor of savage wrath. The wind grew more boisterous as I ran. Behind the Indian cries died faintly away; but still with a strength not my own, always keeping the river in view, and often mistaking the pointed branches, which tore clothing and flesh from head to feet, for the hands of enemies—I fled as if wolves had been pursuing.
Again and again sobbed Miriam—"O, my God! At last! At last! Thanks be to God! At last! At last!"
We were on a hillock above our camp. Putting Miriam down, I gave her my hand and carried the child. When I related our long, futile search and told her that Eric was waiting, agitation overcame her, and I said no more till we were within a few feet of the tents.
"Please wait." I left her a short distance from the camp that I might go and forewarn Eric.
Frances Sutherland met me in the way and read the news which I could not speak.
"Have you—oh—have you?" she asked. "Who is that?" and she pointed to the child in my arms.
"Where's Hamilton? Where's your father?" I demanded, trembling from exhaustion and all undone.
"Mr. Hamilton is in his tent priming a gun. Father is watching the river. And oh, Rufus! is it really so?" she cried, catching, sight of Miriam'sstooped, ragged figure. Then she darted past me. Both her arms encircled Miriam, and the two began weeping on each other's shoulders after the fashion of women.
I heard a cough inside Hamilton's tent. Going forward, I lifted the canvas flap and found Eric sitting gloomily on a pile of robes.
"Eric," I cried, in as steady a voice as I command, which indeed, was shaking sadly, and I held the child back that Hamilton might not see, "Eric, old man, I think at last we've run the knaves down."
"Hullo!" he exclaimed with a start, not knowing what I had said. "Are you men back? Did you find out anything?"
"Why—yes," said I: "we found this," and I signalled Frances to bring Miriam.
This was no way to prepare a man for a shock that might unhinge reason; but my mind had become a vacuum and the warm breath of the child nestling about my neck brought a mist before my eyes.
"What did you say you had found?" asked Hamilton, looking up from his gun to the tent-way; for the morning light already smote through the dark.
"This," I said, lifting the canvas a second time and drawing Miriam forward.
I could but place the child in her arms. She glided in. The flap fell. There was the smothered outcry of one soul—rent by pain.
"Miriam—Miriam—my God—Miriam!""Come away," whispered a choky voice by my side, and Frances linked her arm through mine.
Then the tent was filled and the night air palpitated with sounds of anguished weeping. And with tears raining from my eyes, I hastened away from what was too sacred for any ear but a pitying God's. That had come to my life which taught me the depths of Hamilton's suffering.
"Dearest," said I, "now we understand both the pain and the joy of loving," and I kissed her white brow.