Where were the pursuing Indians? For two days we watched, and the water was unflecked by sign of life. We listened in the murk of night and strained our eyes in the sun's dazzle. But we found nothing but forest and sky and mystery. We were alone with our shadows.
The forty-eight hours crawled. Except at noonday we were chilled, our stomachs complained of the cold food, and our minds, and therefore our bodies, were sluggish. The Englishman had the best of it, for he could sleep like a bear in winter. Save for the hours when he was on watch he knew but little of what was passing. He lay on the warm side of the bank and slept with his face to the sun.
At the end of two days I felt that I had paid all reasonable due toPrudence, and could follow Inclination and be comfortable.
"We shall push on at daybreak to-morrow," I told the men. "Hang the kettles. To-night we shall have a boiling pot."
Truly a fire makes home of a wilderness. We sat with our heels to the blaze, and grew jovial. The Englishman said little, but was alert to serve us.
"It is salt to the broth to have it given me by a pretty squaw," I told him as he filled my bowl a second time.
He flushed with anger, and I thought myself that it was a cheap jest and unworthy. He had been considerate to wear his disguise without complaint.
"I shall find something for you to wear when we shift our cargo to leave," I promised him, and since my mood was still mellow, I looked him over with a smile. He had smoothed and rounded in a wonderful manner in his two days of rest, and I was pleased by the red in his cheeks. "You will soon be a second Pierre if you sleep and eat in this fashion," I laughed at him, "and then there will be no room for you in the canoe. If all your countrymen sleep as you do, it is small wonder that they have left us undisturbed in the beaver lands."
He smiled a little in deference to my small jest, but the next instant he looked away. "I had not slept in weeks," he said softly, as if ashamed of his excuse.
That shamed me, and I came to my feet and let my bowl of broth spill where it would.
"Sleep well, lad. You are safe with us," I cried, and I left my meal unfinished, and went to the hidden cargo. Then and there I would find proper clothing for the Englishman. I had been slothful in the matter.
The clothing was stored deep, and I was bending to the search with some shortness of breath, when the Englishman touched my shoulder.
"Is it clothing for me?"
I handed him a blanket coat for answer. "It is large, but warm," I said, and bent again to my task.
Still he kept a hand on my shoulder. "Monsieur, I am satisfied with my dress."
I could be putty in his hands one moment and scorn him the next."Nonsense!" I snapped over my shoulder.
But he clung like a gnat. "It is not nonsense. Stop a moment and listen to my reasons."
I drew myself up reluctantly. "Well?"
He stood with arms akimbo, his head to one side. "It is as plain as a pikestaff. In this dress I can go where you cannot. I can reconnoitre for you. In your man's coat I should be grotesque, for it is twice my size. I should be noticeable and draw comment on us. As it is, I can go unobserved."
Now this was partly true. "But the presence of a woman would discredit our canoes," I objected.
He turned this over. "A woman would discredit your party?"
"Of course."
"But no one sees you but the Indians."
"They report to the priests."
"And you care what the priests think?"
"I care for the good name of my company. Monsieur, do you like to wear a squaw's dress?"
He laughed. "Why not? I like women. Why scorn their garb? But I see your reasons, monsieur. They are better than mine. So get out the clothing,—though I shall look like an eel in a bear's skin."
But I had lost my haste. Mock woman that he was, he was yet somewhat pleasant to the eye. I had noticed more than once the picture that he made as he came and went among the trees. Yet I thought lightly of myself for enjoying the deceit of my eyesight. I rose.
"Wear your skirts, then, for a few days longer," I said coldly. "It is too dark to find what I want. Come now. We must sleep early, and be up betimes, for we shall take up our journey in the morning."
We were astir at daybreak. It was a red morning, and the birds were singing. The air was keen, but the fire snapped cheerfully, and the sky gave promise of a warm day. We carried the bales to the beach, and were ready for the canoes. Then I missed the Englishman. He had been aloof and moody during breakfast, and I searched for him with some alarm.
I found him in the hollow where he slept at night; he would not sleep near the rest of us, saying that we disturbed him with our snoring. He was on his back, his gaze on the tree-tops, and he was frowning heavily.
I broke through the bushes. "You are ill!"
He jumped to his feet. "No, no, monsieur! Ill only in mind.Monsieur, I have failed you."
I had never seen his aplomb so shaken. "Why were you lying on the ground?"
"To find out whether I could see again what I saw last night. Do you see that balsam,—the one with the forked top? Monsieur, I saw an Indian's face in that tree last night."
I took his hands, which were cold. "Now tell me."
He drew his hands away. "I am often awake in the night. Last night the moon was clear. All at once I saw an Indian's face looking out from that tree."
"And you did not call me!"
"Monsieur, I thought it must be fancy. I have troubled dreams. I often—since my capture—think I see an Indian, and it proves to be nothing but a bush. So I distrust my eyes, especially at night. Then François was on watch, and several times he walked this way. If it had really been an Indian would not François have seen?"
I pointed him to the forest. "Do you see anything? We seem alone, yet there are countless eyes watching us, from the squirrel over your head to the Indian who may be listening now. When you lay on your back just now did you see anything that looked like a face?"
He shook his head. "No, the space was open. But, monsieur, I have been over the ground. I can find no track."
I went to the balsam and examined it. Then I called the Englishman and pointed to a patch of rubbed lichen on the bark above our heads. "His foot slipped. What was he like? How was his hair dressed?"
He gasped a little. "Monsieur, it could not have been a real Indian. The rubbed moss,—why, an animal could have done that. As to his appearance, it was strange. His head was shaved on one side, and he had long braided hair on the other. Surely it was a dream."
I laughed. "Come, Starling, the canoes are waiting."
"Monsieur, did you ever see an Indian shaved in that way?"
I nodded. "Many times."
"Monsieur, monsieur! What kind of Indians?"
"It is a Huron mode."
"Then we have been followed?"
I shrugged. "Evidently. I do not understand their game, but they will declare it soon enough. Come, Starling."
But he lingered. "Monsieur, I blundered. I should have waked you."
I stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder. "And you will blunder again if you waste strength in regrets. Come, a hangdog look means a divided mind, and I need your wits. Keep what watch you can, and we shall say nothing of this."
The men had carried the canoes to the beach, and now sat beside them, drumming their heels in idleness. This gave me excuse for rating them, and I did it with force of lung. Thinking that there were Indians—or, at least, an Indian—in hiding, I hoped to draw them from cover in this fashion. But my brave periods rattled uselessly. The forest kept its springtime peace, and all that I got out of my display of spirit was the excitement of playing my part well to an unseen audience. We were allowed to load our canoes in peace.
And more, we were allowed to depart. I was prepared for a flight of arrows as a parting courtesy, but none came. Well, I could make nothing of the situation. I stored the incident away as something to remember, but not to distress myself about. The men sang as they dipped their blades. I sang, too, when I could get the tune. It was a fine morning, and my blood was astir. I saw the Englishman's color rise under the whip of the quick motion and the keen air. He did not speak unless I addressed him, but his look was almost happy. I could not help liking it in him that he should enjoy the freedom of our journeying, and should feel the majesty of the untraveled waters. I saw that he was trying, as he promised, not to intrude upon my notice, and I wondered a little what he would be saying to me now if I had answered him otherwise, and had said that we could be friends. Perhaps I had cut myself off from pleasant intercourse. He certainly had gayety of spirit, even if he somewhat lacked in strength of head.
We paddled only till mid-afternoon. I was as eager to meet the western Indians as I had been anxious to avoid those we left behind, and now my object was to invite attention. It was the season for beaver and otter trapping, and I hoped to encounter hunting parties, so we landed, made camp in the open, and piled our fire till the smoke blurred the sky.
The spirit of the afternoon was toward idleness. We fished some, but loitered more, and I had no word of reproof for the men for using hours of good daylight playing the dish game they had learned among the Ottawas. I heard them stake their patrimony in this world, and their hopes of the next, on the throw of the black and yellow balls, but I smoked my pipe, and let them brag and squabble. The bees were droning, the sun lay warm on my back, and the forest was at peace. Two years before, I remembered, I had worn lace and periwig on this day, and had stood in his majesty's antechamber. Now I was gaunt and rusty as a bear in spring. I looked at the secret forest, the uncharted water, and at my smoke-grimed men squatting like monkeys over a savage game, and I smote my knee with content. Truly it was a satisfying thing to live while the world afforded such contrasts! And if I played my present cards with skill, there might be a still greater contrast in store for me when next I stood in that ante-chamber and heard my name carried within. But that thought made me restless, and I went in search of the Englishman.
The Englishman had sat apart from us since we landed, and now I found him with his back against a rock ledge looking at the water. I was in a mood when I had to wag my tongue to some one and ease myself of some spreading fancies. So I dropped down beside him.
"Monsieur," I began by way of introduction to my theme, "are you indeed a yeoman?"
He looked up with an excess of solemnity. "No, monsieur."
This was not the answer I had expected,—though, in truth, I had given the matter little thought. "Then you are a gentleman?" I asked, deflected from my intended speech.
He shook his head. "No, monsieur, no gentleman."
I did not like his hidden play with words, although I understood it."That is a farce!" I said unkindly. "It is folly to say that in yourColonies you will have no caste. You cannot change nature. Can youmake a camel of a marmoset? I asked you what you were born?"
He smiled. "I was born an English subject. Monsieur, I have answered three questions. You owe me three in turn. Did you ever know Robert Cavelier?"
I stared. "The Seigneur de la Salle?"
"The same."
I stared again. "He has been dead for eight years. What do you, anEnglishman, know of him?"
He gave a wave of the hand. "It was my question," he reminded. "I asked if you knew him."
I could not but be amused. How he liked to play at mystery! I would copy his brevity. "Yes," I replied.
He looked up with much interest. "So you knew him. Tell me, monsieur, was he mountebank and freebooter, or a gallant gentleman much maligned?"
I removed my hat. "He was neither. He was an ambition incarnate; an ambition so vast there were few to understand it, for it had no personal side. You said the other night that but few motives rule men. La Salle has been misunderstood because the usual motives—greed, the love of woman, and the desire for fame—did not touch him. He was the slave of one great idea, and so he was lonely and men feared him." I finished with some defiance. I knew that the blood had risen in my cheeks as I spoke, for some subjects touch me as if I were a woman. The Englishman was watching me, and I disliked to have him see what I felt was weakness. But he did not scoff. His own cheeks flushed somewhat, and he looked off at the water.
"La Salle had more than a great idea," he said meditatively. "He had great opportunity. He desired to found an empire in the west, did he not, monsieur? Well, he failed, but, perhaps, that was accident. He might have succeeded. It is not often in the history of the world that such an opportunity comes to any person, man or woman. La Salle, at least, tried to live up to his full stature. Monsieur, how pitiable it would be, yes, more, how terrible it would be, to have such an opportunity thrown in your way and know that you were too weak to seize it."
His voice rose to some earnestness, but I was ashamed of my own emotion, and so threw pebbles at the water and kept my mood cold. I suspected that through all this random philosophizing I was being probed,—probed by an Englishman who ate my rations, and wore a squaw's dress. I grew angry.
"Who are you?" I demanded roughly. "Who are you, that you know of La Salle and of his plans, and use the French speech. Can you, for once, answer me fairly, or is there no sound core of honesty in you?"
He rose. But he replied, not to what I had said, but to what I had thought. "It is true that I share your food and your escort, and that I requite you but poorly. Yet I must remind you again, I share it under compulsion. I cannot be entirely open with you,—are you open with me?—but I will tell you all that it is necessary for you to know, all that touches you in any way. I said that I was a colonist. It was the truth, but I had been but a year in the Colonies at the time of my capture. I was born in England, and I have passed some time in France. As to La Salle, I know nothing of him save what any man might hear. Is it strange that I should be interested in him now that I find myself following in his steps? Why do you always see a double meaning in my words, monsieur?"
I filled my pipe, and answered truthfully, "I do not know."
But here he began to laugh. "Monsieur, forgive me, but truly I forget at times that I am a spy, that you distrust me. You are kind and I am interested, and so I grow careless of the fact that I am in a land where no speech is idle, where every glance is weighed. This life must unfit one for court talk, monsieur."
What was he after? I eyed him over my pipe bowl, but said nothing. I was minded to tell him to clean the whitefish for our supper, but reflected in time that he would undoubtedly do it badly, so I spoke to François instead. But when I would have gone away the Englishman followed. He clapped me lightly on the shoulder, a familiarity he had not ventured before, and he put his head on one side with a little bantam swagger.
"If I am an enemy, I am an enemy," he bowed. "Yet one question, please, and I swear in the name of our joint father Noah that I ask it with the fairest motives in mind. Tell me something of what we are going to do. Is today a sample?"
I could not hold my ill-temper. He must have led a psalm-singing youth that every attempt at rakishness should make him as piquant as a figure at a masque.
"Yes," I replied. "To-day is a sample except that we have been indolent this afternoon. I made this a semi-holiday as a sop to the men for the added burden I have laid on them. I wish to do some exploring along the coast here, and we shall have to spend some time hunting. If you show yourself capable I shall leave you in charge of the camp while we are away."
This time he bowed gravely. "Thank you, monsieur. I have not been blind to the way you have spared me hardship, but when I said that I would do whatever you would teach me, I meant it. I think that I shall make a good woodsman in time."
But I laughed. "You wash yourself too much ever to make a good woodsman," I told him, and I set him to measuring the meal for our supper, for indeed his hands were well kept, and it was pleasant to see him handle the food.
What enchantment came upon the weather for the next week I do not know. May is often somewhat sour of visage, but now she smiled from dawn till starlight. We paddled and hunted and slept, well fed and fire-warmed. It was more like junketing than business, and we were as amiable as fat-bellied puppies. Even the Englishman looked content. We left him in camp when we went to hunt, and on our return he had a boiling pot and hot coals ready for our venison. I saw that he had won favor with the men. Yet he kept aloof from all of us, as he had promised.
This had gone on for a week, when one day, after we had placed the Englishman on guard and were tramping back into the timber to see what our eyes and muskets could find, Pierre pointed to a bent tree. "It looks like a cow's back," he ruminated. "Trees are queer. Today, where we made camp, I saw a tree that looked like a Huron with his topknot."
I stopped. "Where?"
"I told the master. Near the camp."
"You think it was a tree?"
Pierre shuffled. "There are no Hurons here. This is the Pottawatamie country. But I have thought about it all day. It was a queer tree. Shall I go back and see?"
I shook my head. I pointed to a stale bear print, and set the men upon it. Then I turned and slipped back to camp.
I walked with uneasiness in my throat. Why did a Huron dog us in this fashion? Was he alone? Did he mean mischief to the Englishman? Was the Englishman in league with him? Too many questions for a slow man. I felt entrapped and befogged. I must see for myself. And so I crept to the camp to spy upon it.
I have never seen sweeter spot for an anchorage than we had found that day. We had not camped on the open coast as had been our custom, but in a sun-warmed meadow a few paces inland, where there were birds, and tasseling grasses, and all kinds of glancing lights and odors to steal into a man's blood. I parted the trees. The blur of gray ashes from our fire was undisturbed; our canoes lay, bottom upwards, waiting to have the seams newly pitched, and the cargo was piled, untouched, against a tree. All was as we left it. And there, in the shade of a maple, lay the Englishman, asleep on his scarlet blanket.
I went softly, and looked down at him. I ought to have waked him, and rated him for sleeping at his post, but I could not. It was balm to find him here safe. He was twisted like a kitten with his head in his arm, and I noticed that his dark hair, which he kept roughly cut, was curly. He must have been wandering in the woods, for he had a bunch of pink blossoms, very waxy and odorous, shut tight in his hand. I looked at him till I suddenly wanted him to wake and look at me. I picked a grass stalk, and, leaning over, brushed it against his lips.
He woke as a child does, not alert at once, but with drowsy stirrings, and finally with open eyes so sleep-filled that they were as expressionless as a fawn's. He stared as if trying to remember who I was.
I sat beside him. "I am the owner of that cargo you are guarding," I supplied to aid his memory, and then laughed to see the red flood his face when he came to himself and realized what he had done. But I was not at ease. He had shivered and drawn back when he first opened his eyes. Could he be afraid of me? I should not wish that. I tried to be crafty.
"Who did you think I was when you first woke?" I asked, taking my pipe and preparing to be comfortable.
He pushed back his hair. "Benjamin," he answered vaguely. He was still half asleep.
"But you told me your name was Benjamin!" I put down my flint and tinder.
He met my look. "I have a cousin Benjamin, as well," he rejoined. "I was dreaming of him. Monsieur, I am humiliated to think that I went to sleep. I have never done so before."
My pipe drew well, and I did not feel like chiding. "It does not matter," I said, with a yawn. "You must not take it amiss, monsieur, if I confess that, as a guard, I have never considered you much more seriously than I would that brown thrush above you. What is your posy?" and I leaned over and took the flowers from his hand.
He smiled at me drowsily. "The arbutus," he explained, with a lingering touch of his finger upon the blossoms. "Smell them, monsieur. I found them in Connecticut last spring. Are they not well suited to be the first flowers of this wild land? Repellent without,—see how rough the leaves are to your finger,—but fragrant and beautiful under its harsh coating. Life in the Colonies grew to seem to me much the same."
I turned the flowers over, and considered his philosophy. "You are less cynical than your wont, monsieur." I reflected. "May I say that I like it better in you? Cynicism is a court exotic. It should not grow under these pines."
He put out his hand to brush a twig from my doublet. "Cynicism is often the flower of bitterness. Monsieur, you have been very good to me. I cannot keep in mind my constant bitterness against life when I think of the thoughtfulness and justice you have shown me."
I jerked away. "Sufficient! Sufficient! Let us be comfortable," I expostulated, and I turned my back, and gave myself to my pipe and silence.
The birds sang softly as if wearied, and the earth was warm to the hand. I held the flowers in my fingers, and they smelled, somehow, like the roses on our terrace at home on moonlight evenings when I had been young and thought myself in love. I watched a drift of white butterflies hang over an opening red blossom. Such moments pay for hours of famine. It disturbed me to have the Englishman rise and go away.
"Why do you go?" I demanded.
He came back at once. "What can I do for you, monsieur?"
His gentleness shamed my shortness of speech. "It was nothing," I replied. "The truth is, it was pleasant to have you here beside me." I laughed at my own folly. "Starling, I will put you in man's dress to-morrow!" I cried.
He turned away. "As you like, monsieur. I think myself it would be best. Will you get out the clothes to-night?"
But I stared at him. "Why blush about it, Starling?" I shrugged. I felt some disdain of his sensitiveness. "I did not mean to twit you. I understand that you have worn the squaw's dress to help us. But I think that the necessity for disguise is past. I see the skirts embarrass you."
He turned to look at me fairly. "I am not blushing, monsieur," he explained, with a great air of candor. "It is the heat of the afternoon;" but even as he spoke the red flowed from chin to forehead, and when I looked at him with another laugh, his eyes fell before mine.
I rose on my elbow. "Starling! Starling!" I cried. He made no sound. His head drooped, and I saw him clench his hand. I stared. He threw his head back, but when he tried to meet my look he failed. Yet I looked again. "My God!" I heard my voice say, and my teeth bit into my lip. I could smell the flowers in my hand, but they seemed a long distance away. "My God!" I cried again, and I rose and felt my way into the woods with the step of a blind man.
I do not know how long I walked, nor where, but the sun dropped some space. When I returned to the camp, I found the men before me. They had returned early, empty-handed, and were in an ill humor because the Englishman was away, and there was nothing done. I commanded Pierre to build a larger fire than usual, and keep it piled high till I returned. Then I began a search for footprints.
They were easily found. The young grass crushed at a touch, and it was child's work to pick out the moccasin track across the meadow. When the steps reached the beach they were harder to follow. I lost them for a while, though there were scattered pebbles that would have led me straight as a homing pigeon, had I been cool enough in mind to have my eyes and wits as sharp as usual. As it was, I doubled, and squandered time, until the sun began to loom red near the horizon. And all the time I was saying to myself, "It is not true. It is not true."
The windings of the track puzzled me. It would go straight into the forest for a space, then double sharply, and come back to the beach. It came to me at last that the wish to hide pulled the steps into the timber, and that the fear and solitude of the great woods speedily drove them out again. Then I determined to pay no attention to these detours, but push along the beach. And doing this, I speedily came upon the red blanket flung down in the shelter of a rock, and its owner resting upon it.
When I saw that all was well, I became suddenly exhausted, and went forward slowly. I reached the red blanket, and looked down. Yes, all was well. A hunting knife lay in an open bundle. I stooped and seized it, and hurled it far into the water, and then I asked, rather huskily, a question that had not been in my mind at all:—
"What is your name?"
"Mary Starling." The woman had risen, and stood with her hands pressed tight against her throat; the look she gave me was the saddest I had ever seen. "Monsieur, you wrong me. The knife that you threw away was for my protection,—for my food."
I stood over her. "You swear this?" I said, breathing hard.
She held her head high. "Monsieur, I am a coward in many ways, but not in this. Life is bitter, but I will live it as long as the Powers please. I will take what comes. Even among the Indians I was not tempted to—to that."
"You would have died. Starved here in the wilderness, if I had not found you."
"Perhaps, monsieur. Yet I gave myself what chance I could. I took some food, a fishing line, and that knife."
"Why did you leave me?"
"Monsieur!"
"I say, why did you leave me?"
"Monsieur, what else could I do? I would have discredited you. Those were your words. 'A woman would discredit our canoes.'"
"Yet you were—you were a woman all the time."
"Not in your eyes, monsieur."
I gripped her hand. "Did the Indians suspect?"
"Never for a moment."
"Yet when they captured you"—
"I was in man's dress. I—I was trying to defend the blockhouse. The men had—had—had"—
I seized her in my arm, and made her drink from my brandy flask. In a moment the color came back to her lips, and she drew away.
"I have never done this before," she explained unsteadily. "Never since my capture. I suppose it is because—because you know. And so I cannot play the man. Monsieur, believe me. I would never have come with you, never, if I had not felt sure of myself. Sure that I could play my part, and that you would not know. I—I—tried, a little, to make you understand there at the commandant's, and when I saw that you were really blind I thought that I was safe. Believe me, monsieur."
I handed her my flask. "Drink more," I commanded. I took the blanket and wrapped it around her though the air was still warm. "You must not let yourself have chills in this fashion if you would save your strength. Madame, I believe nothing about you that is not brave and admirable. Are you Madame Starling, and is Benjamin your husband that you took his name to shield you, and even repeated the name in your dreams?"
She looked at me, and I felt rebuked for something that had been in my tone. "I am unmarried," she said steadily. "Benjamin Starling is a cousin. Monsieur, there is nothing left either of us but to let me go. Oh, if I could live this day over and be more careful! How was it, how was it that I let you know?"
I walked away. A frightened mink ran across my feet, and I cursed at it. Then I walked back.
"You did not let me know," I said, and I stooped to pick up her bundle."I know nothing. I was always the blindest of men. Come, MonsieurStarling, let us go back to camp."
Again she put her hands to her throat. "You mean that?"
I took the bundle in my arm. "It is the only way. Come, monsieur."
"I cannot."
"I think that you must."
"And can we go on as before?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We can try. Come, Monsieur Starling, the men are growling, for you should have made the fire. Remember, you strayed into the woods and lost your way. Come, come, you must do your part."
She looked at me, and a sudden dry sob shook her. "Forgive me, monsieur!" she cried. "Yes, I will come." She tried to square her shoulders. "I must get my spirit back before I can meet the men in camp. Why am I such a coward!"
I dropped the bundle that I might take both her hands. "Mademoiselle," I said, "look at me. We are puppets in this matter. You have been thrown into my hands against my will and your own, and I swear to you that I will deal with you as fairly as I have strength. But you must play your part. So long as I treat you as a woman you will be a coward. Therefore I must be harsh with you. You have great will and can endure loneliness of soul. I must thrust you back upon yourself. There must be no woman in the camp. Come, monsieur, let us not talk of this longer. Are you ready?" And not waiting for assent, I led the way back to camp without word or look; I even kept myself from putting out a helping hand when I heard the steps behind me falter and almost fall.
As we came to the fire and met the men, I found myself fingering my sword. But it was a useless motion. The oafs saw nothing amiss, though to me the very air was shouting the secret. We had a fat larder, broiled whitefish and bear-steak from the kill of the day before, and the men were thinking much of their stomachs and not at all of the Englishman, save when they turned their backs upon him to show that he was out of favor. So we sat down to meat. We sat a long time, while the twilight faded and the stars pricked out clear, and there was little talk between us. I was sitting at meat with a woman, a woman of my own class, and I dared not offer her even the courtesy that one may show a serving maid. Well, I would take what each day might bring and not look ahead. I would think nothing about this person, as man or woman, but would fill my thought with the purpose that had brought me to the beaver lands. I told the men to be early astir that we might make a longer day of travel on the morrow.
The morrow was gray. The wind was in the east, and the sunrise watery and streaked with slate-colored bands. The water was clammy and opaque, repellent to touch and sight. The way looked dreary, and the woman carried her head high, as if in challenge to her courage. She had risen early, and had gone through her trifling share in the preparations, and though she had avoided me, I could see that she was ready to play her part.
We paddled on our knees that morning, for the waves were choppy. By ten o'clock the bands of cloud had merged into a dun canopy, and by noon a slow, cold rain was drizzling. I dreaded a halt, but the necessity pressed. I selected a small cove, well tree-grown, and we turned our canoes inland.
Fortunately the rain, though persistent, had been gentle, and had not penetrated far under the heavy foliaged pines. We selected a clump of large trees, chopped the lower branches, and scraping away the surface layer of moss and needles found dry ground. Here we piled the cargo in two mounds, which we hooded with tarpaulins and with our overturned canoes. Our provisions were snug enough; it was ourselves who were in dreary estate.
It rained all the afternoon, stopped for a half hour at sunset, when the sky, for a few moments, showed streaks of red, then closed in for a night's drizzle. I had built what shelter I could for the woman out of boughs covered with sheets of paper birch and elm. I had made a similar shelter for myself that I might not seem to discriminate too much in favor of the Englishman, and had told the men to do the same. But they were indolent, and stopped at chopping a few hemlock boughs, which they laid across crotched aspens. In truth, our shelters accomplished little against the cold and wet. Do what we could, we had great discomfort, and morning found the rain still dripping and the sky still unbroken gray.
And so it went for three days. The north country has such storms in the spring, and they chill all beauty out of the woods. We could do nothing. We kept what fire we could, regummed the seams of the canoes, and for the rest ate, sulked, and tried to sleep. The men gambled among themselves, and I grew weary of the click, click of their balls and the sound of their stupid boasts and low jesting. Yet I had no ground for stopping them, for the woman understood almost nothing of their uncouth speech. Indeed, she was little in sight or hearing. She stayed in her bark shelter, and I could hear her moving about, trying to keep it neat and herself in order. In those three days I learned one secret of her spirit. She had a natural merriment that did not seem a matter of will power nor even of wish. It was an instinctive, inborn content, that was perhaps partly physical, in that it enabled her to sleep well, and so to wake with zest and courage. By night her eyes might be dark circled and her step slow, but each morning there was interest in her looks to see what the strange day was about to bring. I had seen this nature in men many times; I had not thought that it belonged to women who are framed to follow rather than to look ahead.
For twenty-four hours we held little more intercourse than dumb people, but the second day she came to me.
"Monsieur, would you teach me?" she asked. "Would you explain to me about the Indian dialects?"
I agreed. I threw her a blanket, which she wrapped around her, and we cowered close to the bole of a pine. I took birch bark and a crayon and turned schoolmaster, explaining that the Huron and Iroquois nations came of the same stock, but that most of the western tribes were Algonquin in blood, and that, though they had tribal differences in speech, Algonquin was the basic language, as Latin is the root of all our tongues at home. I took the damp bark, and wrote some phrases of Algonquin, showing her the syntax as well as I had been able to reduce it to rule myself. She had a quick ear and the power of attention, but after an hour of it I tore the bark in pieces.
"We will not try this again," I told her roughly, and we scarcely met or spoke for the next day.
The fourth morning came without rain, and the sun struggled out. We built great fires, dried our clothing, repacked the canoes, and were afloat by noon. By contrast it was pleasant, but it still was cold, and we stood to our paddling. I wrapped the woman in extra blankets, and made her swallow some brandy. I hoped that she would sleep, but she did not, for it was she who called to us that there were three canoes ahead.
It showed how clogged I was by sombre thought that I had not seen them, for in a moment they swept in full sight. I crowded the woman down in the canoe, and covered her with sailcloth. Then I hailed the canoes with a long cry, "Tanipi endayenk?" which means, "Whence come you?" and added "Peca," that they might know I called in peace.
The canoes wheeled and soon hung like water birds at our side. They were filled with a hunting party of Pottawatamies, and the young braves grunted and chaffered at me in high good humor. I gave them knives and vermilion, and they talked freely. I saw them look at the draped shape in the canoe, but I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Ouskouebi!" which might mean either "drunken" or a "fool," and they grinned and seemed satisfied. They promised to report to me at La Baye des Puants, and I saw by their complaisance that the French star was at the zenith. I should have stretched my legs in comfort as I went on my way.
We paddled that afternoon till the men splashed water into the canoes, which was their way of telling me that I had worked them hard enough. It was dusk when we landed, and starlight before our kettles were hot. I had been silent, when I had not been fault finding, till, supper over, the woman, leaning across the fire, asked me why.
"Is something wrong?" she ventured. "Ever since we met thePottawatamies you have seemed in haste."
I looked around. The men were at a distance preparing for sleep. "I wish to reach the Pottawatamie Islands before to-morrow night. Mademoiselle Starling, may I talk of our future?"
She rose. "You called me mademoiselle."
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"And you mean"—
I took off my hat. "Will you come with me?" I asked,—"come where we shall not be overheard? We must talk of our future."
I knew that she trembled as she bowed her assent, but I pretended to be blind. I led the way outside of the circle of light, then waited for her to come to me. I stood with my hat in hand, and my heart cried in pity for the woman, but my tongue was heavy as a savage's.
"I learned from the Pottawatamies," I said, "that Father Nouvel is tarrying at their islands. If we haste, we may find him there. Mademoiselle, will you marry me?"
I do not know that I was cool enough to measure rightly the space of the silence that ensued, but it seemed a long one. The woman stood very still. A star fell slanting from the mid-sky, and I watched it slip behind the horizon. The woman's head was high, and I knew that she was thinking. It troubled me that she could think at such a time.
"Mademoiselle"—I began.
"Wait!" she interrupted. She raised her hand, and her fingers looked carven white in the moonlight, though by daylight they were brown. "Monsieur, you watched the star. It went into the unknown,—a way so wide and terrible that we may not follow it even in thought. We live alone with majestic forces,—forests greater than an empire, unmapped waters, and strange, savage men. We are pygmies; yet, if we have spirit we can grow into some measure of the greatness and inflexibility around us. Monsieur, when you asked me—what you asked me now—you were thinking of France and its standards. Of little, tidy, hedged-in France. You were not—— Oh, monsieur, I am sorry you asked me that question. Of course I answer 'no,' but—but I am sorry that you asked it."
I went to her. "You are cold. Come with me to the fire. Come. The men are asleep by this time. Mademoiselle, your spirit is steel and fire, but your body betrays you. You are shivering and afraid. Yet—— Well, mademoiselle, pygmies or giants, whichever we may be, we must not scorn counsel. You once called us partners. On that basis, will you listen to me now?"
"But you must not"——
"Mademoiselle, on that basis will you listen to me now?"
"Yes."
"Then come." I led her to the warmth, and placed her snugly, with logs to pillow her and her face away from the sleeping men. Then I sat beside her. But my speech had left me. I had no reasons, no persuasions at my tongue.
"Father Nouvel is at the islands," I said. "Mademoiselle, you must marry me. You must."
"Why 'must,' monsieur?"
"We cannot travel in this way."
"A week ago you thought it possible."
"I had not tried it then. It will not do."
"Monsieur, what has gone wrong?"
I took out my hunting knife and tried its edge.
"My mind," I answered savagely. "Mademoiselle, I may, as you say, have tidy, circumscribed France behind my thought, but—— Well, mademoiselle, I was brought up to certain observances in regard to a woman. And I cannot forget you are a woman. When the men speak roughly to you I put my hand on my sword."
"I have seen you, monsieur."
"And so I lose much thought and time conquering my anger. It fills my thought. When I taught you Indian verbs the other day the rain dripped from your hair. And I sat like a clod. What could I do? I could not shelter you for fear of rousing suspicion in the men. Mademoiselle, I cannot stand it. I must let the men know that you are a woman. And then I must marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."
She rose. "Monsieur, you must send me back to Montreal."
I kept my seat. "Mademoiselle, I have your word," I reminded. "You agreed to listen."
I had meant to plead, not to rebuke, and I regretted that she flushed. She seated herself lingeringly, but I saw that she leaned back, and did not sit as she had done before with her muscles braced for flight.
"Why not send me back to Montreal?" she begged.
The embers of the fire fell into irregular, rectangular shapes like the stone buildings on the Marne, where I was born. My father had beggared us, but those buildings were left. I scorned my father's memory, but I had strange pride in the name and place that had been his.
"I have thought over this matter by night and day," I replied slowly. "I cannot send you to Montreal, for I cannot trust these men. If I take you myself I shall lose six weeks out of the summer. Then it will be too late to accomplish anything. No, I cannot afford so much time. The summer is all too short as it is."
"You would marry me—marry me to get me out of the way—rather than lose six weeks of time!"
I rose. "Spare your scorn, mademoiselle. This is no joust of wits. I would sell everything—except the honor of my sword—rather than lose six weeks of time."
"Then you have a mission?"
"A self-sent one, mademoiselle."
"But you can come again next year."
"Next year will be too late."
She threw out her hands. "Monsieur, try me. Let me travel with you as a man. I will be a man. I will be Monsieur Starling in truth. Try me once more."
I took her hand. "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle," I said, "think a moment. Would I force you to this marriage—would I suggest it even—if it did not seem a necessity, a necessity for my own ends? For I must have my head and hands clear. It is a selfish view. I know that. It is crushingly selfish. But it is for a large purpose. I am a small man fitted to a great undertaking, and I can permit no divided interests. I need an unhampered mind."
She walked a few steps. "And if I should travel with you as a woman and yet not marry you," she asked over her shoulder, "what then?"
I looked away. "I should be obliged to fight every man of my company first, then every white man that we might meet. It would hardly leave me with an unhampered mind, mademoiselle."
She made no comment with word or eye, and going back to the place where we had been sitting, she dropped upon the sand. I covered her shoulders with the red blanket, and again sat beside her. I would be silent till she chose to speak. After a time I went back into the forest to search fresh fuel for our fire.
When I returned with my arms laden, she turned her face toward me; her sorrowful eyes looked as if she could never again know sleep or forgetfulness. "I am a coward," she said, "yet I thought that cowardice and my desire for life had both died together. I did not draw back from the knives of the Indians, but now I am afraid of a loveless marriage. We are young. We may live many years. Oh, monsieur, I have not the courage!"
I piled the wood on the fire and did not answer. I stirred the red coals and marked how the flames slipped along the dried branches in festoons of light. Pierre was snoring, and I kicked him till he rolled over and swore in bastard French. Then I went to the woman.
"You have won," I said, and I laughed a little,—a mean, harsh laugh, my ears told me, not the laugh of a gentleman. "Mademoiselle, you have won. We start toward Montreal tomorrow. Then marry—whom you will."
She looked into my eyes. "Wait a moment;" she stopped. "Monsieur, how much time have you spent in learning the Indian dialects and preparing for this expedition?"
"Two years."
"And next year will indeed be too late?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We waste good hours," I suggested."Mademoiselle, may I say 'good-night'?"
She stepped toward me. "Monsieur, do not spoil your courtesy," she begged. "I asked you a question."
I smiled at her. "The answer has lost pith and meaning. Yes, mademoiselle, next year will indeed be too late."
She put her hands before her eyes. "Then I will change my answer.Monsieur, I will marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."
But I would not reply. I walked to the beach where there were dark and stars. I ground my heel into the pebbles, and I did not hear her moccasined step behind me. She had to touch my arm.
"I meant it, monsieur," she whispered.
I raised her fingers, and laid them back against her side. "Why tempt me?" I said rudely. "Happily for you my word is a man's word. We start toward Montreal to-morrow."
"Monsieur, I beg you. Go west to-morrow."
"No, mademoiselle."
"Then—then—monsieur, I give you warning. If we start toward Montreal to-morrow I shall escape you at the first opportunity, and try my fortune alone in the woods."
"You threaten me?"
She stood in front of me. "I would bring you to reason. Yes, I threaten you, in that I shall do what I say. Come, monsieur, I will follow you westward. Your years of preparation, your great opportunity, shall not be wasted because of me."
I took her hand. "You are a strange woman. A sage and a child; a woman and a warrior. But I will not marry you, mademoiselle."
"Why not, monsieur?"
"Because I will not hoodwink you. So long as I took you blindly against your will, I felt no shame at going about my own ends. But now that you have turned the tables on me and come without force, I cannot let you be a tool. I would not take you without telling you my plans,—and then you would not come."
"I know your plans, monsieur."
"You know that I hunt beaver."
"I know that you hunt men. Monsieur, are all the women of your nation puppets, that you should think me blind? Listen. You plan a coalition of the western tribes. La Salle's plan—with changes. You hope to make yourself a dictator, chief of a league of red men that shall control this western water-way. Is not this so, monsieur?"
"I—— Yes, mademoiselle."
"You intend to form your league this summer and advance upon the Iroquois in the autumn before the ice locks the lakes. You are in haste, for if you delay another twelvemonth you are convinced that the Iroquois will make a treaty with the Hurons at Michillimackinac, massacre your garrison there, cow the western tribes, and so wrest this country from the French. Is not this so, monsieur?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"You see that I understand all this, monsieur. Yet, I will go with you."
I did not stir. "You are acute. Yet there is one point in my plan that you did not mention," I said dully.
She turned away. "I hoped to spare us both," she returned in a tone as lifeless as my own. "Yet, if you wish words, take them. Monsieur, the Iroquois are allies of the English. Your warfare with them is but a step in pursuit of larger game. In founding an empire for your own land you would take one away from mine. You hope in the end to crush the English on this continent. Have I stated you correctly, monsieur?"
I bowed.
She laughed—a laugh more bitter than my own had been. "I am indeed the plaything of Fate," she said a little wildly. "But I will marry you. You saved my life. Yes, more. You threw your career into the balance for an unknown man, your foe. You jeopardized all that you hoped for, and you never whined nor lost sleep. You are a superb gamester, monsieur."
I smiled. "Not enough of a gamester to accept your sacrifice, mademoiselle."
She clenched her hands. "I will marry you," she retorted. "You shall follow out your purpose. Though, after all, you cannot succeed. Who are you? A dreamer, a soldier of fortune, a man without place or following. You think slowly, and your heart rules your head. How can you hope to wrest an empire from—from us? You cannot do it. You cannot. But you shall have your chance. You gave me mine and you shall have yours. We go west. Otherwise—I have warned you, monsieur."
I seized her wrist, and made her meet my look. "That is a coward's threat," I said contemptuously.
I could not daunt her. "I mean it. I mean it, monsieur," she repeated quietly.
I stood and looked at her. "You have a man's equity," I said. "You are determined to give me my chance. Well, I will take it,—and remember that you gave it to me. But, would you have me in any way weaken my purpose, mademoiselle?"
She looked up with a flash of anger. "Am I a child or an intriguing woman? No, no. Do your best, or your worst, or I shall despise you for your weakness. I have told you that I have scant hopes for your success, monsieur."
What could I say? I stood before her awkwardly. "Mademoiselle, may I tell you something of myself and my people? You should know what sort of name you are to bear."
But she pressed her hands outward. "No, no!" she cried. "Why tell me?" Then she sobered. "I know that you are brave and kind," she said, with her eyes down. "Beyond that—I do not think that I am interested, monsieur."
I felt angered. "You should be interested," I said bluntly. "Well, the night is slipping away. Let me lead you to the fire and bid you good-night."
Her finger tips met mine as we walked back together, but the touch was as remote as the brushing of the pine boughs on my cheek. Yet when I would have handed her her blanket and turned away, she detained me. "Sit with me a little longer, monsieur," she begged. "I—I think I am afraid of the woods to-night. Let us sit here a while."
I could not grasp her mood, but there was nothing for me but to yield to it. I made her as comfortable as possible, and saw that the fire was kept alight; then I sat near her. I was tired, but time went swiftly. My mind would not have given my body rest, even had I lain down.
In time the woman leaned toward me. "There is—there is no woman who will suffer from this?" she asked slowly.
I stirred the fire. "I have no wife, mademoiselle."
"I did not mean that. There is no woman who—who cares for you?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"And you—and you, monsieur? There is no one whom you are giving up?"
I answered slowly. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you are a strangely wise woman. You know the value of reticence,—something few women seem to know. We have talked of many things, of ambition, of justice, of generosity, but never, never of love. Are you wise to open the past in that one matter? I have asked you no questions."
She hid her face in her hands. "But I will tell you. I was betrothed to my cousin,—to Benjamin Starling. I would not marry him now, I would not marry him now to save him from the rack. I have nothing more to tell you, monsieur."
I let the moments slip. The east was brightening, and in an hour it would be dawn. I knew we needed rest. I rose, and, standing behind the woman, bent over her.
"Mademoiselle Starling," I whispered, "tomorrow, at this time, you will be Madame Montlivet." She did not stir, and I laid my hand on her shoulder where it rose slim and sinewy as a boy's from the low neck of her squaw's dress. I bent lower. "You strange woman," I went on, marveling at her calm. "You strange woman, with the justice of a man and the tempers of a child. Have you a woman's heart, I wonder? I do not talk to you of love, but it may be that it will come to us. I will try to be good to you, Mary Starling. Carry that promise with you when I say good-night."
And then she trembled. "Wait, wait, monsieur! There is one word first. I have tried—I have tried to say it."
I knelt beside her. "What would you say to me, mademoiselle?"
But she turned away. "Monsieur, monsieur! I will marry you, yes. But it is to save your hopes,—your future. We have—we have no love. Monsieur, will you not hold me as your guest, your sister? It is I who would kneel to you, monsieur."
I pushed her down. "Sit still," I commanded. I turned my back to her, for I had no speech. She did not plead, but I could feel her tremble. I forced words out of me.
"You are a Protestant?"
"Yes, monsieur."
I picked up the corner of her blanket. "I am a Catholic," I said, drawing away the woolen folds that I might look at her. "In our church marriage is a sacrament, mademoiselle."
She lifted her great eyes. "Monsieur, our marriage will be no sacrament. It will be a political contract. A marriage—a marriage of convenience—in name only—— Surely when we reach home it can be annulled. Must I—must I beg of you, monsieur?"
I rose and looked down at her. "A strange woman of a strange race," I said. "No, you need not beg of me. I have never had a captive in my life,—not even a bird. Mademoiselle, you shall bear my name, if you are willing, for your protection, but you shall go as my guest to Montreal." And I left her in her red blanket and went away.
The dawn came with an uprush of unclouded light showing burnished green leaves and dancing water. I bowed my head to the woman's hand to bid her good-morning, and I served her with meal cakes and sweet water from a maple tree. I was reckless of Pierre's eyes, though I knew them to be weasel sharp for certain sides of life. The woman answered me but scantily, and when we were embarked sat quiet in the bottom of the canoe. I forbore to look at her.
The men feared my mood that day, so paddled well. I charged them not to speak nor sing, for I would have no wasted breath, and the sombre shore, pine and tamarack and savage rock, passed before us like pictures dropping from a roll. Toward sunset I sighted a canoe full of warriors, and when we drew near I saw that they were Pottawatamies.
"Are we near your islands?" I hailed.
The men bowed toward the southwest. "The space of the star rising, and you will reach them if you travel," spoke the tallest. "You ride fast. I have seen you come like the white squall on the water."
I called again. "Does Father Nouvel tarry with you?" I cried.
I thought that they looked at the maid in the canoe. "He tarries," they answered.
I gave the signal and we slipped away. "To the shore," I commanded, and the two canoes took new vigor. The men, like stall-fed beasts, spurred themselves by the prospect of eating and idleness, and we were soon at the beach. I bent over the woman.
"Be prepared," I whispered. "I must tell the men. If I play the clown it is but to impress them, mademoiselle."
She met my glance with a look of entire understanding, and rising gave me her finger tips and stepped from the canoe. I do not know how she turned all in one instant from a sun-burned stripling to a great lady, but that was what occurred. The men, stretching themselves as they stepped to the shore, stopped and stared. I saw that I must speak quickly.
"Let the canoes alone," I said. "We will stop here but a moment. Go—all of you—and gather green twigs and young ferns, and flowers if you can find them. Then bring them to me here. Go."
The men stood as jointless as tin images. But I saw that they were not only dumfounded but afraid, so I laid my hand on my sword, to give them better cause for their stupefaction. "Go!" I shouted again, and so perverse is my nature that, though I knew well I had no cause for merriment, I swallowed hard to keep back a smile.
The woman and I stood alone while the men jerked their way like automatons from bush to tree. The chaos of their minds had numbed their muscles, and they stripped the young boughs clumsily like a herd of browsing moose. I did not look at the woman. I knew that she needed all my courtesy, but it was hard to speak to her just then.
The men wandered for perhaps five minutes, then ranged themselves before me. They bore a curious collection of grasses, mutilated tamarack boughs, and crushed brakes. They eyed my sword hilt, and looked ready for flight. Yet I was master, and they remembered it. Had I ordered them to eat the fodder that they bore, they would not have spoken, and I think that they would have endeavored to obey.
I pointed to the canoe where the woman was accustomed to sit. "Place the greens there," I said. "Make a carpet of them where the red blanket is lying. Work quickly,—then come here. No talking."
They obeyed. They dressed the canoe like a river barge on a fête day, and again they lined themselves before me. I took the woman by the hand.
"You have decked the canoe for my wedding journey," I said, and all my perverse inner merriment suddenly died. "This traveler, whom you have known as a man, is Mademoiselle Marie Starling and my promised wife. We are to be married when we reach the Pottawatamie Islands. She is your future mistress, and you may come and touch her hand and swear to serve her as faithfully as you have served me. Pierre, you may come first."
A man who has seen battle knows that the pang of a bullet can clear even a peasant's clogged brain. The churls took this blow in silence and tried to make something out of it. What they made I could not fathom, but it lifted them out of themselves, for after a moment they raised their eyes and came forward like men. I had never seen them in an equal guise; I could have grasped them by the hand had it been wise.
The woman extended her palm to them, and gave them each a word as they passed in review. She was gracious, she was smiling, yet somehow she was negligent. I was not prepared that she should be used to homage. Perhaps I had thought that this bit of vassalage would give her pleasure. She treated it like an old tale.
"Enough," I ordered. "Pierre, you may draw a portion of brandy all around and drink to the health of your mistress. Then we shall get under way."
Pierre's portions were always ample, and the western red was dulling by the time we were again afloat. I did not paddle, but seated myself beside the woman on the crushed leaves and watched in inactivity and silence while the starlight came. As the dusk deepened we slipped by strange islands, but I held the canoes straight in advance till a limestone headland rose white out of the blurred, violet water. The star shine showed a deep bay and wavering lights among the trees. I touched the woman's shoulder.
"The largest of the Pottawatamie Islands," I explained. "I have had maps. Pray God we may find what we seek."
The canoes bumped and slid upward on the sand, and I left the men on guard, and taking the woman's hand led her toward the lights. A rabble of dogs trooped upon us and gave tongue, and black shapes, arrow-laden, clustered out of the wigwams.
"Peca," I cried, in greeting, and again, "Where is your chief? Where is Onanguissé?"
A French voice answered, "Who calls?" The mat that hung before the entrance of the nearest lodge was pulled aside, and smoke and red light flared out of the opening. I saw the black robe of a priest!
"Father Nouvel, Father Nouvel!" I cried like a schoolboy. "You are indeed here!"
The priest stooped to pass through the skin-draped opening, and came peering into the starlight.
"Who calls Father Nouvel?" he demanded in a mellow voice, rich in intonations. "What, an Indian woman, monsieur! Who are you? What means this?"
I led the woman forward. "Father Nouvel, this is Mademoiselle Starling, an Englishwoman who was captured by the Indians. We have traveled fast and far to find you. Can you marry us at once?"
It was badly done. I had jumbled my speech without wit or address, like a peasant dragging his milkmaid before the village curé. The woman may have felt my clumsiness. She dropped my hand, and curtsied deeply to the father, and he, staring, checked the hand that he had raised to extend to her, and bowed deeply in turn. It was a meeting, not of priest and refugee, but of a man and woman who had known the world. Father Nouvel was very old and his skin was wrinkled ivory, but at this moment he wore his cassock as if it were a doublet slashed with gold. His command was an entreaty.
"Come nearer, daughter. I wish to see your face."
She followed him close to the flaring light that poured from the wigwam, and he looked at her as unsparingly as if she were a portrait of paint and oil.
"I have never seen you," he decided. "Yet the name Starling,—it is unusual, and it brings troubling memories to my mind."
The woman deliberated a moment. She was indeed a woman with wit that did not need mine, and I felt it to be so, and I stood at one side, and thought out my own conclusions. She looked up. "At Meudon?" she suggested to the priest.
He smote his palms together. "I am old," he mourned. "Else I could never have forgotten. At Meudon, of course. It was at a meeting of Jacobites. An exile named Starling—he was a commanding man, my daughter—was their leader. How did you know?"
She stood there in her Indian dress of skins with a forest around her and talked of courts.
"I remembered that you were in Paris three years ago," she explained, "and that our king—yes, our king, Father Nouvel, although a king in exile—talked sometimes with you. There was often one of your order at the meetings at Meudon."
The father looked at her. "I could almost think that age and loneliness have undone my mind," he said slowly. "You talk of kings and courtiers. Who are you?"
I waited, perhaps more eagerly than the priest himself, for her reply. None came. I thought she gave a flitting look toward me, and so I shrugged my shoulders and thrust myself again into the priest's thought.
"If we were kings, courtiers, and Jacobites all in one," I said as airily as might be in view of my aching muscles, "the titles would yet clink dully as leaden coins, travel-worn as we are. Can you marry us this evening, Father Nouvel?"
He looked at me keenly, not altogether pleased. "And you are"—he asked.
"Armand de Montlivet, from Montreal."
He relaxed somewhat. "I have heard of you. No, I cannot marry you to-night. I will find a lodge for this demoiselle, and we will talk of this to-morrow. Come now and let me bring you to the chief," and with a beckoning of the hand he led the way into the lodge behind him.
We followed closely. The lodge was large, and was roofed and floored with rush mats. The smoke hung in a cloud over our heads, but the air around us was sufficiently clear for us to see,—though with some rubbing of the eyes. An aged Indian sat close to the blaze, and Father Nouvel walked over to him.
"Onanguissé," he said, "two strangers lift the mat before your door,—strangers with white faces. Do you bid them take broth and shelter?"
The old chief nodded. He had lacked curiosity to look out at us while we had stood talking before his door, and now he scarcely lifted his eyes.
"Is the Huron with them?" he asked the priest.
I pushed forward. "What Huron?" I demanded, in the Pottawatamie speech.