I shook my head. "It is your cousin's mind impressed on yours that tells you that we must part,—that and your unfathomable spirit,—the spirit that carried you in man's dress through those weeks as a captive. It is that same spirit that will bring you back to me some day."
"Monsieur!"
"That will bring you back."
"Monsieur, no. I cannot change myself."
"Would I have you change? Mary, Mary! I took you as a boy with me to the wilderness because you had an unbreakable will and a fanatic's courage. Yet this is not the end. It is not the end."
She did not answer, and again she laid her head on the table. We had but a few minutes left now. I saw her look up at me twice before I heard her whisper, "Monsieur, you said that I loved you. But you never said that you"——
"Would it change your decision if I said it now?"
"No, no! It could not."
I slipped to my knees and laid my lips on her clasped hands. "You are part of me. You go with me whether you will or no. You are in the red sunsets that we saw together, and in the white dawns when we ate our meal and meat side by side. You are fettered to me. I cannot rid myself of your presence for a moment. I shall tell you more of this when you come to me again."
She bent to me with the color driven from her lips. "Don't! Don't! We will learn to forget. We are both rulers of our wills. We will learn to forget. Wait—— Are they calling me?"
We listened. Cadillac was at the door. We both rose.
"In a moment," I called to him. Then I turned. "Whatever happens, keep to the eastward. Don't let your Indians turn. Refuse, and make Starling refuse, to listen to any change of plan."
She was trembling. She seemed not to hear me, and I said the words again. "You must promise. You are not to go to the west."
And then she put out her hands to me. "Yes, yes, I understand. I promise. I shall not go west. But, monsieur, do not—do not go with me to the shore. Let me go alone. Let us part here."
I could have envied her the power to tremble. I felt like stone. I had but one arm, but I drew her to me till I felt her heart on mine. "This is not the end. This is not the end. But till you come to me again"—— And I would have laid my lips on hers.
But she was out of my grasp. "We—we—— It was a compact. If we—— If we did that, we could not part. Good-by, monsieur. I beg you not to go with me. God be with you. God be with you, monsieur."
I followed to the door and held to its casing as I looked after her. She had met Cadillac, and was walking with him. She, whom I had always seen erect, was leaning on his arm.
A full hour later I went to Cadillac. "I am leaving," I said. "I am taking Pierre. The Ottawa girl, his wife, says she is going with us. It is foolish,—but Pierre wishes it. He is dough in her hands."
Cadillac shook my well shoulder. "Go to bed for a day. You are ash color."
"No, I must be on my way. The time is short enough as it is. Have theSenecas gone?"
"No, it will be some hours before they are ready. If you start now, you will be enough in advance to keep out of sight."
I could not forbear a shrug. "Three hours' start to collect an army!Well, it shall serve. And you follow to-morrow?"
Cadillac gave a trumpeting laugh. "Yes, tomorrow. I shall take a hundred men and leave a hundred here for guard. I have made arrangements. Longuant leads the Ottawas, and old Kondiaronk the loyal Hurons. Where shall we meet you?"
"I cannot tell. Stop at the Pottawatamie Islands and Onanguissé will know. Keep watch of Pemaou. He will make trouble if he can."
Cadillac looked at the horizon. "Montlivet, I have bad news. Pemaou has gone."
"Gone! Where?"
"I don't know. To the Seneca camp, probably. His canoes have just left."
I tapped the ground. I was tired and angry. "You should have prevented such a possibility," I let myself say.
But he kept his temper. "What could I have done?" he asked quietly."I have no authority in my garrison."
I regretted my outburst. "You could not have done anything," I hastened. "And if Pemaou has indeed gone to the Senecas, it is good news for me. I am impatient for a meeting with him that I did not dare have here for fear of entangling myself and losing time. I shall hope for an encounter in the west. And now I am away, monsieur."
I wished to leave with as little stir as possible, so Pierre took the canoe around the point, and I joined him there. To reach the rendezvous I walked through the old maize field where I had met the English captive. It had been moonlight then. Now it was hot noon, and the waves of light made me faint. I had forgotten breakfast. I cursed myself at the omission, for I needed strength.
But I was not to leave quite unattended. When I reached the canoe, I found Father Carheil talking to Singing Arrow. I was glad to see him. There was something that propped my pride and courage in his irritable, tender greeting.
He pressed a vial into my hands. "It is confection of Jacinth. It has great virtue. Take it with you, my son."
I knelt. "I would rather take your blessing, father."
He gave it to me, and his old hands trembled. "Come back, my son.Come back safely. You will return this way?"
I looked off at the blue, beckoning west. "I do not know, father. I go without ties or responsibilities. I am not sure where I shall end. I doubt that I return this way."
"But where, my son? Where do you go?"
I pointed, and his mystic glance followed my hand. "Out there in the blue, father,—somewhere. I don't know where. It has beckoned you thus far; can you resist its cry to you to come farther and force its secrets from it?"
He clutched his rosary, and I knew I had touched one of his temptations. He loved the wilderness as I have never seen it loved. Even his fellow priests and the few soldiers and traders crowded him. He wanted the land alone,—alone with his Indians. He would not look at the blue track.
"It is the path of ambition, and it is strewn with wrecks. Come back to us here, my son."
But I would not look away from the west. "Some day I shall come back. Not now. Father, I married Ambition. She lives in the wilderness. I think I shall abide with her the next year."
He frowned at me. "Where has Madame de Montlivet gone?"
"She has started for her home in England, father."
He tapped his teeth with his forefinger. "You sent a curious guard with her. Take the advice of an old man who has lived among Indians. It is usually unwise to mix tribes."
"What do you mean?"
"You should have sent a guard of Ottawas with your wife and Starling."
"They were all Ottawas."
"No, they were more than half Hurons. I counted."
I jammed my teeth together and tried to think. I had just said that the west was calling me, that I was untrammeled. Untrammeled! Why, I was enmeshed, choked by conflicting duties. I put my head back, and breathed hard.
"Father, are you sure? Cadillac himself saw to it that they were allOttawas."
The priest stepped forward and wiped his handkerchief across my face. It was wet. "My son, take this more calmly. Cadillac does not know one Indian from another. Does this mean harm?"
I shook the sweat from my fingers. "I do not know what it means. ButI must go west. I must. Hundreds of men depend on me. FatherCarheil?"
"Yes, my son."
"I bound you once on this very spot. May I bind you again?"
"With promises?"
"Yes. Will you see Cadillac at once, tell him what you know, and have a company of Ottawas sent in pursuit of Lord Starling? Will you yourself see that it is rightly done?"
His foot drummed a tattoo. "I ask no favors of the commandant."
"Father!"
"Oh yes, I"——
"Then go at once, I beg you. Hasten."
He shook his head at me, but he turned and ran. I watched him a moment, then I stepped in the canoe.
"I will take a paddle," I told Pierre. "I can do something with my left hand. Singing Arrow must take one, too."
It had come to me before in my life to be compelled to force the apparently impossible out of opportunity. But never had I asked myself to attempt such a task as this. I had only one day the start of Cadillac, and in that time I must collect an army. But if success were within human reach I was well armored to secure it, for I carried a desperate heart.
So if I say we went swiftly, it conveys no meaning of what we really accomplished. We paddled as long as our arms would obey us, slept sparingly, and paddled again. Singing Arrow was worth two men. She paddled for us, cooked for us, and packed the bales when our hands blundered with weariness. She was tireless.
And watching her I saw something lived before me day by day that I had tried to forget was in the world. There was love between this Indian woman and my peasant Pierre. They had found the real love, the love that is wine and meat. It was very strange. Pierre was quiet, and he was wont to be boisterous, but he looked into the girl's eyes, and I saw that both of them forgot that the hours of work were long. I have not seen this miracle many times, though I have seen many marriages. What had Pierre done that he should find it?
Well, the west called me. And if a man whines under his luck, that proves that he deserves all that has happened.
And so we reached the Pottawatamie Islands.
We were so cramped and exhausted that we staggered as we tried to walk from the canoe, yet we remained at the islands but an hour. And in that hour I talked to Onanguissé and the old men, and perfected our plans. When we embarked again we had two large canoes with strong-armed Pottawatamies at the paddles. We were on our way to the Malhominis, and I slept most of the distance, for nature was in revolt. Yet through all my heavy slumber droned the voice of Onanguissé, and always he repeated what he had said when we parted.
"I called her the turtle dove. But at heart she was an eagle. Did you ask her to peck and twitter like a tame robin? I could have told you that she would fly away."
We reached the mouth of the Wild Rice River at evening, and pushed up through the reeds in the darkness. I knew if Pemaou was lying in ambush for me this would be the place for him. But we reached the village safely, so I said to myself that the Huron had grown slow-witted.
In other times, in times before the broth of life had lost its salt, I should have enjoyed that moment of entry into the Malhominis camp. The cry that met me was of relief and welcome, but I ignored all greetings till I had pushed my way to the pole where the dried band of rushes still hung. I tore it away, and hung a silver chain in its place. "Brother!" I said to Outchipouac, and he gave me his calumet in answer.
And then I had ado to compel a hearing. The Malhominis repented their injustice, and would have overpowered me with rejoicings and flattery, but I made them understand at last that I had but two hours to spend with them, and they quieted like children before a tutor. My first question was for news of Labarthe and Leclerc, but I learned nothing. Indeed, the Malhominis could tell me nothing of the Seneca camp beyond the fact that it was still there. They had cowered in their village dreading a Seneca attack, and they were feverishly anxious for concerted action. They suggested that I save time by sending messengers to the Chippewas and Winnebagoes, while I went myself to the Sac camp.
This was good advice and I adopted it. I drew maps on bark, gave the messengers my watchword, and instructed them what to say. The rendezvous I had selected was easy to find. Some few miles south of the Seneca camp a small river debouched into La Baye des Puants. We would meet there. Cadillac and the Pottawatamies would come together from the north; the Malhominis, the Winnebagoes, and the Chippewas would come separately, and I would lead the Sacs under my command. All was agreed upon, and I saw the messengers dispatched. Then I took a canoe and eight men, and started on my own journey. It was then past midnight.
The eight men worked well. By sunrise I was fighting the dogs and the stench in the Sacs village, and by eleven the same morning I was on my way again with eighty braves following. The Sacs were such clumsy people in canoes that I did not dare trust them on the water, so we arranged to make a detour to the west and reach the rendezvous by land.
It was a terrible journey. We had to make on foot nearly double the distance that the other tribes would make by canoe, so we gave ourselves no rest. The trail led by morass and fallen timber, and it was the season of stinging gnats and breathless days. The Sacs were always filthy in camp or journeying, and I turned coward at the food I was obliged to eat. But I did not dare leave them and trust them to come alone. They were a fierce, sullen people, unstable as hyenas, but they were terrible in war. I had won some power over them, and they followed me with the eyes of snarling dogs. But they would not have gone a mile without my hand to beckon.
So through filth and gnats, heat, toil, and lack of food, I followedAmbition.
When I stumbled along the bank of the little stream that marked our rendezvous, I was mud-splashed, torn, and insect-poisoned, and I led a brutish set of ruffians. Yet I heard a muffled cheer roar out as I came into view. The Winnebagoes were in camp and in waiting.
I forgot ache and weariness. The Winnebagoes were fifty in all, picked men, and I looked them over and exulted. Erect and clean-limbed, they were as dignified and wonderful as a row of fir trees, and physically I felt a sorry object beside them. Yet they hailed me as leader, and placing me on a robe of deerskins carried me into camp. They smoked the pipe of fealty with me, and when I slept that night I knew that my dream castles of the last two years were at last shaping into something I could touch and handle. Their glitter was giving way to masonry.
The morning brought the Malhominis, the noon the Chippewas. I hoped for the French and the Pottawatamies by night.
But the night did not bring them, nor the next morning, nor the next day, nor yet the day following.
And in the waiting days I lived in four camps of savages, and it was my duty to cover them with the robe of peace.
The wolf-eyed Sacs, the stately Winnebagoes, the Chippewas, and Malhominis,—they sat like gamecocks, quiet, but alert for a ruffle of one another's plumage. In council they were men; in idleness, children. When I was with them, they talked of war and spoke like senators. When I turned my back they gambled, lied, bragged, and stole. I needed four bodies and uncounted minds.
And I saw how my union was composed. The tribes would unite and destroy the Senecas,—that done, it was probable they would find the game merry, and fall upon one another.
With every hour of delay they grew harder to control. There was jealousy between the war chiefs. I stepped on thin ice in my walks from lodge to lodge.
But the third day brought Cadillac. We saw the blur of his canoes far to the north, and when they came within earshot we were ranged to receive them.
A man should know pride in his achievement,—else why is striving given him? I looked over my warriors, rank on rank. Fierce-eyed, muscled like panthers, they were terrible engines of war. And I controlled them! I felt the lift of the heart that strengthens a man's will. That is something rarer than pride; a flitting vision of the unsounded depths of human power.
And the canoes that approached made a strange pageant. I could not in a moment rid myself of a rooted custom; I wished the woman were there to see. French and Indians sat side by side, so that blankets rubbed uniforms. They were packed in close bending ranks, their bodies crouching to the paddles, their eyes upon the shore. There were ferret-sharp black eyes and peasant-dull blue ones, but all were glittering. And the faces, bronze or white, took on the same look,—they were strained, arid of all expression but the fever for war. A slow tingle crawled over me, and I saw the crowd sway. A cautious, muffled cry broke from the shore and was answered from the canoes. It was a hoarse note, for the lust for blood crowds the throat full.
I looked to see Cadillac riding a surge of triumph, but when our hands met I was chilled. He showed no gladness. His purple face had lines, and he looked hot and jaded. Had his men failed him? No, I reviewed them. French, Hurons, and Ottawas, they made a goodly showing. Onanguissé was there, and his Pottawatamies, oiled, feathered, and paint-decked, were beautiful as catamounts. All was well. Cadillac was not in his first youth, and had abused himself. His look meant fatigue.
"Ottawas, Hurons, Pottawatamies, Malhominis, Chippewas, Sacs, Winnebagoes." I counted them off to him. "Monsieur de la Mothe-Cadillac, it is a sight worthy your eyes. New France has not seen such a gathering since the day when Saint Lusson planted our standard at the straits and fourteen tribes looked on."
He nodded heavily, "The Senecas are still in camp?"
"Yes, monsieur. We can attack to-night."
But he turned away. "Montlivet, your wife is in the Seneca camp."
I looked at him coldly, I think, though I remember that I clutched his shoulder.
"Monsieur, you mistake. My wife went east."
He tried to draw me aside, but I resisted him stolidly. I eyed him searchingly, angrily, but he could not look at me. "Listen," he begged, and he spoke very slowly and tapped my arm. Yet I was understanding him perfectly. "Listen, Montlivet, there is no mistake. When Father Carheil told me that there were Hurons in Starling's escort I sent Ottawas in pursuit. I have heard from them. Starling's party went east till they were out of sight of the garrison. Then they turned west and joined Pemaou. It was by Starling's direction. The Ottawas would have objected, for I had ordered them to travel east, but they were overpowered. It is supposed, since they traveled in this direction, that they went to the Seneca camp. But that may not be true."
"It is undoubtedly true," I said.
Cadillac pushed me out of earshot of the men. "Montlivet, you cannot understand. Listen to me."
I tried to shake him away. "There is nothing more that you can say. Monsieur, unhand me. My wife left with Starling. She is undoubtedly in the Seneca camp. Pemaou and Starling are in league, and they go to the Senecas because they hope to make terms on behalf of the English with the western tribes. I understand."
Cadillac looked at me fully, and I realized dully that his face grew white as he examined mine. "Go away. Go at once," he urged.
"Leave things here to me."
I nodded and stumbled away. Stretched tarpaulins made my tent, and I crawled under them, drew down the folds, and was alone. The noise of the camp muttered around me like a wind.
And then I lay alone with myself and my beliefs, and fought to know where my feet were set. There was tempest without my tent, but not within. In the valleys where I struggled there was great quiet. And at last I found certainty.
In an hour I went to find Cadillac. He would not let me speak.
"Montlivet, we will stop this attack—if we can hold the Indians."
"It is not possible to hold the Indians. They are blood drunk. We should have general massacre."
"Then you must leave. You can go with Onanguissé. He says that if his adopted daughter is with the Senecas he will not join in the attack."
"No, I shall not go with him. I shall lead the allied force ofIndians, monsieur."
Cadillac looked me over. I saw, with my own face cold, that his was not steady.
"No victory is worth that," I heard him say, and I listened as if he spoke of another's sorrow. "It is not necessary, Montlivet."
"It is absolutely necessary. The war chiefs are jealous. Without a leader they will fall on one another and we shall have sickening massacre. You cannot lead them, for you do not speak their language."
"But even granting that"——
I touched his sleeve. "Monsieur, I have been alone. I have thought it out. There is no escape. I do not know why life should give a man such a thing to do, but it is here. I have told the Indians that I represented the king; that I stood for government, protection. I have called them here in the name of law. It is a new word to them, and I have forced its meaning into their minds. And so they trust me. They trust me in the name of this law I talk about. If I desert them now, they will lapse into savagery of the worst kind. We shall have anarchy. Blood will flow for years. No Frenchman's life will be safe. I have the best men of six tribes here, and they will think themselves deceived and pay us in red coin. I have been alone. I have thought it out. I cannot do wholesale murder to save one life, even if it is my wife whose life is to be forfeit. We must go on."
Cadillac put out his hand and caught my shoulder. I had reeled against him as I spoke. He removed his hat.
"I await your plans, Monsieur de Montlivet. My troops are ready."
When I found Onanguissé he examined me from under drooping lids. Despite his age, he was wont to hold his head like a deer, but now his look was on the ground. He handed me a richly feathered bow and a sheaf of arrows.
"I cannot use them," he said. "I called her daughter. I gave her a robe in token. It is only a porcupine who turns against his own. A chief remembers."
I pressed the bow back. "Take it, and save her. I do not know how. You are an old man in knowledge, I am a child. I trust to you to bring her to me."
He looked up at that, and shook his head in sorrow when he saw my face. But he would not take his bow. "One man cannot save her," he said, and he bowed his head again and went away.
I did not speak. I saw him summon his warriors and reembark. In the general tumult his leaving made little stir. The Pottawatamies were arrogant, called themselves "lords," and exacted tribute of the other tribes of La Baye. Yet they accomplished this more by diplomacy than warfare. I knew that Onanguissé's desertion was well in tune with his reputation and would not be combated.
I found Pierre, and told him about the woman. "You are to save her. You are to get her away. It is for you to do. You are to think nothing else, work for nothing else. You can do it. I depend on you to do it. You are never to come to me again if you fail."
But he, too, looked away. "It cannot be done. The Indians will kill her." He turned his head from me, and his voice was thick and grating.
I raged at him. "I shall give the Indians orders to spare all women,"I declared.
He nodded his great head. "I will help the master. I will do all I can." He humored me as one hushes an ailing child, but I saw the caution and blankness in his look. As soon as he could he slipped out of my sight.
And then I went to work. If I staggered as I made my stumbling, blinded way from war chief to war chief, there was none to know, for blood lust had closed eyes and ears. Yet, though my muscles failed, my brain was clear.
The kettle-drums snarled and buzzed like lazy hornets. They sounded spiteful rather than wicked, but I knew what their droning stood for, and my body grew cold. In the Ottawa camp the drummers sat beside a post in the centre of a great circle of warriors, and Longuant stood with them in the ring singing a war chant. His body was painted green and he was hung with chains of wampum. I halted. He was one of the sanest, the most admirable, of the war chiefs, and I listened to him. He kept his eyes fixed on the westering sun, and yelped his recitation in a sharp, barking voice. I heard of children dashed to death against trees; of men disemboweled and left to the mercy of dogs and flies. After the recitation of each exploit, he struck his hatchet against the post, and the clamor of the drums doubled.
I found myself sick as well as faint. I beat the air with my clenched fist, and Cadillac saw me, and begged me to go away alone till I had myself in hand. But I pushed by him.
"My mind is clear," I said, and I spoke as coldly as a machine. "Clearer than yours, for I see this as it is. Let me go. I have undertaken this and I shall go through."
We were ready to march an hour before sunset. The fifty Sacs formed the vanguard, and I was with them. The Winnebagoes followed, then the French troops. The remaining tribes, and the Indians who carried the stores, brought up the rear. Our intention was to march as quietly as possible while daylight lasted, then work our way by dark and starlight till we were near the Seneca camp. We would then drop on the ground, and lie in ambush till it grew light enough to attack. We hoped to surprise the camp. They had fortified themselves, but apparently had no scouts at work, and from all we could learn they were feasting and drinking in Babylonish security, celebrating the return of their messengers from Michillimackinac. With that exploit in mind it was small wonder that they felt arrogant and unassailable. Now was indeed our time.
Our ranks were formed, and I looked them over man by man. Each savage carried a bag with ten pounds of maize flour, a light covering, a bow and arrows, or a fusee. The Winnebagoes I had put well in the lead, for they were protected by great shields of dried buffalo skin. I tried one of the skin shields and found it like iron. It would turn a hatchet.
Cadillac's bugler sounded the call and we started. The late sun was unclouded and warm, and the smell of paint and breath and unwashed bodies filled my lungs. The stench was hot and brutish in my nostrils, and it was the smell of war.
So long as daylight lasted we moved with some regularity in spite of the rough ground. Then, knowing we were drawing nearer the Senecas, we began to slip from tree to tree. The Indians did this like phantoms, and the French troops imitated. Three hundred men went through the forest, and sometimes a twig cracked. There was no other sound. We went for some time. We heard owls hoot around us, and knew they might be watch cries. Still we went on. We went till I felt the ground rise steadily under my groping feet. The Seneca stronghold was on an eminence. I gave the signal to drop where we were and wait for day.
We melted into the shadows, and lay rigid while the stars looked down. The savage next me slept. His war club lay by his side and I felt of it in the dark. It was made of a deer's horn, shaped like a cutlass; it had a large ball at the end. The ball was heavy and jagged, and would crush a skull.
There were hundreds of such clubs. In a few hours they would be in use. And the woman was in camp.
My right arm was free from the sling and I dug my hands together. I could feel the blood running in my palms, and I checked myself. If I injured my hands how could I save the woman?
But nothing could save the woman.
I had given commands to spare all whites and to torture no one. ButPierre was right. I was a fool to have pretended, even to myself, thatI thought the savages listened.
A fool can do harm enough, but a cowardly, soft-hearted man is the most dangerous of knaves. I might have killed Pemaou when I threw the spear at him; I might have killed him the night before my wedding in the Pottawatamie camp. I had withheld my hand because it was disagreeable to me to kill. And now the woman's life was to pay the forfeit of my lax softness. I rolled in my agony, and bit the ground till my mouth was full of leaf mould.
A planet swung from one tree-top to the next. What lay behind it? She would know soon. But I could not follow her where she was going. I should live. I knew that. When Death is courted he will not strike. I had seen that in battle.
That first morning when she had come to me with the sunrise,—when she had drifted to me, bound and singing,—I had called to her to have no fear, that no harm should come to her. And she had trusted me.
She had a little hollow in her brown throat where I had watched the breath flutter. I had never touched it.
I could thank God for her, for one thing. She had refused my kiss.
I saw the planet again, tipping another tree-top. I understood its remoteness; in my agony I was part of it. What were men, countries, empires! I felt the insignificance of life, of suffering. What did it matter if these Indians died! Why should we not all die? I crawled to my knees. I would give the signal to retreat. I would give it now. Let the massacre come.
But I fell back. I could not. I could not. Three hundred lives for one life. I could spill my own blood for her, but not theirs.
But as for empire, I had forgotten its meaning.
All of these men lying in the shadows had women who were dear. Many of the wives would kill themselves if their husbands died. I had seen an Indian wife do it; she had smiled while she was dying.
Would the woman think of me—at the last? She would not know that I had failed her. She would not know that I was worse than Starling.
She was the highest-couraged, the most finely wrought woman that the world knew. Yet two men had failed her.
"Monsieur," she had said, "life has not been so pleasant that I should wish to live."
It was only a week ago that she—she, alive, untouched, my own—had walked away from me in the sunshine, leaning on Cadillac's arm. And I had let her go. And I had let her go.
And I had let her go. I said that over and over, with my mouth dry, and I forgot time. I did not know that minutes were passing, but I looked up, and the stars were dim, and branches and twigs were taking form. Day would be on us soon.
I raised myself on my elbow and peered. I could see very little, but I could hear the strange rhythmic rustle that I call the breathing of the forest. And with it mingled the breathing of three hundred warriors. They carried clubs, arrows, muskets. I was to give them the signal for war.
I tried to rise. I was up on my knees. I fell back. I tried again.My muscles did not obey. I saw the war club of the Indian beside me.My hands stole out to it. A blow on my own head would end matters. Myhands closed on the handle of the club.
Then the savage next me stirred. That roused me. The insanity was over, and sweat rained from me at realization of my weakness,—the weakness that always traps a man unsure of his values, his judgment. When men say that a man's life is not his own to take, I am not sure. But that had nothing to do with me now. I was not a man in the sense of having a man's free volition. When I had given up human claims for myself, I had ceased to exist as an independent agent. It was only by knowing that I was a tool that I could keep myself alive.
And so I sat upon my knees and whispered to the Indians about me. They whispered in turn, and soon three hundred men were waked and ready.
Yet the forest scarcely rustled.
I motioned, and the line started. We crept some twenty paces from tree to tree. Then ahead of us I saw an opening. I could distinguish the outlines of a rough redoubt.
I stepped in front and stopped a moment. It had grown light enough for me to see the faces of the Sac warriors. Dirt-crusted, red-eyed, wolfish, they awaited my signal.
I raised my sword. "Ready!" I called. An inferno of yells arose. We ran at the top of our speed. We charged the stake-built redoubt with knives in hands. Mingled with our war cry I heard the screams of the awakening camp.
I reached the palings. They were of bass wood, roughly split and tough. I could not scale them with my lame shoulder. I seized a hatchet from an Indian, struck the stakes, wrenched one free, and climbed through the hole.
The camp was in an uproar. A few Sacs had scaled the redoubt ahead of me, and one of them was grappling with a Seneca just in my path. I dodged them and ran on. Behind me I heard the terrible roar of the blood-hungry army.
I fought my way on. Warriors and slaves rose before me and screamed at my knife, and at something that was in my face. I did not touch them. I had to find the woman. She might be hiding in one of the huts. But there were many bark huts, and all alike. I ran on.
The air was thickening with powder smoke, and the taste of blood was in my throat. A hatchet whistled by me and cut the cloth from my shoulder. I saw the Seneca who threw the hatchet, but I would not stop. Corpses were in my way. Twice I slipped in blood and went to my knees.
I must search each lodge, each group. I had seen nothing that looked like a woman.
An Indian grappled with me, and I slashed at him till he was helpless. I was covered with blood that was not my own. I let him drop and stumbled on.
I could not find the woman. I had not seen Starling nor Pierre norLabarthe nor Leclerc.
And over all the noise of tearing flesh and the screams of dying men came the sound of singing, of constant, exultant singing,—the singing of victors binding their captives; the death songs of wounded preparing to die.
I saw two bodies lying together as if the same arrow had cleft them.Their hands sprawled toward me, red and beckoning. They weremutilated, but I knew their clothes. They were Leclerc and Labarthe.Leclerc was hanging on Labarthe as he had leaned in life.
I had brought these men to the wilderness. And Simon was dead, too. I went on.
I saw a Seneca, stripped and running blood, crouch to a white man on the ground and lift his knife to take the scalp. I sprang upon him, but he dashed my knife away, found his feet, and pressed at me. I dodged his hatchet, and catching up a skin shield from the ground turned on him. I was taller than he, and I smashed the shield down on his head so that he dropped. I pounded him till he was beyond doing harm to any one, then I took his knife and hatchet, tossed him aside, and turned to the white man.
It was Starling, and there was life in him, for he opened his eyes.
I took my flask and forced brandy between his teeth. He recognized me but could not speak. A great spear had torn through his chest. I started to pull it out, but when I looked farther and saw what a hatchet had done I checked myself.
His eyes were on mine and he tried to speak. It was more than I could look at,—his effort to hold life in his torn body and tell me something. I eased his head and gave him more brandy.
And then he found strength to try to push me away. "Go! Go! The woman!" I made the words out of the writhing of his lips.
I leaned over him. "Where? Where is she? Where?"
He tried many times before he made a sound that I could catch, and his strength ebbed. I tried more brandy, but he was past reviving. I strained to hear, till my agony matched his. I thought I caught a word. "Woods!" I cried. "Is she in the woods?"
"Yes." He suddenly spoke clearly. "Go." And he fell back in my arms.
I thought that he died with that word, but I held him a moment longer to make sure. It did not matter now that I hated him. As to what he had brought on me,—I could not visit my despair on him for that. As well rage at the forces that made him. Life had given him a little soul in a compelling body. The world believed the body, and expected of the man what he could not reach. I looked at his dead face and trembled before the mystery of inheritance.
But he was not dead. He opened his eyes to mine, quivered, and spoke, and his voice was clear.
"I would have followed her into the woods but they bound me. I was not a coward that time. I would have followed her."
And then the end came to him in a way that I could not mistake, for with the last struggle he cried to the woman.
I laid him down. While I had held him I had known that Frenchmen were fighting around me, and my neck was slimy with warm blood, for an arrow had nicked my ear. But the battle had swayed on to the north of the camp, and only dead and dying were left in sight. I looked at Starling. I could not carry him. I took off my coat, covered the body, and went on.
The woman had gone to the woods. She had gone to the woods.
But woods lay on every side.
As I ran through the camp toward the north I saw a woman ahead of me. She had a broad, fat figure, and I knew she was an Indian. But she was a woman and the first that I had seen. I caught her and jerked her around to face me.
"The woman? The white woman? Where is she?" I used the Illinois speech.
The woman was a Miami slave and apparently unhurt. But as I stood over her a line of foam bubbled out of her blue lips. Her eyes were meaningless. I had frightened her into catalepsy, and I ground my teeth at my ill luck, for she could have told me something of the woman. I took my brandy flask and tried to pry her teeth apart.
Both of my hands were busy with her when Pierre's bellow rose from behind me. "Master! Jump! Jump!" In the same instant I heard breathing close upon me.
I jumped. As I did it I heard the crash of a hatchet through bone, and the pounding of a great body heaving down upon its knees. I turned.
Pemaou's hatchet was in Pierre's brain, and my giant, my man who had lived with me, was crumpled down on hands and knees, looking at me and dying.
I called out like a mad thing, and insanity gave me power. I tore the red hatchet from Pemaou's hands and pinioned him. My fingers dug into his throat, and I threw him to the ground. He bared his wolf's teeth and began his death song. But I raved at him, and choked him to silence. "You are not to die now!" I shouted at his glazing eyes. "You shall live. I shall torture you. You shall live to be tortured."
I carried rope around my waist, and I took it and bound him. How I did it is not clear, for I had a weak shoulder and he was muscular. But now he seemed palsied and I a giant. It was done. I bound him till he was rigid and helpless.
And then I fell to my knees beside Pierre. He was dead. I had lost even the parting from him. My giant was dead. He had taken the blow meant for me.
Pierre was dead, and Simon and Labarthe and Leclerc. I had brought them to the wilderness because I believed in a western empire for France. I left Pierre and went on.
But I had not gone far when a cry rose behind me. It was louder than the calls of the dying. It was the wail of an Indian woman for her dead. I ran back. Singing Arrow lay stretched on Pierre's body.
I looked at her. I did not ask myself how she came there, though I had thought her safe in the Malhominis village. So she had loved the man enough to follow secretly. I left her with him and went on.
I stepped over men who were mangled and scalped. Some of them were not dead, and they clutched at me. But I went on my way.
Indians and troops were gathered at the north of the camp. The warfare was over. Corpses were stacked like logs, and the savages were binding their captives and chanting of their victories. The French stood together, leaning on their muskets. I saw Cadillac unhurt, and went to him.
"Is the bugler alive? Have him sound the call."
The commandant turned at sound of my voice. He was elated and would have embraced me, but seeing my face his mood altered. He gave the order.
The bugle restored quiet, and I raised my sword for attention. I asked each tribe in turn if they had seen a white woman. Then I asked the French. I gained only a storm of negatives.
I went on with the orders to the tribes. All captives were to be treated kindly and their wounds dressed. This was because they were to be adopted, and it was prudent to keep them in good condition. The argument might restrain the savages. I was not sure.
And all the time that I was speaking I wondered if I looked and talked as other men did. Would the savages obey me as they had done when I was a live, breathing force, full of ardor and belief? They seemed to see no difference. I finished my talk to them and turned to Cadillac.
"You do not need me now. You will be occupied caring for the wounded and burying the dead. The Indians will not attempt torture to-day. I am going to the woods."
"To the woods?"
"The woman is in the woods. She must have gone at the first alarm. I cannot find her here."
"Ask the captives. They will know."
"It is useless to ask them. They will not speak now. It is a code. I am going to the woods. Send what soldiers you can to search with me."
"Shall I send Indians with you, too?"
"Not now. They are useless now. They could trail nothing. Let me go."
He followed like a father. "You will come back?"
"Yes, I will come back."
But I had three things to do before I was free to go to the woods. To go to the woods where I would find the woman.
I searched for the Miami slave woman. She was dead. That cut my last hope of news.
I saw that Pemaou was still well bound, and I had him carried into a hut to await my orders.
I went to Pierre's body. Singing Arrow still wailed beside it, and cried out that it should not be moved. I told her the soldiers would obey her orders, and carry it where she wished.
But there was a fourth matter. I spoke to Dubisson, and my tongue was furry and cold.
"See that watch is kept on the bags of scalps for European hair."
Then I went to the woods.
There were birds in the woods, and soft breezes. Squirrels chattered at me, and I saw flowers. And sometimes I saw blood on trampled moss where fugitives had been before.
I called, and fired my arquebus. I whistled, for that sound carried far. Since that day the sound of a whistle is terrible to me. It means despair.
Soldiers, grave-faced, respectful, followed me.
They were faint for food, and sore and sick from warfare, but they came with me without protest. They gave me the deference we show a mourner in a house of death. I turned to them in a rage.
"Make more noise. Laugh. Talk. Be natural. I command you."
We divided the woods among us, like game-beaters in a thicket, and went over the ground foot by foot. We found nothing. The birds sang and the sun went higher. Though the woods were pure and clean I could smell blood everywhere. In time a man dropped from exhaustion. At that I gave the word to go back to camp.
The camp itself was less terrible than the memories that had been with me as I walked through the unsullied woods. The wounded were cared for and the dead buried. The Indians were gathered around their separate fires, chanting, feeding, bragging, and sleeping. The French had made a camp at one side, and they, too, were seeking comfort through food and sleep. Life was progressing as if the mutilated dead had never been.
We had succeeded, Cadillac assured me. All the Senecas were dead or captured and our total loss, French and savage, was only seventy-five men. We had but few wounded, and the surgeon said they would recover.
I nodded, took food, and went alone to eat. I sat there a long time. Cadillac came toward me once as if to speak, but looked at me and turned away.
At last I had made up my mind, and I went to the hut where I had left Pemaou. It had taken time to fight down my longing for even combat with him, but I knew that I must not risk that, for I needed to keep my life for a time. So I would try for speech with him first, and then he should die. And since he must die helpless, he must die as painlessly as possible. Physical revenge had become abominable to me. It was inadequate.
I entered the hut. Pemaou's figure lay, face downward, on the floor. It had a rigidity that did not come from the thongs that bound it. I turned it over. The Indian's throat was cut. Life had flowed out of the red, horrible opening.
I think that I cursed at the dead man. Corpse that he was, he had tricked me again, for I had hoped, against reason, to force information from him. Death had not dignified his wolfish face. He had died, as he had lived, a snarling animal, whose sagacity was that of the brute. And I had lost with him this time, as I had lost before, by taking thought, and so losing time. An animal does not hesitate, and he is a fool who deliberates in dealing with him. I tasted desolation as I stood there.
A moccasin stepped behind me. "I killed him," said Singing Arrow's voice.
I turned. She was terrible to look at. Life had given this savage woman strength of will and soul without training to balance it. She was Nemesis incarnate. Yet blood-stained and tragic as was her face, her words were calm.
"He killed my man."
What was there to say? It was only her look that showed she had been through tempests; in mind she seemed as numbed as I. I took her by the arm and led her outside. I turned away from the blood-soaked camp, and took her to the beach where the water was yellow-white and rippled on the sand. I motioned her to wash away the blood stains on her face and arms. Then I spoke.
"Singing Arrow, do you intend to kill yourself and follow Pierre?"
She drew her blanket high and folded her arms. "Yes, if he calls me. When I dream of him twice I shall know that he is crying for me and cannot rest, so I shall go after him. I have dreamed once already,—after I killed the Huron. When I dream once more I can go."
I touched her arm. "Look at me. Singing Arrow, Pierre is not calling you to follow him. He is calling you to pick up his work where he had to drop it. He died trying to save me. He wants you to help me now. My wife is in the woods. You are to help me find her. Will you help me, Singing Arrow?"
She shook her head. As she looked at me, scornful and sorrowful and absolutely unmoved, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I knew this remotely, as an unblest ghost might know a warmth he could not feel.
"You do not need me. If your whisper cannot reach the white woman she would not hear my shouts. I must go with my man."
"Singing Arrow, the Great Spirit is not ready for you. When he is ready he will send. You must wait for him to send."
She did not shift her look from me. "Your Great Spirit is strange. He tells you that you are brave men and good when you take other lives, but he will not let you take your own. Why should you have power over other men's bodies if your own does not belong to you? Your Great Spirit may be right for you white men, but for me he speaks like a child. When my man calls me I shall go." She dropped her eyes, wrapped her blanket closer, and went away. I did not follow her. She had as sound a right to her belief as I to mine.
And what was my belief?
The sun was at the horizon, and I went to Cadillac. "You hold council to-morrow?"
"Yes, to-morrow morning."
"I shall be here."
"But where are you going now?"
"To the woods."
Cadillac took me by the arm. "Montlivet, be sane!"
But I think that as he looked at me he saw that I was sane. "I shall be with you in the morning," I promised. And I would have no further words.
All that night in the woods, both waking and dreaming, the thought of the woman was like a presence near me. I slept some, dropping against trees, then roused and stumbled on. I do not know that I consciously searched for her, but I went on and on to meet her. It seemed that I should always do that while I lived,—should always push my way forward, feeling that beyond the next turn she stood beckoning.
The stars rose and set. There were multitudes of them and very bright. If man could only have his orbit fixed and follow it as they did; be compelled to follow it by a governing power! The terrible cruelty of a God who throws volition into a man's hands without giving him understanding to handle it came to me for the first time.
When day arrived I ate a portion of meal and meat, and made my way back. It was a long trip, for I had wandered far, and when I reached the camp the sun was three hours high. A large tent had been made of skins and tarpaulins, and French and savages were gathered there and waiting. I was late. The calumet was already passing as I went in.
I halted a moment at the entrance. There was no cheer of welcome at sight of me. Instead there was a hush,—the hush of suspended breathing. In two days these savages had come to draw aside from me for what was in my look. "His face is the face of one dead," Outchipouac had said. I knew that I had grown to seem abnormal, alien. I tried to form my expression to better lines, but it was out of my power. I took my place as interpreter, and the long conclave opened.
The hours of droning speeches went on and on. Each tribe presented its claims, and metaphor shouldered metaphor. It sounded trivial as the bragging of blue-jays, but I interpreted carefully and kept the different headings in mind. Then I asked Cadillac's permission, and took it on myself to answer.
Sometimes the Power that rules us, and that shoves us here and there to play our parts in the game, seems to me nothing but a cold-eyed justice, remote, indifferent, impartially judicial. So I felt now. In looking at the issue I saw that meaning and vitality had gone from my spirit, but I had kept equity. I parceled the spoil among the tribes, and did it without doubt of my judgment or care for its acceptance. I remembered Outchipouac's plea for his people, and found it just. The Malhominis had sent the largest force in proportion to the strength of their tribe, and their position on the bay was strategical. So I gave them their choice of a third of the captives. To the remaining tribes I gave the rest of the captives and the confiscated weapons. Then I passed the calumet among them.
I had spoken coldly, as an onlooker. Perhaps my air of detachment gave me authority. The chiefs smoked the calumet and ratified my words. That part of the council was over.
And then to the future. Cadillac rose. His eloquence painted the prospect till it shimmered like a dream landscape, rose-tinted, iridescent, with sparkling vistas full of music and bugle calls and the tramp of marching men with the sun in their faces. We, French and Indians, were a united people. Our young men were brave and full of vigor. We should sweep all before us. We should crush the Iroquois and drive the English far away over seas. We should go now to Michillimackinac and march from there to conquest and empire. All the bubble dreams of sovereignty, from Nineveh on, glittered in his words. I translated faithfully.
Outchipouac answered. I had somehow won his spirit, which was brave and vigorous. Perhaps he repented his distrust of me. My silver chain was on his neck, and he fingered it. He said that where I led the Malhominis would follow. His wild imagery swept like the torrent of an epic. The man was warrior, dreamer, fatalist. He called on the chiefs of the tribes to witness what I was, what I had done. Water could not drown me, arrows could not harm me. I wore the French garb and my face was white, but I was something more universal than any race. I spoke all tongues. I was like the air which belonged to French and Indian alike. I was a manitou; I had been sent to lead the Indians back to the supremacy that they had almost lost.
I could believe him as I listened. I did not remember that he spoke of me. He was talking of some great principle, some crystallization of the forces of the woods in man's shape. The woods that had nurtured the Indian should protect him. At last, out from the woods had come this spirit,—this spirit that was their voice. He did not talk to me, he talked to the skies and the clouds and the forces that dwelt in them. It was the call of a savage king to the soul of the wild earth that had cradled him.
So swept away was I that I could not have translated. But it was not necessary. He had spoken in Algonquin, which all but the French and Hurons understood. The war chiefs rose. It is strange. An Indian may scalp and torture, yet have at heart much of the seer and poet. The chiefs came forward and laid their bows and quivers full of arrows at my feet.
For a moment Outchipouac's speech had warmed me as I thought I might not be warm again. But when I saw the chiefs advancing I became stone.
"I cannot lead you," I said in Algonquin, and I knew my voice was blank. "Outchipouac is wrong. I am no manitou, but a man so weak he does not know the truth even for himself. How can he lead others? When I brought you here the sun shone brightly, and I thought I saw the way ahead. Now I am in darkness and mist. Go. Leave me. Find a leader whose sight is not clouded." I turned my back and stood with my head down.
A murmur rose. I had broken the illusion. We had all been riding the clouds of fancy, and I had dashed us to earth again. The chiefs had come to me with their hands out, and I had thrown water in their faces. They had reason for their anger. Cadillac saw the pantomime and lumbered from his seat. He seized my arm.
"Montlivet, you are insane! You are insane!"
I pointed him to the woods. "Monsieur, I have dropped my sword. I shall go into the forest for a time."
He shook me as if I were in a torpor. "Your wife"——
"I shall search for her. I am going out now with Indian trailers. I shall not leave this country till all hope is past,—then I shall go west."
For a moment suspicion clutched him. "Oh, you would form your union without me! You are planning a dictatorship."
I took him by the arm and begged him to understand. "I have dropped my sword," I reiterated. "I am going on alone. I have skins and provisions cached at Sturgeon Cove—enough for barter. I am not insane. I shall go prudently. There are lands and peoples to be explored in the west."
The clamor grew. Dubisson and others of the French came nearer.
"Speak to the chiefs now. Speak to them now," they begged. "You can save the situation yet."
I watched the Indians. "They are departing peacefully."
"But they are departing!"
I looked at Cadillac. "And why not?"
He drew his sword. "Montlivet, have you turned priest—or coward? Do you dare to try and tell me that war is wrong?"
I looked at him, and left my own sword untouched. "I do not know whatI believe. I am going back in the woods. Perhaps I shall learn. Butnow we have done all that we set out to do. We have destroyed theSeneca war party. We shall be safe from the Iroquois for some time."
"But we are just ready to go on. Our men are ready."
His words seemed meaningless. "Ready! Are intoxicated men ready? We have drunk blood. Now we are drunk with words. I will not"——
A roar outside cut my words short. "The woman! The woman!" I heard the cry in several languages at once, but I could not comprehend it. I saw the crowd rise and surge toward me, making for the entrance of the tent. I turned and ran with them. Yet my mind was numb.
We reached the outside. I was in advance. A great canoe was at the shore and Onanguissé was directing his oarsmen. In the bow of the canoe sat the woman.
I reached her first; I caught her from the canoe. Yes, she was alive; she was unhurt. Her hands were warm. I heard her breathe. I dropped on my knees at her feet.
And then she bent over me and whispered, "Monsieur, monsieur, you are unhurt!" Her voice had all its old inflections, and I rose and looked at her in wonder. Yes, she was alive. She was grave-eyed and haggard, but she was alive. The hands that I held were warm and trembling, though my own were cold and leaden as my palsied tongue. She was dressed in skins, and I could see the brown hollow in her throat. I could not speak. I laid my lips upon her hand and trembled.
French and savages pressed around us in a gaping, silent ring. Cadillac had given us the moment together, but he edged nearer, bewildered by my silence.
"Madame, we welcome you," he cried. "Your husband has not been like himself since he heard of your danger. Give him time to recover. We have been a camp of mourning for you. Tell us of your escape."
And then I spoke. I drew her hand through my arm and turned her to face the crowd. "They are your friends, madame," I said, as if it were the conclusion of a long talk between us. "Thank them, and tell them of your escape."
But she halted and turned again to me. She looked up with her face close to mine, and for the first time she met my eyes fully. We stood so a moment, and as she stood she flushed under what was in my look; a wave of deepening pink crept slowly up through her brown pallor, but she did not look away. I felt my face harden to iron. It was I who turned from her, and the faces before me swam in red. Up to that time I had grasped only the fact that she was alive, that she stood there, warm, beautiful, unscathed, that I could see her, touch her, hear the strange rise and fall of her voice. But with the clinging of her glance to mine I remembered more, and sweat poured out on my forehead. She was my wife. I had forfeited the right to touch her hand.
The French began to murmur questions and she turned back toward them. She stood close by my side with her hand in mine, and looked into the faces, French and savage, that hemmed her round. I think she saw tears in some eyes, for her voice suddenly faltered. She made a gesture of courtesy and greeting.
"I escaped days ago when we were traveling," she said in her slow-moving French, that all around might hear. "I made my way to the Pottawatamie Islands. Onanguissé had called me daughter, and I knew that if I could find his people I was safe."
The crowd breathed together in one exclamation. "You have not been in this camp at all?"
I felt her draw closer to me. "No, I have not been in this camp. You thought that I was here?" Her grasp on my hand tightened. "Then this is the Seneca camp. The battle is over," she said under her breath, and she turned to me. Her eyes were brave, but I knew from her trembling lips that she understood. "Where is my cousin?"
I took both her hands in mine. "He died in my arms. He died trying to send me to you. He forgot self. It was the death of a brave man, madame."
She stood and looked at me. She had forgotten the men around her. "Monsieur," she said, and this time her eyes were soft with tears, "my cousin was not so bad as he seemed. He could not help being what he was."
"I understand."
"Monsieur, you conquered the Senecas?"
"Yes. We will forget it, madame."
She looked over the heads of the lines of soldiers and grew white to the lips. I knew that she saw rows of scalps, and I could not save her from it. Yet I implored.
"Do not think of it. It is all over, madame."
Her eyes came back to me. "And Pierre? Is Pierre safe?"
"Madame, he—— He died saving me."
Her hands grasped me harder. "And Labarthe?"
"I am all that is left, madame."
Still she held to me. "Where is Singing Arrow?"
I looked at Cadillac. He shook his head. "They found the Indian woman this morning," he said. "She was dead beside her husband. Do not grieve for her. Her face is more than happy; it is triumphant. My men called me to look. Will you see her now, madame?"
But she could not answer. The hands that held mine began to chill, andI saw the brown throat quiver. I turned to Cadillac. "I have no tent.May I take madame to yours?"
He placed all that he had at her service. He was moved, for he did it with scant phrase.
"But one moment," he begged. "Montlivet, one word with your wife first. Madame, I beg you to listen. Will you look around you here?"
She stopped. "I have looked, monsieur."
"Madame, you see those Indians. They are war chiefs and picked braves. The brawn and brain of six tribes are collected here before you. Do you know what that means?"
I saw her look at him gravely. "I should understand. I have lived inIndian camps, monsieur."
He looked back at her with sudden admiration that crowded the calculation out of his eyes. "Madame!" he exclaimed. "We know your spirit and knowledge; we wish that you could teach us some new way to show you homage. But do you understand your husband's power? You have never seen him in the field. Look at these war chiefs. They are arrogant and untamed, but they follow your husband like parish-school children. It is marvelous, madame."
She lifted her long deer's throat, and I felt her thrill. "Monsieur, I think that not even you can know half what I do of my husband's strength and power."
Her words were knives. I would have drawn her away, but Cadillac was before me. "Wait, Montlivet, wait! This is my time. I have more to say. Then, madame, to the point. These chiefs that you see are leaving. They would have been gone now if you had not come. They are leaving us because your husband said he would not lead them further. Talk to him. I can hold the tribes here a few hours longer. If he comes back to sanity by night, there will still be time for him to undo his folly. Talk to him, madame."
Again I tried to interrupt, but the pressure of her hand begged me to be silent. "What would you have me say to my husband?" she asked Cadillac, and she stood close to me with her head high.
He drove his fists together. "I would have you bring him to reason," he groaned. "For three days he has lived in a trance. He planned the attack, and led it without a quiver, but since then he has tried to wash his hands of us and of the whole affair. It is a crucial time, and he is acting like a madman. His anxiety about you has unbalanced him. Bring him to reason, madame."
I saw her steal a glance at me as a girl might at her lover, and there was a strange, fierce pride in her look. She bowed to Cadillac. "I am glad you told me this, monsieur." Then she turned to me. "Shall we go?"
But I looked over her head at the commandant. "It will be useless to keep the tribes in waiting," I warned.
I went to Onanguissé, the woman on my arm. "My heart is at your feet,"I said to him. "My blood belongs to you, and my sword!'"
He looked at the woman and at me, and he spoke thoughtfully. "When I found her in my lodge we had no speech in common, but I understood. I brought her to you. Now keep what you have. The best fisherman may let a fish slip once from his net by accident, but his wits are fat if he lets it go a second time."
I knew he was troubled. He saw no possession in my face, and he thought me weak.
And then I took the woman to Cadillac's tent.