I found Cadillac in his private room at the fort, and said to myself that he looked like a man stripped for running. Not that his apparel had altered since I had met him swaggering upon the beach the day before, but his bearing had changed. He had dropped superfluities, and was hardened and sinewed for action.
I expected him to rate me for my tardiness in reporting my interview with the Englishman, but, instead, he greeted me with so much eagerness that I saw that some of my news must have run before.
"What do you know?" I cried.
He looked at the crowd swarming outside the window. "That we are in a hornets' nest," he said, with a wry smile. "But never mind that now. We must talk rapidly. I have been waiting for you. I could not act till I learned what you had done."
I bowed my regrets. "I was delayed. I saw the Englishman, and"——
He cut me short. "Never mind the Englishman," he cried, with a wave of his impatient hand. "Tell me of the Ottawa camp. You have been there an hour. I hear that you danced where they danced, and shared dog-meat and jest alike. In faith, Montlivet, I have a good will to keep you here in irons if I can do it in no gentler way. But what did Longuant say at the council fire?"
I made sure that we were alone, and dropped into a chair. My muscles were complaining, yet I knew that I had but begun my day's work. "It was a long council," I said, "and all the old men were there. Longuant was leader, but he was but one of many. The Ottawas are much stirred."
"About the prisoner?"
I shook my head. "The prisoner is the excuse,—the touchstone. The real matter goes deep. You have not blinded these people. They know that England and France are at war, but they know, too, that peace may be declared any day. They know that the Baron has made an underground treaty with the English and the Iroquois, and they realize that the Iroquois may attack this place at any time with half the band of Hurons at their back. They have no illusions as to what such an attack would mean. They know that the French would make terms and be spared, but that the Ottawas and the loyal Hurons would be butchered. They are far-sighted."
Cadillac nodded heavily. "So they think that we would desert them, and hand them over to the Iroquois? We must reassure them."
I rapped on the table. "We did desert them once," I reminded him. "They know how we abandoned the refugee Hurons at Quebec, and they hold our word lightly. It shames us to say this, but we must see matters as they are. No, the Ottawas do not trust us, but they trust the English less. It is a choice of evils. But they are shrewd enough to see that their greatest peril lies in a truce between ourselves and the English. Then they would indeed be between two stools. Now, they see that there are two paths open."
Cadillac was breathing heavily. "You mean"—he asked.
I spoke slowly. "I mean," I said, "that they must either go over to theEnglish themselves, or succeed in embroiling us with the English."
"And they chose?"
"They did not choose. They temporized. They see the advantages of a union with the English. A better beaver market, and plenty of brandy. It goes hard with them that we are frugal with our muskets, while the English keep the Iroquois well armed. Longuant says, and justly, that it is difficult to kill men with clubs. On the other hand they like us, and find the English abhorrent. So they have virtually agreed to leave the casting vote with you. They will come after sundown and demand that the prisoner be given them for torture. If you agree, they will feel that you have declared your position against the English; if you refuse"—— I broke off, and leaned back in the chair. I had not realized, till my own voice stated it, how black a case we had in hand.
We sat in silence for a time. Cadillac scowled and beat his palm upon his knee as a flail beats grain, and I knew he needed no words of mine. I thought that he was going over his defenses in his mind, and I began to calculate how many rounds of shot I had in my canoes, and to hope that my men would not prove cravens. I knew, without argument with myself, that the beaver lands did not need me half as much as I was needed here.
At length Cadillac looked up. "Do you think the prisoner is a spy?" he asked.
I had dreaded this question. "I am afraid so, but judge of him yourself.He speaks French."
Cadillac half rose. "He speaks French? Yet he is an Englishman?"
I nodded. "Undoubtedly an Englishman."
"And you made nothing of him?"
I could only shake my head. "Nothing. He tells the story that I should tell if I were lying,—yet he may be telling the truth. He is a bundle of inconsistencies; that may be nature or art. He may be a hot-headed youth, who knows nothing beyond his own bitterness over his capture, or he may be a clever actor. I do not know."
Cadillac gave a long breath that was near a sigh. "Poor soul!" he said unexpectedly. "Well, spy or otherwise, it matters little for the few hours remaining."
I caught his arm across the table. "Cadillac!" I cried, with an oath."You would not do that!"
He shook off my hand, and looked at me with more regret than anger. "I am the rat in the trap," he said simply. "What did you expect me to do?"
I rose. "Do you mean," I cried, my voice rasping, "that you will not attempt a defense? that you will hand a man, a white man, over to those fiends of hell? Good God, man, you are worse than the Iroquois!"
He came over, and seized my arm. "I could run you through for that speech," he said, his teeth grating. "Are you a child, that you cannot look beyond the moment? Suppose I defy the Ottawas. Then I must call on the Baron to help me, since it was his men who brought the prisoner to camp. Why, man, are you crazed? Look at the situation. Kondiaronk, the Huron, will reason as the Ottawas have done, and throw his forces on their side. I should be left with only the Baron to back me,—the Baron, who has been whetting his knife for my throat for the last year. Why, this is what he wants; this is why he brought the prisoner here! Would you have me walk into his trap? Would you have me sacrifice my men, this garrison, why, this country even, to save the life of one puny Englishman, who is probably himself a spy?" He stopped a moment. "Why, man, you sicken me!" he cried, and he slashed at me with his sword as if I were a reptile.
I took my own sword, and laid it on the table. "I am a fool," I said, not for the first time that day. "But how will Frontenac look at your handing a white man over to torture?"
Cadillac put up his sword. "My orders are plain," he said, tapping a sheaf of papers on his desk. "They came in the last packet. I am to treat all prisoners in the Indian manner. As you say, the Indians have come to think us chicken-hearted. We must give them more than words if we are to hold them as allies."
I seized sword and hat. "You are a good servant," I said. "I wish you joy of your obedience," and I plunged toward the door.
But an orderly stopped me on the threshold. "Is Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac within?" he asked. "The Baron desires an audience with him."
Cadillac pushed up behind me. "I am here," he called to the orderly."Tell the Baron that I will see him when the sun touches the water-line."Then he pulled me back into the room. "How much do you think the Baronknows?" he demanded.
I felt shame for my forgetfulness. "Pemaou was in the Ottawa camp," I said, and I told him what had happened.
Cadillac's face hardened. "Then they have sent to demand the prisoner," he pondered moodily. "I had hoped for a few hours' respite. There might have been some way for the prisoner to escape."
I had been walking the floor, grinding my mailed heels into the pine wood. "Escape!" I cried at him. "Escape! To starve or be eaten by wolves! The torture of the Ottawas were kinder. Now it is your turn to play the child. Escape? Yes, but not alone. Go, go, monsieur! Go and meet the Baron. Go before I change my mind. Tell the Baron he can have the prisoner. Then go to Longuant, and make what terms you will with him. Make any concessions. Feather your nest while you can. I want some one to win at this, since I must lose. I will take the prisoner west with me."
Cadillac seized me. "Montlivet, you mean this?" he demanded. His grip ate into my arm.
I reached up, and unclasped his fingers. "Unhand me!" I grumbled. "I must be on my way."
But he paid no heed. "You mean this?" he reiterated, taking a fresh grip. "The prisoner will hamper you."
I tore my arm away. "Hamper me!" I jerked out. "He will clog me, manacle me! But it is the only thing to do. Now go, while this mood holds with me. Five minutes hence I may not see things in this way. Go! I will arrange the escape. You, as commandant, must not connive with me at that. Go to the Indians, and make your terms. If you can hold them off till moonrise, I promise you the prisoner shall be gone."
But Cadillac would not hasten. He gave me the long estimating glance that I had seen him use once before. "Montlivet," he said, with his arm across my shoulder, "you are doing a great thing; a great thing for France. No man could serve his country more fully than you are doing at this moment. It is an obscure deed, but a momentous one. No one can tell what you may be doing for the empire by helping us through this crisis."
But I was in no mood for heroics. "I am not doing this for France," I cried irritably. "I live to serve France, yes; but I want to serve her in my own way. Not to have this millstone tied around my neck, whether I will or no. Don't think for a moment that I do this because I wish."
Cadillac removed his arm and looked at me. "Then you do it from liking for the Englishman?"
I should have had the grace to laugh at this, but now it was the torch to the magazine. "Like him! No!" I shouted, with an oath. "He is bitter of tongue, and, I think, a spy. He is obnoxious to me. No, I am doing this because I am, what the Ottawas call us all,—chicken-hearted!" and sick with myself and what I had undertaken, I flung out of the door.
The first thing to do was to see the Englishman. For the third time in twenty-four hours I went to the commandant's quarters.
The prisoner was at the window when I entered, and again I caught his look of keen intelligence; a look which he apparently tried to veil as his eyes met mine. That bred suspicion in me. Yet I could not mistake the welcome with which he greeted me.
"I am gratified to see you again, monsieur." Now it was a civil phrase, and well spoken, but it annoyed me. I could not understand his change of look, and I dislike complexities. What was the man concealing that he should drop his eyes before me. In spite of the seriousness of our joint state, I felt much inclination to take time, then and there, to box his ears, and tell him to be more forthright. My annoyance made it easier for me to come without phrases to the meat of the matter. I pressed him to a chair, and stood over him.
"You looked out of the window, Monsieur Starling. What did you learn?"
He glanced upward. "The Indians are excited. Am I the cause?"
"Yes, monsieur."
His glance fell. "They want me—for torture," he said, with steadiness I could not but commend. Then he turned suddenly. "Can your commandant protect me?"
Now this was unexpected. I had intended to lead up to this situation gradually, and the question caught me unguarded. The prisoner was looking me full in the face, and he read there what I had hoped to hide.
"I understand," he said.
I have been with many men when they heard their death sentence, and those who take it as this man did, with spirit and knowledge, rob me of my hold on myself, so that I show emotion of which I am ashamed. I turned away. "Wait, wait, monsieur, I have not said all!" I cried. "There is still one chance for you."
He shook his head. "Small chance for me with that swarm outside. Well, what must come, will come." He was white, and his eyes grew even more sombre; but, though his blood might play him traitor, his will was unshaken. I saw that. I saw, too, that his manner had lost all bravado. He suddenly came to me, and laid his hand on my arm. "I am glad, monsieur, that it was you who came to tell me. It is much easier to hear it from you. All day you have been thoughtful for me; for me, a stranger and an enemy. I wish that my blessing might bring you happiness, monsieur." And before I could check him, he raised my hand to his lips.
I was greatly disturbed. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I expostulated, too much stirred to think what I was saying. "This is not the end. You are to go west with me."
He drew away. "With you? Who are you? What is the west? You said—you said that I had to die."
I felt unsteady, and ill at ease. "Let us discuss this like sane men!" I exclaimed, angry at myself. "You jump at conclusions. That is a woman's foible. Who am I? A trader, Armand de Montlivet, from Montreal. I am going west for peltries. It will be a hard trip, and you will suffer; but it is your only chance. I will get you to the canoe in some fashion soon after dusk. I have not made my plans. I must reconnoitre. Hold yourself ready to do what I ask."
Still he drew away. "I shall be a burden. Tell me the truth, shall I be a burden?"
"Yes."
He did not look angered. Indeed, his eyes softened till I thought him near tears. "And you will do this for me! Run all this risk! And yet you never saw me before to-day!" He touched his hand to mine.
Somehow this again annoyed me. The man was concealing something from me, yet affected to be moved to open emotion by his gratitude. I was not at the bottom of him yet. I removed his hand.
"Monsieur, you forget," I corrected. "You said we were foes, and we are. I never embraced an Englishman, and I shall not begin now—now that our nations are at war. You may be a spy."
"You think me a spy!"
I sighed from exasperation, and pointed to the window. "Monsieur Starling, wake up to this situation. What does it matter what you are, or what I think? We waste time. Say that you will follow me, and I shall go and make my plans."
But still he looked at me. "Then you encumber yourself with me from abstract duty. Personally you distrust me."
The truth seemed best. I bowed.
He thought this over. "Then I refuse to go," he decided quietly. "I refuse." And he bowed toward the door to put a period to our interview.
But here my patience broke. I took him by the arm, and held him ungently. "Words! Words! Words!" I mocked at him. "What would you have me say? That I love you? In faith, I don't. You irritate me; annoy me. But save you I will, if only for my peace of mind. Look at me. Look at me, I say."
He obeyed. All his hard nonchalance had returned.
"Do you trust me?" I demanded.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then you will come with me?"
"No, monsieur."
This was madness—and it took time. "Indeed you will come," I said between my teeth. "And that without more words. Good-by."
But he caught my sleeve. "Then you take me against my will."
I brushed him away. "And against mine, too, if you balk my wishes at every turn. But I will take you. It is the only chance you have, and if you are mad enough to refuse it, I must force it on you. Remember, I shall use force. Now stay by the window, and await my signal. I shall come when I can."
He followed to the door. "You will not need to use force with me, monsieur," he said soberly. "If you insist on taking me, I shall follow your directions, and use what wit I can. But I cannot thank you, for I cannot feel grateful. You give under protest, and I accept in the same way. It is a forced companionship. I do not wish to die; but, after all, it will soon be over, and life has not been sweet. I would rather risk what meets me here than take help from you, now that I see you give it grudgingly."
This chilled me, and excuses pressed hot on my tongue. Yet it was unwise to protest. Why should I wish his gratitude? It would hamper us both. I had no desire to bind him to me with obligations. I felt shame for my coldness; but, for once, my head ruled, and I let the situation stand.
"You are a brave man, monsieur," I said inconsequently. "I know that you will bear your share to-night."
He laid his hand on the door, and searched me with his sad eyes. "One last word," he said, "and then I shall bury this for aye. Monsieur, if I bring you misfortune, I ask you to remember—to remember from now on—that you took me against my will."
For all my impatience, I had some effort not to smile. He would be aburden, he might be a nuisance, but he could hardly be a misfortune.He had a weighty sense of his importance, to use so large a term. ButI would not ridicule him. "I promise," I said.
He held out his hand. "Say that again with your hand in mine. Promise me that, whatever disaster I bring you, you will remember that I came against my will."
Somehow that sobered me. "I promise," I repeated, and touching his hand, and again bidding him be on the watch, I went away.
I had no plans. My mind was cloudy as muddy water, and I sauntered around the camp looking important and weighty with calculation, but feeling resourceless and slow. Then I bethought me of Singing Arrow.
I shouldered my way to her lodge with speed that made me a target for scantily hidden laughter. But I could not find her. Lodge and fire were alike deserted. I asked questions, but was met by shrugs. My eagerness had been unwise. I had sought too openly and brusquely, and the Ottawas suspected my zeal of being official rather than personal. I saw myself in their eyes as an officer of the law, and knew that I had closed one door in my own face. I told myself contemptuously that I had made so many blunders in that one day that I must, by this time, have exhausted the list, and that I would soon stumble on the right road as the only one left.
And so it proved. For I went to my canoes, and there, perched bird-wise on my cargo, and flinging jests and laughter at Pierre and the men, sat Singing Arrow.
It was what I most wanted, and so relieved was I at finding it, that I could not forbear a word of reproof.
"I told you to keep away from Singing Arrow!" I stormed at Pierre, like the mother who stops to shake her recovered child before she cries over it.
Pierre grinned shamefacedly, but Singing Arrow smiled like May sunlight.
"Has monsieur been looking for me?" she asked. "He carries the wet red clay that lies in front of my wigwam," and she pointed a curving finger at my boots.
I could have embraced her. If I had no wit, she had it and to spare. I made up my mind, then and there, to trust her. It was a mad chance, but a good gamester likes a dangerous throw.
"Come here, Singing Arrow," I commanded, and I would have led her down the beach out of earshot.
She followed but a step or two, then halted, balancing herself on one foot like a meditative crane. "I want sunset-head to go too," she insisted, darting her covert bird-glance at Pierre, and when I would have objected, I saw her mouth pinch together, and I remembered that no Indian will submit to force. So I let her have her will.
We held short council: Pierre the peasant, Singing Arrow the squaw, and I, the Seignior de Montlivet. We mingled suggestions and advice, and struck a balance. The sunset flamed in the woods behind us, and I knew that the moon rose early. I could have used a knife upon Pierre for the time it took me to convince him that our canoes could carry one man more. Heretofore my nod had been enough to bring him to my heels, but now he thought his head in danger, so he fought with me like an animal or an equal. The equal I would not tolerate, and the animal I cowed in brute fashion. Then I sent Singing Arrow to do her work, and I went to the Englishman.
The Englishman saw me from the window, and was at the door before I could lift the latch. Yet his eagerness did not trip him into carelessness, and so long as the guards could see, he greeted me with a hostile stare.
I pushed him within, and closed the door. "Have you seen any one?" I asked.
"Only the guard with my supper."
I drew a freer breath. "Good tidings. Then Cadillac has succeeded in holding off the Indians until moonrise."
He glanced out at the dusk. "That is not long," he said dispassionately.
I put out my hand. Somehow this youth could move me curiously by his calmness, although I was no stranger to brave men.
"The time is terribly short," I agreed, "but we will make it suffice. And we need not haste. We can do nothing till it is a little darker, then we shall move swiftly. A young squaw, Singing Arrow, will be here in a few minutes. You are to escape in her dress."
He wasted no time in comment. "Am I dark enough?" he demurred. "My neck, where I am not sunburned, is very white."
I had thought of this, and had warned Singing Arrow. "There is no opportunity to stain your skin," I said, "so we must trust to the dark, and a blanket wrapping. The Indian will wear leggings, skirt and blouse of skin, so you will be fairly covered. The hands and hair are the weak points. You will have to keep them in the blanket."
He hesitated. "You can trust this girl?" he asked slowly.
Now why should he ask what he knew I could not answer? "Can you trust me—or I you, for the matter of that?" I jerked out with a frown. "This is an outlaw's land, and the wise man trusts no one except under compulsion. I would not trust Singing Arrow for a moment if I could help myself, but she is our only hope, so I trust her implicitly. I advise you to do the same. Half measures are folly. If you try to be cautious in your dealings with her, you will tie her hands so that the whole thing will fall through. If she betrays us—well, you are in no worse estate than now, and we will still have my sword and my men to depend on. But that is a slender hope, and we will save it for a last resort. Now we will hazard everything on this plan."
I had made my long speech nervously, knowing, in my heart, that what I asked the man to do would take more courage of soul than one would expect to find in his slender frame. For I might be throwing him over to fiendish torment. The Indian women were cruel as weasels, and more ingenious in their trap-setting than the men. It cooled my blood to think what Singing Arrow's friendliness might really mean.
The prisoner heard me without flinching. "But what is Singing Arrow's motive?" he asked, with his mournful eyes full on my own. "We cannot read men's hearts, but, after all, there are but few springs that rule their action. You know that I will be loyal to you to save my head, to which, though it has served me badly, I yet cling. I know that you will be loyal to me because I see that God gave you a softness of heart which your brain tells you is unwise. But what string pulls this Indian that she should be a traitor to her people? If you will give me a hint, I will play upon it as best I can."
I could only shrug. "It may be my man, Pierre," I hazarded. "He is red as a flamingo, and a fool into the bargain; but he has shoulders like an ox, so the women want him. I can see no other motive. Will you trust to that, monsieur?"
He looked back at me with the flicker of a smile. "It is sufficient."
I do not like smiles that I cannot understand, so I changed the subject. "The plan is simple, monsieur," I said briskly. "Singing Arrow will come to the window, and you are to make love to her. After a time—not too long—you are to beguile her inside. I think the guards will be complaisant, if you play your part well. Be as debonair as possible. A soldier is always tempted to be lenient to a jaunty foe."
The prisoner nodded. "And you will meet me?"
"Outside in the camp. I shall stand near a fire, so that you can find me at once. Remember, monsieur, that you are Singing Arrow, and that it will be your cue to follow me, and mine to shrug you away."
The Englishman drew a long breath. "I am ready, monsieur," he said, with a little squaring of the shoulders, and I saw that, mortal danger that he was in, his spirit yet responded to the touch of comedy in the game.
I saluted him with a laugh of my own. "Then I will go, monsieur. Go into the next room to change your clothing, or the guard may come in and find you. One thing more. Remember you have overpowered Singing Arrow, and taken your disguise by force. It may be well to lock her in that inside room before you leave; but do as you like. I leave details to you."
He made acknowledgment with a sweeping bow. "I will be a monster of cruelty," he promised, and he pulled at imaginary mustachios like a child at play.
Now it may be well to commend nonchalance, but there are bounds that should not be passed. Had this man no reverence toward the mystery of his own life that he jested on the edge of it? I had rather have seen him with a rosary in his hand than with defiance on his lips.
"Is life all bitterness and sharp-edged laughter with you, monsieur?" I asked bluntly. "This may be our last talk. It is hardly a seemly one. If you have messages to send that will not compromise you, I will try and get them through—in case our plans fail."
The prisoner eyed me oddly. "And in case you still live, monsieur," he corrected. "You show much solicitude that I meet my end decorously, yet I cannot see that you display any dolor over your own condition. Why should I have less fortitude? You are like a man who cares not for religion for himself, yet insists upon it for children and for his womenkind,—for his inferiors in general. Why should you feel that I need so much prompting?" His voice suddenly hardened. "Tell me. Is it my youth that makes you feel yourself my mentor, or have I failed you in any way? Answer." And he gave the stamp of the foot that I had heard once before.
How could I answer but with laughter? "You are a leopard, and a lamb, and a bantam cock all in one," I jeered at him. "No wonder that I feel you need a priest to shrive you;" and I laughed again, and would not notice the hurt shining of his eyes as I went away.
I had not vaunted idly when I told the prisoner that our plans were ready. I had scarcely dropped the latch of the commandant's door when I saw Singing Arrow sauntering near.
She was graceful in her finery. Even a white man might commend. Her skin garments looked soft and clean, and draped her cunningly. In the dusk and the firelight with the bright blanket falling from her hair, she looked so winning that I thought the guards could find excuse if the prisoner loitered at the window.
And loiter he did. I sauntered and watched while the prisoner and Singing Arrow threw glances that proved them no tyros in the game of love and life. The comedy was pleasing, and I did not wonder that the guards tilted their heads to one side, and looked on with grins. Singing Arrow bridled, and drew away and then drew near. All was going as we planned, till Pemaou and a band of his Hurons came around the corner of the house.
I had done Pemaou the justice to hate him when I first saw him. And one does not hate an inferior. He had as keen a mind as I have ever known, and he was not hampered by any of the scruples and decencies that interfere with a white man. So he was my superior in resource. I knew, as I saw him look at me now, that my share in the game was over. He had seen me listening to Longuant. Where had my wits been lagging that I had not foreseen that he would have spies watching me, and would trace some connection between the prisoner and myself? Well, there was nothing left me but to stroll away. I did not dare go in the direction of the canoes; it would be unwise to seek Cadillac; so I turned boldly to the Ottawa camp. Hardly knowing what I planned, I asked for Longuant.
Somewhat to my surprise, the Ottawas listened with respect. I had apparently won some reputation among them, and without demur they took me to the chief.
Longuant was squatting before his lodge. A piece of wood was laid across his lap, and he was chopping rank tobacco with a scalping knife. He smelled of oil, and smoke, and half-cured hides; yet he met me as a ruler meets an ambassador. As I stumbled after him into his dark lodge, I saw that he was preparing to greet me with all the silence and circumlocution of a state messenger. I had no time for that,—though it gratified me. I tramped my way through all ceremony and plunged at my point.
"I am no envoy," I began, shaking my head in refusal of the proffered seat upon the mat beside him. "I am only a voice. A bird that calls 'beware' from the branches, and then flits away. Why watch the old wolf, and let the cub play free? Would you make yourself a laughing-stock among your people, by letting the Englishman escape into the Baron's hands? Pemaou, son of the Baron, stands with his followers outside the Englishman's window. What does he seek? I am no Ottawa. I am a free man, bound to no clan, and to no covenant, and friend to the Ottawas and Hurons alike. But I do not like to see a wise man tricked by a boy. I have spoken."
Longuant rose. "My brother's voice speaks the truth," he said, gathering his robes to leave me. "My brother sent his words, even as he flung his spear at Pemaou, straight at the mark. Only one word goes astray. My brother is not the free man he vaunts himself. He is tied by hate;" and pushing out his lip till his huge nose pendant stood at a right angle, he went on his way to be my willing, but entirely unhoodwinked agent.
I went to my canoes, stumbling a little, for I was tired. It was dark now, and the fires glowed brazenly, so that the Indians showed like dancing silhouettes. The sky was cloudless, and to the east lay a band of uncertain light that meant the rising moon. This was the time that I had planned to use in action, and the knowledge that I was powerless to accomplish anything myself made me so irritable that I could not bear to speak even to Pierre and the men. I sent them to a distance, and sat down on the sand so torn and frayed by anxiety that I was like a sick man.
And here, after long minutes, Singing Arrow found me. She came running down the beach, slipping on the rolling pebbles, and careless either of her grace, or of the noise she made.
"And you sit here doing nothing!" she cried, quite as a white girl might have done.
I pushed her down on the sand. "Stop!" I said. "I knew you would seek me here. Now answer briefly. Pemaou and his men would not let you get near the window?"
"No."
"They had seen you with me," I explained. "I feared it. Did Longuant and his men come?"
"Like bees," she answered, with a fling of her arms. "They are everywhere. We can do nothing;" and she dropped her head in her arms and cried.
Now what indeed could be her motive? "Never mind, Singing Arrow," I said experimentally. "What is it to you, after all?"
She wriggled her head to throw me a wrathful look. "I always win at a game," she mumbled.
She was as hard to read as a purring cat, but that did not matter. "We've not lost yet," I said, as slowly and coolly as if I did not see the disk of the moon looking at me. "I sent Longuant there. I was sure that Pemaou would keep you away, and I am playing for time. So long as the Ottawas and Hurons are squabbling with one another, Cadillac will not deliver the prisoner. But we must get them farther away. Singing Arrow, I have brandy in my cargo. I have drawn off two large flasks. Could you carry them to the other end of the camp, and send word among the braves?"
Now this was a contemptible thing to suggest; but any one who stoops, as I was letting myself do, to use a cat's-paw to work out his ends will surely soil his fingers. The sword is the clean weapon. I felt that even this Indian would look at me with disdain, but she did not. She thought a moment, then wagged her head in assent.
"But I promised Father Carheil not to drink any brandy myself," she added defiantly, as if she feared I might protest, and I felt myself as low as the hound that I had kicked that day because it would have stolen a child's sagamité.
"Make haste!" I cried, in a fury with myself, and with the speeding time. "Tell the prisoner to saunter away from the door, to pass the largest fire, and then to go straight through the old maize field toward the timber. I will be waiting there."
"I can do it," she vaunted, and she gathered the brandy under her blanket, and ran like a quail, while I went to my red-topped giant.
"Pierre Boudin," I cried, with my hand on his collar, "if we get back to this place alive, you are to marry that Ottawa girl; to marry her fairly with priest and book. Remember that."
My man turned a complacent eye. "If the master wishes," he said dutifully. Then he gave a fat chuckle. "I promised to marry her when we came back if she would save the Englishman,—but then I thought that we should go home the other way."
Why try to teach decency to a barnyard brood! I dusted my fingers free from the soil of him. "I will marry her to you, if only to see her flout you," I promised vengefully. "Now to the canoes, and have your paddles ready." I had no smile for him, though he sought it, as I walked away.
The moon had swung free of the horizon, and cabins and trees stood out as if made of white cardboard. The night was chilly, and as I crept along the edge of the maize field, I caught my numbed toes on the stiffened clods of earth turned up by last year's plowing. Yet I moved silently, and by keeping in the shadow of blackened stumps and withered maize stalks, I reached bow-shot of the commandant's door.
Truly one part of my plan had succeeded. The house was the centre of an ant-like swarm skurrying here and there, apparently without method, but with a jerkiness of movement that suggested attack and recoil. I could distinguish the nose pendants of the Ottawas and the bristling crests of the Hurons. It was a crew with choice potentialities for mischief. Cadillac was justified in feeling that his scalp sat but unsteadily upon his head.
I had given Singing Arrow fifteen minutes to hide her brandy and send word to the braves, and I counted off the time to myself, trying to numb my anxiety. But among savages news runs underground as well as over, and I had scarcely covered half the space that I had set for myself before the crowd began to disappear. It slipped away like water between the fingers, and in a moment there remained only the guards, Pemaou, and a few Ottawas. The guards, relieved from immediate anxiety of a riot, leaned listlessly on their muskets, the Ottawas would not interfere with a girl of their own tribe, and Pemaou could not watch all quarters at once. Now was certainly the time to act; but where was Singing Arrow? My inaction pressed on me like a hideous weight. It seemed days instead of hours that I had sat like a crone by her distaff and let others do my work—or fail to do it. Why was Singing Arrow so slow to come?
I thought that I had not shifted my gaze from the house for more than an instant; but now, as I watched the door, I learned, and not for the first time, that a white man should have a score of eyes instead of two when it comes to watching an Indian. For the commandant's door suddenly opened, and out came a blanket-draped, skin-clad figure. My muscles stiffened. It was the Englishman. Singing Arrow had brought him the clothing, and I had not seen.
So the moment had come. I gripped my sword as one turns instinctively to the friend loved best. Would the prisoner act his part? So keen was my anxiety, that I felt my spirit leap out to stand by his side, and I shut my teeth upon the cry of encouragement that welled within me.
But he needed no help of mine. He made his way leisurely past the great fire, walking with wonderful mimicry of a woman's gait, and he kept his face well in the shelter of the blanket in a way that suggested coquetry rather than disguise.
And in this manner he came straight to me. He came, unerringly as a sleep-walker, past fires, past Indians, and through the gaunt rows of maize. He looked neither to right nor left, and no one molested him. He came to where I stood silent, and put out his hand to touch mine.
"It is done," he said quietly.
His fingers were warm, and his touch tingled. I marveled. "It is a miracle," I said.
He looked at me in question. "Your hand is very cold. Monsieur, monsieur, did you fear for me so much?"
I bowed. "Yes. I did not think it could be done. You are an able man, monsieur."
He did not answer for a moment, and he followed me silently along the edge of the maize field. Then he touched my shoulder.
"Monsieur, how strange the world looks to-night. The moon,—have you ever seen it so remote and chill? Oh, we are puppets! No, it was not my wit that carried me through. It was Fate. Life has been hard on me. She is saving me now for some further trick she has to play. I pray that it may not bring you ill, monsieur."
I knew not how to answer, for I was moved. As he said, the moon made the world strange. Great beauty is disturbing, and the night was like enchantment. He had come to me like a dream spirit in his woman's dress. I felt the need of a dash of cold water on my spirit.
"You must not put on woman's fancies with your petticoats, monsieur," I cautioned over my shoulder. "Now we had best not talk till we are safe afloat in the canoes."
The men were ebon, the canoes vague gray, and the water like sheet ice under the moon. The Englishman and I crept across the pebbles with panther feet, and the splash of a frightened otter was the only sound. I laid my finger on my lips, and my men checked their breathing. We were silent as figures in a mirror. I tapped the Englishman on the shoulder, and motioned where he should sit in the canoe.
And then, from the timber fringe behind us, came a call. "SingingArrow! Singing Arrow! Stop! Stop!"
Sword unsheathed, I dashed across the open space of moonlight toward the trees. Who called, or why, I did not question. But I must smother the noise. "Singing Arrow!" the call came again, and the roar of it in the quiet night made my flesh crawl.
I had not taken two strides into the timber when I saw a man running toward me. He was still calling. I leaped upon him, winding an arm about his neck, and covering his mouth. He was a small armful; a weazened body to have sheltered so great a power of lung.
"Hush! For the Virgin's sake, hush!" I stormed in noisy whispers. "Father Carheil, is it you? Hush! Hush!" I dropped my hand from his mouth. "Now speak in whispers," I implored.
The father shook his cassock free from my fingers. My embrace had been fervid, and his cassock was rumpled, and his scant hair was stringing wildly from under his skullcap. But shrunken and tumbled as he was, he was impressive. With some men, if you disarrange their outer habit, you lower their inner dignity as well. It was not so with Father Carheil.
He looked at me closely, with a sober gentleness that became him well, and that he did not often use. "Why should I go quietly?" he asked. "My errand is righteous. It is only black work that needs the cover of a silent tongue. My son, you are letting your men abduct Singing Arrow. Did your promise to me count for so little in your mind?"
I bowed, and mumbled something meaningless to gain time. I was not clear as to my course. "Why do you think that we have Singing Arrow?" I blurted out finally.
"Pemaou told me."
Pemaou again! But we had tricked him. I grinned with joy to think of him with his nose still rooted close to the deserted hole. I could almost forgive him for the trouble he was causing now.
"Pemaou lied," I said cheerfully. "Singing Arrow is not with us, Father Carheil. Will you go back now? My mission is urgent and demands secrecy."
He looked at the ground. "You swear to this? You swear that SingingArrow is not with you?"
I laid my hand on my sword, and bared my head. "I swear."
He turned away. "You seem a gentleman," he said reluctantly. "I regret that I troubled you. I wish you fair winds, monsieur."
Beshrew me, but the man could get close to my heart. "Thank you, father," I cried earnestly. "I wish that I might requite your trust with greater candor. But, in the end, I hope to justify my means. I would that I might have your blessing on my mission and my cargo."
Blockhead that I was, not to have let well enough alone. For I was to blame for what followed. I may have grown unconsciously rhetorical, and waved my hand in the direction of the canoes. I do not know. I do know that at the word "cargo" Father Carheil turned and looked toward the shore. There, in my canoe, with gaze searching the timber where I had disappeared, stood a figure,—a woman's figure in Singing Arrow's dress and blanket.
Father Carheil looked at me. He did not speak; it was not necessary. I endured his gaze for a moment, then sold my prudence to save my honor. I laid my finger on the priest's arm.
"Come with me to the canoes," I demanded. "If you find yourself in the wrong, it may teach you to trust a man's word against your own eyesight."
He assented. We walked swiftly across the moon-lighted open, and I had scant time for fear. Yet I was afraid. I could give the Englishman no helping hand, no word of warning. Would he rise to the moment?
He did. He turned his back upon us, Indian-fashion, and squatted in his blanket. He lost all suggestion of Singing Arrow's slim elasticity, and sat in a shapeless huddle. I laughed with relief.
"Where is Singing Arrow now?" I twitted the priest. "Is this she?"
The old priest peered. "No," he meditated. "No, this is not Singing Arrow." He wheeled on me with one of his flashes of temper. "I cannot recognize this girl. Let her take off her blanket."
I motioned my men to take stations in the canoes. "Father Carheil, I beg you to let me go at once," I implored. "You see you were wrong. As to this Indian, you never saw her; she is a stranger here."
But the father was not pacified. "Let her take off her blanket," he repeated, with all the aimless persistency of age.
Did I say that the man had grown close to my heart? Why, I could have shaken him. But the Englishman cut the knot. He turned with a hunch of the shoulder, and peered at us over the corner of his blanket. Gesture, and roll of the head, he was an Indian. I was so pleased at the mimicry, that I gave way to witless laughter.
"Now!" I cried triumphantly. "Now, are you satisfied?"
But the priest did not reply. He stared, and his eyes grew ferret-sharp. Then he shifted his position, and stared again. It beat into my brain that he had lived thirty years among the Indians, and that his eyes were trained. He could see meanings, where I saw a blank wall.
"This is no Indian woman," he said slowly, with a wagging forefinger that beat off his words like the minute hand of Fate. "This is—this is—why, this is the English prisoner!"
He brought out the last words in a crescendo, and again my hand clapped tight against his mouth.
"Be still! Be still!" I spluttered wildly, and I threw a disordered glance at the horizon, and at my astonished crew. I had not meant that the men, except Pierre, should be taken into the secret until we were well afloat. Here was another contretemps.
"Are you mad, Father Carheil!" I began, with a sorry show of dignity, while my palm stuck like a leech against his lips. "This is not"——
"Not any one but the prisoner himself," interrupted the Englishman's voice. He dropped his blanket, and sprang to the sand. "Do not lie for me, monsieur," he went on in his indolent, drawling French that already had come to have a pleasant quaintness in my ears. "Monsieur, let me speak to the father."
If Nature had given me a third hand, I should have used it to throttle the Englishman. "Get back in the canoe!" I stormed.
He motioned me away. Standing slim and tall in Singing Arrow's dress, he put me—such creatures of outward seeming are we—absurdly in the wrong, as if I had been rude to a woman.
"Father Carheil," he began, "your ears at least are not fettered. Listen, if you will. This man is not to blame. I was thrown in his way, and he took me from pity, to save my life. Now that I am discovered, I will go back to prison with you. Let this man go west. Whatever his business, it is pressing."
With two mad men on my hands, I had to choose between them. I dropped the priest, and gripped the Englishman.
"If you go back, I go with you!" I raged in his ear. Then I turned toFather Carheil. "Are you going to report this, father? It is as theEnglishman says. I take him as the only way to save him from torture.May we go?"
The father thought a moment. "No," he said.
I gripped my sword. "You have seen torture, Father Carheil. Would you hand this man over to it?"
The father looked at me as if I were print for his reading. "I am piecing facts together," he said, with unmoved slowness. "Singing Arrow is in league with you, for the prisoner is wearing her clothes. The Indians are wild with brandy, which, it is rumored, Singing Arrow furnished. The brandy must have come from you. Is that so? Answer me. Answer, in the name of the Holy Church. Is that so?"
I bowed. "You are a logician," I said bitterly. "Father, I can hear the tom-toms. It is a miracle that we have escaped undetected so long. Our respite cannot last many minutes longer. May we go?"
My tone seemed to reach him, and he wavered a moment. "Perhaps," he began haltingly; then he backed several paces. "No!" he cried, all his small wiry figure suddenly tense. "No! You are a dangerous man. You carry brandy, and no one knows your errand. If I let you go, I may save one man from torture,—which, after all, is but an open door to the blessed after life,—but I shall be letting you carry brandy and perdition on to scores of souls. No." And he opened his mouth to call for help.
But I was on him before his shout could frame itself to sound. I drew my handkerchief, and tied it, bandage-firm, across his mouth. Then I called to Pierre, and bidding him bring me thongs from our store in the canoe, I proceeded to bind the priest firmly. He was slight as a woman in my hands. I could feel the sharpness and brittleness of his old bones through his wrinkled skin, and I was sick at myself. "I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry," I heard myself repeating, explaining to him, and to myself, and, mostly, to the God who judges us. I looked at the wonderful mobile old face, with all its weakness, and all its wonderful white goodness, and hated myself for laying hands of violence on such a man. "I am sorry," I cried again. I looked at the spit of land that separated us from the camp, and the light from the fires glowed red above it. The din of dogs and men swelled high. Something was happening. I glanced down at the priest, but turned away quickly, for I had no stomach for what I had done.
"They will find you soon," I said, with my throat tightening. "God knows I'm sorry."
Then I dashed to the canoes. "Quickly!" I cried, and I shoved the Englishman down behind me, that I might not have to see even the glint of his red blanket to anger me by thought of what I had sacrificed.
In a moment, our paddles were dipping. I looked back at the settlement. "It is done!" I cried under my breath, and I could not forbid a moment of exultation. I glanced at the Englishman.
But I met no exultation there. The man's strange eyes were still grave. "No, monsieur, it is just begun," he corrected, and I thought, as I saw his look at the retreating shore, that he shrunk from the uncertainties ahead more than from the death behind. Was there a coward streak in him, after all? I turned my back, and did not speak again.
To paddle by day, to work in sun and breeze, is a pastime, but to paddle by night drains a man's endurance. For long hours our canoes nosed their way around headland after headland and along wild shores peopled by beasts and shadows. The black water was a threat and a mystery, and the moonlight was chill, so that our limbs, which should have bounded with red blood, were aching and leaden with the cold. I stretched myself with relief when the red-streaked horizon told me it was time to land and make camp.
I was prepared for pursuit, but knew that, with Pierre in one canoe and Labarthe in the other, we must be well in advance of it. Now I purposed to stop and hide. It is more to my taste to be hound than hare, and I do not like an enemy snapping at my heels. So I prepared to land. Once the pursuing canoes had passed us we could take up the chase on our own part and follow at leisure.
I called the word to the other canoe, and then as we swung shoreward I turned to look at the Englishman. All night I had heard no sound from him, nor glanced his way. My thoughts of him had been bitter, for he was a sore weight on my hands. Yet this I knew was unjust, and I was shamed for my own bad temper. My surliness must have pricked him, as he sat silent through the long hours of dark and cold; and now that the approaching sun was putting me in a better humor, I could see that I had been hard, and I determined to speak to him fairly.
And so I turned, puckering my lips to a smile that did not come easily, for my face was stiff and my spirit sore. But I might have spared my pains. The prisoner was asleep. He lay in a chrysalis of red blanket, his head tipped back on a bundle of sailcloth, his face to the stars. He was submerged in the deep slumber where the soul deserts the body and travels unknown ways. Judged by his look of lax muscles and surrender, he had lain that way for hours,—the hours when I had been punishing him with my averted glance.
I woke him with a hand on his shoulder.
"You slept well," I accused.
He shivered under my hand and opened his eyes. It took him an instant to recognize me, but when he did he smiled with relief. I could not but see that there was something pleasant in his smile. I saw, too, that sleep had wiped the lines from his face, and given him a touch of color.
"Did I sleep? Did I really sleep?" he marveled. "Monsieur, you are very good to me."
But I was in no holiday humor, so only shrugged, and told him to unload the bales. He smiled again, nodding, and jumped to the shore with buoyancy that was an affront to our numbed muscles. But once at work he was as useless as a sailor in a hayfield. He could lift nothing, and he was hopelessly under foot. I bade him stand aside, and I prayed for patience. After all he was young, and had been through great hardship. I would spare him what I could for a time.
It is depressing to work in a cold dawn on an empty stomach. Our landing had been made at the mouth of a rivulet, and we followed it till we found a place, some quarter mile inland, that was open enough for a camp. Here bale by bale we brought the cargo, piling it under trees and covering it with sailcloth. The canoes we put bottom up in the open, that the sun might dry them. I left Pierre hidden at the shore to watch the horizon for our pursuers, and the rest of us proceeded to breakfast.
It was cheerless. When I say we made a camp it is misleading, for we could not swing our kettles for fear of the betraying smoke. We sat down stiffly, for the ground was still wet from the night dew, and we passed our bags of dried maize and jerked meat from hand to hand. I made some ado to eat cheerfully, for I saw that the men were surly from this unnecessary hardship. The western Indians were friendly, and if we had not had this incubus of an Englishman on our hands we should have had fire and song, a boiling pot, and roasting maize cakes. There was no muttering among the men, for I was there, but they looked glowering, and drew away.
The Englishman ate in silence. I was too ruffled and crossgrained to talk to him, but I could not keep myself from watching him. His eyes were less sad than I had thought. I could imagine that they might easily be merry. But they were watchful eyes. He saw the discontent among the men, and finally he rose and went to them. I followed him with some warning in my look, for I thought that he was vexed, and I knew that his tongue was sharp, but I realized in a moment that his brain was in control and that he was safe.
"I have brought you all discomfort," he said, with a shake of the head, and his slow French gave his words more meaning than they perhaps deserved. "I regret this. It is hard for me to bear, for it is new to me to be a burden. But what can I do? I cannot go away. I am not enamored of this voyage, for I do not like being thrust upon your company, but you saved my life, and I have no right to throw away what you went to such lengths to preserve. What would you have me do?"
The oafs exchanged glances. They spoke after a minute in a united, disjointed grumble.
"You don't work."
The Englishman looked at them and at me. I realized that he was curiously slight and young, and that we seemed hostile. That was hardly just, and I was ready to go to his rescue. But he turned from me to the men.
"It is true that I work very badly," he said. "I do not know how. But men are born of women, and—well, what a man can do I can learn. Suppose, now, that I go and relieve Pierre at the watch. If you will show me what to do I think you will find me teachable. I shall try to be as little of a burden as possible. Here is my hand on it." And he held out his slim palm for their grasp.
Again they stared; but the hand won them. They touched it fumblingly and were impressed. They were a slow lot, selected for various purposes other than wit. Their minds moved too sluggishly for swift reactions, and I dismissed anxiety about them from my mind.
The Englishman turned to me. "Will you conduct me to the shore? I will take Pierre's place."
It was my turn to stare. "Suppose you conduct yourself," was on my tongue, but I let it escape unsaid. "Come, then," I answered, with a shrug.
I led the way over logs and under bushes, and the Englishman followed silently; silently at least as to his tongue, but his feet were garrulous. They stepped on twigs, stumbled on slippery lichen, and shouted their passage for rods around.
"I would rather lead a buffalo in tether," I fretted, and just as I said it he completed the sum of his blundering by catching his toe in a root and plunging head foremost to the ground. I pulled him up by the sleeve of his skin blouse and shook him free from loam and twigs.
"Now will you stop that?" I cried.
He looked at me gravely, unabashed, but curious. "I did not fall purposely to irritate you. Gravity, which, I understand, operates alike on the learned and the foolish, had some share in it. Why are you angry?"
"Why are you reckless? You have crashed through here as careless of noise as a stag with the hounds hot behind."
He dropped to the ground, and took one slim moccasined foot in his hand. He looked at it soberly. "It seems a small thing, does it not, to cause so much ill-will between us? It has neither weight nor mental force above it, that it should make the earth tremble. No, monsieur, you are searching for excuses for your annoyance with me. You are annoyed all the time. I vex you by my silence, still more by my speech. We are to be some time together, and I do not want to be a constant canker. Is it not possible for you to forget me, to ignore me?"
I saw he was in earnest. "And so you really do not know what irritated me? Are you so little of a woodsman?"
"I have never traveled through the woods."
I gave him a dubious glance. "Yet you were weeks with the Hurons after your capture."
I saw him set his teeth hard as if at a memory. "We traveled by water ways. I was little on the shore except at night."
A sudden picture sickened me. The nightly camp and this slender lad with his curious air of daintiness, and the great oily Hurons lounging in the dirt and smoke.
"Were they cruel to you?" I broke out.
He shook his head. "No," he said, with the air of justice I had liked in him heretofore; "no, they were not cruel. Indeed they were almost kind, in that they left me a great deal alone. I feared from the clemency they showed me that they were reserving me for torture."
I eyed him with some skepticism. "It was not the Hurons, but their rivals, the Ottawas, who would have sent you to the stake," I explained curtly. "The Hurons—those of the Baron's band—would have held you as a hostage,—perhaps as a deputy."
He looked up with interested eyes. "You are playing some political game, and these tribes are your counters. I should like to understand."
I examined his look, but could make nothing of it. "You will pardon me, monsieur," I said with a shrug, "but these are troublous times, and I find it hard to believe you as ignorant as you seem."
He still met my look. "And if I were not ignorant?" he asked. "Could I, one Englishman, alone and unarmed, accomplish anything that would hurt you? You see that I am harmless. Why not be friends?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"So you are determined that I am a secret ambassador," he meditated. "Well, I must act my part with dignity. And you think we cannot be comrades? I dislike to irritate you as I do."
I answered him soberly. "We will be partners," I agreed; "friends for the night's bivouac, willing to help and to share."
"But you will not trust me?"
I looked away. "What would a truce between us mean? You are English,I, French. Be assured that sooner or later the fox eats the hen."
He laughed. "Who is to be the fox?" He jumped to his feet. "Partners, then, it shall be. A strange creed. A helping hand to-day and a knife in the back to-morrow. But I shall follow you, monsieur."
"You will follow?"
"In this path as in others. If you refuse to admit even a truce between us, I agree. I shall keep out of your way as much as possible. Only—I would not have you think me ungrateful."
I could never forbear a smile when he was serious. "We shall probably think very little about each other," I said comfortably. "Once settled into routine we shall have work to fill our thought. You will learn to do your share. I think you willing."
"Indeed I am willing, monsieur."
"Good. So we shall work hard, sleep early, and the months will pass before we know. Let us not talk of trust or friendship, since our ways are divided."
He bowed. "You are right, monsieur. And I meant only this,—I will try not to be an irritation. You will try not to think of me as such. You agree?"
I smiled again. "Yes. Partners for the night," I reminded him. "I am gratified, Monsieur Starling, that you see the matter so reasonably. There is a gulf between us, and we cannot change it." We did not speak again till we reached Pierre at the shore.