Cadillac's tent held a couch of brush covered with skins, and I led the woman to it and bade her sit. Then I moved away and stood by the rough table.
"Madame," I said, "I have something that I must tell you. I"——
She rose from the couch and came toward me. "Will you wait?" she interrupted. "May I speak first?" She stood beside me, and I saw how thin her hand was as it rested on the table. She had been through danger, starvation. I found myself shaking.
"You went alone through the woods!" I cried, and my voice was hoarse, so that I had to stop and control it. "Did you suffer? You must have suffered, madame?"
She smiled up at me. "Monsieur, do not grieve. It is all over. And the greatest suffering was in my mind. I feared that you would think I disobeyed you."
I clenched my hands. "Madame, you must not say such things to me."
But she touched her fingers to mine. "Monsieur, I beg you. Hear me out before you speak. As to my coming here, I promised you that I would not turn westward,—but I could not help it."
"I know, madame."
"My cousin—he was—he was a spy, after all. He deceived us both. He was carrying peace belts. But—but I am sure that he had moments of saying to himself that he would refuse to act the spy. When he lied to me, and told me that he had no purpose but my safety, I think that he thought he spoke the truth."
"I know, madame."
"But when—when I saw what he had done, when I saw that we were going west, I warned him that I would leave him. I told him, too, that he was going to his death. He did not believe me. No watch was kept on me. He had a small canoe; I took it one night. I had provision—a little—— I—I—I am here, monsieur."
I stood with my eyes down. "Your cousin wished to follow you. The Indians restrained him. It was as I told you. He was not a coward at the last, madame."'
I heard her quick breath. "My cousin,—he was very weak. But he would have liked not to be. I think that he would have liked to be such a man as you, monsieur."
If I had been a live man I should have cried out at the irony of having to hear her say that to me. But I could not feel even shame.
"Hush, hush!" I said slowly. "It is my turn now. Madame, I knew that you were in the Seneca camp."
"But I was not."
"It is the same as if you were. We had news from Indian runners that Starling had turned west and joined Pemaou. I knew that he would take you to the Senecas." I stopped and forced myself to look at her. But I found no horror in her face. There was still that strange glow of pride that had not faded since she talked to Cadillac. I saw that she did not understand. My voice was thick, but I tried to speak again. She interrupted.
"This is not a surprise to me. This wilderness that seems so lonely is full of eyes and ears. I feared that you would hear that we had turned west."
Her face was unsteady with tenderness. I had never seen her look like that. I warded her away though she was several feet distant. "You do not understand," I said. "I knew that you were in the camp, yet I gave the signal to attack it. I gave the signal to attack it with Indians, and you were inside."
"But I was not inside, monsieur."
"I believed you to be, and I gave the signal."
"But, monsieur, I"——
"Madame, I believed you to be in the camp, and I gave the signal to attack it."
She was silent at that, and I knew that at last she understood. We stood side by side. I looked at the litter in Cadillac's tent, and counted it piece by piece. There were clothes, papers, a handmill for grinding maize. I felt her touch my hand.
"Will you sit beside me on the couch?"
I followed her. She sat facing me, just out of reach of my hand. The light in the tent was blue and dim, but I could see the breath flutter in her throat. I looked at her. I should never be alone with her again. I should never again look at her in this way. I tried to hold the moment, and not blur it. I looked at the lips that I had never kissed. I watched the rise and fall of the bosom where my head had never lain. She was speaking, but I could hardly understand.
"I was three days in the woods before I found the Pottawatamies," she said. "I was alone all night with the stars and the trees. I thought of everything. I thought of this, monsieur. I was sure you would do—what you did."
I stared at her stupidly.
She reached out and touched my hand. "Monsieur, listen. I have lived beside you. I know you to be a man of fixed purpose and fanatic honor. When such a man as you lays out a path for himself, he will follow it even if he has to trample on what is in his way,—even if he has to trample on his heart, monsieur."
I could not follow her argument. "You should not touch my hand." I drew it away. "You do not understand, after all. Madame, I gave the signal knowing it meant your murder." I rose, and stood like stone. My arms hung like weights by my side, but I would not look away from her.
She rose, too. I saw a strange, wild brightness flame into her eyes.
"Monsieur," she whispered. "I understand so much more than you realize. Listen. You will listen? Monsieur, until now you have always laughed. You have been gay,—gay at all times. Yet, through it all I have seen—I have always seen—your terrible power of self-crucifixion. Oh, I have seen it; I have feared it; I have loved it! I have tried to get away from it. But always I have been conscious of it. It is you. It has ruled all your dealings with me. Else why did you take me with you? Why did you marry me? So in this matter. You knew that the safety of the west, and of the Indians who trusted you, lay in attacking this camp. I knew that you would attack it. Monsieur, monsieur, now will you touch my hand?"
I stepped back. "You cannot want to touch my hand. Madame, you do not know what you are saying."
But she did not move. "Monsieur, will you never believe that I understand?"
I could not answer. I turned from her. The air was black. I seized her fur cloak which lay on the couch and pressed it in my hands. I knew that my breath rattled in groans like a dying man's. If I had tried to speak I should have snatched her to me. I held fast to the table. I had no thought of what she was thinking. I knew only that I must stand there silent if I was to get away from her in safety. If I touched her, if I looked at her, I should lose control, and take what she would give in pity. I fought to save her as well as myself from my madness.
At last she spoke, and her voice was tired and quiet. "You wish me to go, monsieur?"
That brought me to my manhood. I went to her and looked down at her brown head; the brave brown head that she had carried so high through all the terror and unkindness that had come to her. I touched her hair with my lips, and I grew as quiet as she.
"Mary," I said, "it is I who must go away at once before I make trouble for both of us. You are trying to forgive me, but you cannot do it. You may think you have done it, but the time would come when you would look at me in horror, as you looked at Starling. I could stand death better. I know that you cannot forgive me. I knew it at the moment when I gave the signal to attack the camp. You can never forgive me."
She lifted her eyes to mine. "I have not forgiven you, monsieur.There is nothing to forgive."
I let myself look at her, and all my calmness left me. I shut my teeth and tried to hold myself in bounds.
"Mary!" I groaned, "be careful! Be careful! It is not your pity I want. If you forgive me for pity"——
I could not finish, for she gave a little sob. She turned to me. "It is you who marry for pity," she cried, with her eyes brimming. "I could not. I would not. And I have nothing to forgive; nothing, nothing. I would not have had you do anything else. I was proud of you. Oh, so proud, so proud! If you had done anything else I could never have—— Monsieur, do you love me—a little?"
I took her in my arms. I held her close to me and looked into her eyes. I looked deep into them and into the soul of her. I saw understanding of me, acceptance of me as I was. I saw belief, heart hunger, love.
And then I laid my lips on hers. She was my wife. She was the woman God had made for me, the woman who had trusted me through more than death, and who had come to me through blood and agony and tears. She was my own, and I had her there alive. I took her to myself.
Hours passed and the flap of Cadillac's tent was not lifted. Outside in the camp the drum beat for sunset. The woman heard it. She pushed back her soft waves of hair, and a shadow fell across the light that had been in her eyes.
"I had forgotten," she cried, with a soft tremble of wonder in her voice. "We have both forgotten. We promised the commandant that we would talk about your duty to the tribes."
I kissed her for her forgetfulness. "Talk is unnecessary," I whispered. "I have made up my mind."
But the drum's note had recalled her to what lay outside the tent walls. She sighed a little and bent to me as I sat at her feet.
"Do not make up your mind yet," she begged with a curious, tender reluctance. "Let me tell you something first."
I pressed her hand between my own. "I cannot listen. I can only feel.Tell me, when did you love me first?"
She raised her hand to hide a tide of color. "Monsieur, it is my shame," she cried, with a little half sob of exultance. "It is my shame, but I will tell you. The night—the night that we were married, I lay awake for hours beset by jealousy of the woman of the miniature. Oh, I am indeed shamed! But how could I help it? Your walk, your laugh, your way of carrying your head! How could I keep from loving you? But I fought it. I fought it. I knew we had to part. I went to sleep every night with that thought uppermost."
I took the hand I held, and quieted its trembling against my lips. "You are my wife," I said. "We shall never part. We shall live together till we are very old." The marvel of my own words awed me.
But she begged me to hear her out. "I must speak of the past," she went on. "It leads to what I would have you say to the commandant. Will you listen?"
"I will try."
"Then—then let me speak of the day we parted. I saw that I had to leave you. I knew—I thought I knew—that country was more sacred than individual happiness. But I was weaker than I thought. When I saw Michillimackinac fade, when I knew that I should never see you again, my life seemed to stop. I begged my cousin to take me back. I—I begged till I fainted."
I could not keep my hands from clenching. "And he refused you?" I asked with my lips dry, and I knew that my voice showed hate of a man who was dead.
She did not answer my question, and when she did not defend him I knew that he had been hard to her. "I must have remained unconscious a long time," she hurried on, "for when I came to myself again the country was different and the sun was low. I was exhausted, and I could not think as I had done. You had said that patriotism was a man-made feeling, and I repeated your words over and over. It was all I could seem to remember. I could not see why our parting had been necessary. I wonder if you can understand. It was as if I had been reborn into a new set of beliefs. All that had seemed inevitable and great had grown trivial. I could not see distinctions as I had. God made us—English, French, Indians. I could not understand what patriotism stood for, after all. I did not know what had come upon my mind, but I saw that words that I had thought worth sacrificing life for had lost their meaning. And so—and so—— You see what I would say. I have changed. If you wish to lead the tribes you are not to think of me."
I rose and drew her to me. "But, Mary, I no longer wish to lead the tribes."
She could not understand me, as indeed I could not wholly understand myself. She looked at me gravely and long, and she tried to find the truth in me,—the truth that was out of sight; the truth about myself that even I did not know.
"Was the commandant right?" she queried. "Is it anxiety about me that has changed your plans?"
I could only shake my head at her. "I am not sure." Then I sat beside her and tried to explain. "Simon is dead, Pierre died saving me. Leclerc and Labarthe died under torture. I sacrificed them to enforce a belief. And now the belief is a phantom. It is very strange. Mary, we have traveled by different roads, but we have reached the same goal. My ambition for conquest is put away."
She drew a long breath, and I saw splendid understanding of me in the look she gave. Yet she was unconvinced.
"Perhaps this feeling may pass," she argued. "It may be temporary.Then you will regret your lost hold with the tribes."
I smiled at her. "I love you," I murmured. "I love you. I love you. I am tired of talk of blood and war. Mary, you accepted me as I was, accept me, if you can, as I am now. I cannot analyze myself. I cannot promise what I will believe as time goes on. But this I know. I was born with a sword in my hand, but now I cannot use it—for aggression. I do not mean that I think it is wrong. I do not know what I believe. Time will tell."
The strange light that made her seem all spirit flamed in the glance that thanked me.
"Yet think well," she cautioned. "I—I am proud of you." Her voice sank to a whisper. "Sometimes even my love seems swallowed in my pride in you. I live on my pride in your power. Think of your unfinished work. No, no, you must go on."
I took her by the shoulders. "You strange, double woman!" I cried, with my voice unsteady. "You command me to do something, the while you are trembling from head to foot for fear I will obey. Will you always play the martyr to your spirit? Mary, I shall not lead the tribes."
"But your unfinished work!"
"What was worth doing has been done. This crisis is past. The west will be safe from the Iroquois for some time. There is other work for me. We will go to France. I have business there. Then I would show the world my wife."
Yet she held me away a moment longer. "You can do this without regret?"
I folded her to me. "It is the only path I see before me," I answered her.
And then, for the first time, she sobbed as she lay in my arms.
A little later we stood together in the tent door. The sunset was lost in the woods behind and the shadows were long and cool. The camp was gay. All memory of death and conquest was put aside, and the men were living in the moment. French and Indians were feasting, and there were song and talk and the movement of lithe bodies, gayly clad. The water babbled strange songs upon the shore, and the forest was full of quiet and mystery. The wilderness, the calm, unfathomed wilderness, had forgotten sorrow and carnage. We forgot, too.
I suddenly laughed as of old, and the sound did not jar. The woman on my arm laughed with me. A thrush was singing. Life was before me, and the woman of my love loved me. My blood tingled and I breathed deep. The wood smoke—the smoke of the pathfinder's fire—pricked keen in my nostrils.
I pointed the woman to the forest. "We shall come back to it," I cried. "We leave it now, but we shall come back to it, some time, somehow. Perhaps we shall be settlers, explorers. I do not know. But we shall come back. This land belongs to us; to us and to our children and our children's children. French or English, what will it matter then? It will be a new race."
The woman turned. I heard her quick breath and saw the red flood her from chin to brow. "A new race!" she repeated, and her eyes grew dark with the splendor of the thought. She clasped her hands, and looked to the west over the unmapped forest, and I knew that for the moment her blood was pulsing, not for me, but for that unborn race which was to hold this land. I had married a woman, yes, but also I had married a poet and a dreamer and a will incarnate. It was such spirit as hers that would shape the destinies of nations yet to come.
I laughed again, and the joy of life ran through me like delirium.
"Come!" I cried to her. "Come, we will tell Cadillac that to-morrow we start for Montreal. The sooner we leave, the sooner we return,—return to smell the wood smoke, and try the wilderness together. Come, Mary, come."
And wrapping my wife in the cloak that the savage king had given her, I led her out and stood beside her while I sent the tribes upon their way.