The Indian smiled as he stooped and arranged his right snow-shoe.
"Kitty no starve, Babby no starve," he replied. "Sam come bimeby.Plenty grub."
This was an anxious day for Jean, as she was well aware that the entire camp was on the verge of starvation. The children were already picking and sucking the bones of the partridges, and there was no food in the place. Even the little they had brought with them was gone, so she and Kitty went without any dinner. She did her best to cheer and encourage the dispirited Loyalists, telling them that Sam would soon return with plenty of meat. He was their sole dependence now, and suppose anything should happen to him! But she had confidence in his skill and judgment, so hoped for the best.
Much of the day she spent with the women and children, listening to the hardships they had endured, and playing with the little ones. At times she visited the men, and watched them as they toiled bravely at their houses. They were weak and hungry, but they uttered no word of complaint. Occasionally she saw them gnawing and chewing the bark of tender birch twigs, while some tried to find sustenance in pine, spruce, and cedar cones. But for the hope that Sam would return with a supply of food, they would have given up in despair.
The day was drawing to a close when the women and children were transferred to their new abodes. Fires were burning brightly, and fresh fir boughs made soft beds. The children were delighted with this change, and the expression in the women's eyes showed their pleasure. As Jean watched the mothers making up the beds for the night she noticed how few and thin were the blankets. She well knew that they must have more clothing if they were to be kept from perishing during the long winter ahead. And other food they must have than meat, especially the children. Her mind turned naturally to the King's mast-cutters. She must go to them, for no doubt they had a supply of provisions on hand, as well as extra blankets. She was sure that they would be willing to help these needy people.
At first she thought of getting Sam and Kitty to go. But thinking the matter over, she decided that it would be better to go herself. The Indians might not be able to explain fully the serious condition of the Loyalists, or else the mast-cutters might not pay much attention to what they said. She mentioned this to no one, however, preferring to wait until Sam returned that she might talk it over with him.
There was little rest that night for the older ones. The hungry children had cried themselves to sleep, while the helpless parents watched and listened with heavy hearts. They were beyond tears now, having shed so many in the past. The men were weary to the point of exhaustion after their day's work without any food. As they huddled there they often cast anxious glances out into the night, hoping to see the Indian coming from the forest. They themselves had done the best they could to provide game, but they were unused to hunting, and when they became weakened through lack of food, they were able to do but little. All they could do now was to trust to the Indian and await his return.
Jean decided to watch with Kitty, as she felt sure that Sam would come back before morning. But as the hours wore on, her eyes became heavy. The bed of fir boughs and blankets was comfortable, so at length she passed into a sound sleep, leaving Kitty awake and watchful.
When she opened her eyes it was daylight, and the delicious odor of frying meat pervaded the air. Kitty was stooping before the fire, while Sam was squatting but a short distance away. They both turned and smiled as the girl awoke and spoke to them.
"When did you get back, Sam?" she asked.
"Short tam' go. Plenty meat now."
"Oh, I am so glad! What did you get?"
"Feesh, Injun turkey, hut-tok."
"What, a deer!" Jean exclaimed, for she knew the meaning of the Indian word.
"A-ha-ha, hut-tok. Beeg."
"Good for you, Sam! You are a great hunter. Where is the deer?"
"White man eat'm," he replied with a smile.
"And did you haul it into camp?"
"A-ha-ha. Sam strong, beeg."
This supply of meat was a God-send to all, and there was great rejoicing among the Loyalists. They praised the Indian for what he had done, and he was looked upon as a hero, especially by the children.
When breakfast was over, and Sam was enjoying his pipe near the fire,Jean spoke to him about going to the mast-cutters for assistance. TheIndian listened intently, and when the girl had finished speaking, heremained for awhile in deep silence.
"Can we do it?" Jean at length asked. "How far is it?"
"Sam go wan sleep, babby two sleep," was the reply.
Jean smiled as she drew herself to her full height.
"Don't you think I can do it in one sleep as well as you?" she bantered. "Why, I am strong now, almost like an Indian."
"Babby no all sam' Injun yet," Sam reminded. "Bimeby, mebbe."
"But will you go, Sam?"
"A-ha-ha. Wan sleep, Sam go."
"In the morning?"
"Mebbe. Sam see."
With this Jean had to be content. She was pleased that the Indian was willing to go with her, although she was well aware that he would start only when he was ready. She talked it over with the women, and a new hope rose in their hearts when they learned about the King's mast-cutters.
"What should we have done without you?" one woman remarked with a sob in her voice. "The Lord surely must have sent you and those Indians just when our needs were so great. We can never repay you for what you have done for us."
The short winter day was drawing to a close as Jean and her two Indian companions moved down the western side of a long hill. They were making for the valley below through which ran a small brook, where they hoped to camp for the night. They had been abroad since morning, and Jean was now very tired. Her strength was not so great as she had imagined, and she recalled with amusement her proud boast the day before. Sam had been right, and she was glad that he did not try to reach the mast-cutters in "one sleep." She could not possibly do it, although it would have been easy for the Indians. They had this day regulated their speed to her feeble steps. But without her how they would have sped through the forest. They were both wonderful snow-shoers, and on several occasions she had watched them as they bounded over the snow with great swinging, tireless strides. Her admiration of these faithful, self-reliant people was unbounded.
They had almost reached the valley when the report of a gun rang through the forest, followed in a few seconds by a cry of distress. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, gripped hard his musket, and peered keenly among the trees. The next instant he was bounding forward, leaving Jean and Kitty staring after him.
"What is it?" the girl asked, her face white with fear.
"Kitty no say now," was the reply. "See bimeby."
And as they waited and listened with fast-beating hearts, another report echoed through the forest, and then all was still.
"Sam shoot," Kitty explained. "Come."
Hurrying forward, they soon reached the valley, and ere long they saw Sam bending over some object. Nearby was a large moose, with its great body and branching antlers half buried in the snow. But to this Sam gave no heed. His attention was centred upon a human being, moaning and writhing in pain. Jean saw at once that it was a man, with white hair and long, flowing beard. With a cry she rushed forward and knelt by his side.
"Are you hurt?" she asked in a tremulous voice.
At this question the man started, lifted his head, and looked curiously at the girl. An expression of defiance glowed in his eyes, which caused Jean to wonder.
"Are you hurt?" she repeated. "Can we help you?"
"Am I hurt?" the man growled. "Do I look hurt?"
These words instead of frightening the girl only tended to make her somewhat angry. She wished to do what she could to help the man, but she did not like his sarcasm. It was altogether uncalled for, so she thought.
"You look as if you are hurt," she replied. "But, then, you are the best judge of that. We are willing to do what we can for you, but if you do not want our help we shall leave you alone."
Her tone was severe, and this the man noted.
"I am hurt," he confessed in a milder voice. "That devil over there nearly made an end of me. O, Lord!" He placed his hand to his side, and his brow contracted with pain. "I guess I'm done for, anyway."
"Where do you live?" Jean asked. "We must get you home."
"Just down the valley. Sam knows where. I think I can walk with his help. He's a good Indian, and he saved my life to-day. He was just in time."
With considerable difficulty the injured man was lifted out of the snow where he was half buried, and helped to regain his feet. One of his snow-shoes was gone, but Kitty found it several yards away.
"It was that which caused all the trouble," the man explained. "When the moose charged, something went wrong with that snow-shoe, and before I could do anything the brute was upon me."
After Sam had fixed and arranged the snow-shoe upon the man's moccasined foot, he took him by the arm and started forward, with the women following. Their progress was slow, for the injured man often stopped and pressed his hand to his side. That he was suffering greatly was most apparent, and Jean felt sorry for him. She wondered who he was, and the reason for the look of defiance in his eyes. That he had called Sam by name puzzled her, for the Indian had never spoken of him to her.
She was more mystified than ever when ere long they came in sight of a log cabin nestling on the hillside at the entrance of the valley. In front of the house was a small clearing surrounded by a rough pole fence, causing Jean to believe that the owner had lived there for some time, and did a little gardening.
When, however, she entered the building her surprise was greater than ever. The main room was as comfortable and cosy as hands could make it. The floor was covered with fur rugs of various shapes and sizes. The walls, too, were adorned with skins of the bear, fox, otter, wolverine, and other animals. At the farther end of the room was a large fire-place, above which was a fine moose head with great branching antlers. Several hardwood sticks were burning upon the hearth, showing that the owner had not been long away from home. There were also other articles on the walls, such as Indian curios, bows and arrows, as well as a few pictures. In the middle of the room was a table, covered with a cloth of rich design. In the centre of this stood a candle-stick, made of wood, evidently hand-wrought. It had seven branches, and in each was a dip-candle. A well-polished silver tray, containing a pair of snuffers, was lying near. There were several books upon the table, one of which was lying open, as if the reader had hurriedly laid it down as he rose from the deep, comfortable chair nearby. There were other chairs in the room, as well as stools and benches, but this big chair excelled them all in size and quaint workmanship. It was evidently the owner's special favourite, for it showed signs of much use.
To the left of the fire-place was the one couch the room contained, and to this the injured man at once made his way. He sat upon the edge and rested for a few minutes. He was breathing hard, and most of the time he kept his right hand to his suffering side. He seemed to pay no heed to what was taking place around him, but stared straight before him as if in a dream. He aroused at length, and glanced at the three standing before him.
"Make yourselves at home," he said. "There is plenty of food in the next room. It is quite warm there, for I always keep a fire going. The women, I think, will find it comfortable. Sam, I want to speak to you alone."
Jean was not slow in taking this hint, so she opened a door to the right of the fire-place and passed into the adjoining room. This was somewhat similar to the one they had just left, excepting that it was not so cosy. The table had no cloth covering it, and upon it stood a single candle stuck in a wooden candle-stick. This she lighted with a coal from the fire-place, and then looked curiously around. Along one side of the room was an abundance of provisions, all in bags, and carefully arranged. There were blankets, too, piles of them, and nearby a stack of furs. Jean thought of the Loyalists on the A-jem-sek. Here was sufficient food and clothing to last them for some time. And why should they not have them? She would speak to the owner just as soon as possible, and no doubt he would be willing to send something to the needy ones.
As she looked toward a corner of the room opposite the food and blankets, she was astonished to see many muskets leaning against the wall. She went over and began to count, and found there were fifty in all. She also saw numerous old swords, bayonets, and boxes filled with bullets. There were cans, as well, which she believed contained powder. She grew more puzzled now than ever. Who could the man be, and why did he have so many guns? Perhaps he was a trader, and dealt with the Indians. But why had not Sam and Kitty spoken about him? Then she recalled the look of defiance in his eyes when she had first met him. What was the meaning of that?
She crossed the room to where the Indian woman was searching among the pots, pans, and other cooking utensils near the fire-place.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"Cook supper," was the reply. "Plenty grub, eh?"
"There certainly is, Kitty. I wonder what that man is going to do with it all." She then lowered her voice, and glanced toward the door. "Do you know anything about him?" she enquired. "Why does he have so many guns?"
"Kitty know," was the reply. "White man beeg chief."
"What kind of a chief?"
"Kitty no say now. Bimeby, mebbe."
"Is he a trader?"
"A-ha-ha, mebbe."
This was all the information Jean could gain from the woman, and she was greatly mystified. Kitty evidently knew who the man was, and yet she would tell nothing more than that he was a big chief. She sat down before the fire and tried to puzzle it all out. But the more she thought, the more confused she became, and at last was forced to give up in despair. Perhaps she could find out for herself. Anyway, she must get food and clothing to send to the Loyalists as speedily as possible.
In the meantime Kitty had found a quantity of Indian meal and was cooking some cakes in one of the frying-pans she had found. There was also a good supply of molasses in a cask, which when served with the cakes makes fairly good eating. It was a change, at any rate, from the constant meat diet.
"Kitty cook plenty bimeby," the Indian woman announced. "Good tam, eh?"
"Some of that food must go to those starving people on the A-Jem-sek," Jean replied. "And look at those blankets. Why, there are enough to keep them all warm. You and Sam will take some, will you not?"
To this request Kitty made no response, and while Jean was wondering why she did not answer, Sam entered the room, and came close to the fire.
"Beeg chief want see babby," he announced.
"How is he?" the girl asked, rising to her feet.
"Seek here," and Sam placed his hand to his side. "Much seek. Bad!"
Jean at once went into the other room, which was lighted only by the fire, and crossed to where the injured man was lying.
"You want to see me?" she enquired. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, light the candles. It is very dark here."
Jean at once obeyed, and in a few minutes the candles were burning brightly. The effect was beautiful, and as she stood watching them she wondered why there were just seven.
"You like them?" the man asked.
"I do," Jean acknowledged. "But I am curious to know why there are just seven."
"Oh, that is a perfect number," the man explained. "It is according to the Bible, you know. Now, take the snuffers and put out six."
Jean did as she was bidden, greatly mystified, until but one candle was left burning.
"There, that will do," the man said. "Now, come over here and sit by my side. That is better," he continued when she had complied with his request.
"How are you feeling?" Jean asked.
"A little easier now. I am somewhat of a doctor, and Sam helped me. But never mind that. I want to know who you are, and why you are travelling with those Indians?"
Briefly as possible Jean told her story, and when she had ended the man remained silent for a few minutes. She could not see the expression upon his face, nor the peculiar light in his eyes owing to the darkness of the corner where he was lying. Could she have done so, she would have been more surprised than ever.
"It is a strange story you have told me, young woman," he at length remarked. "You have been wonderfully delivered. You should consider yourself very fortunate in having such friends as those Indians."
"Indeed I do," Jean declared. "They have done more for me than I can ever repay. I know now how to sympathise with others in distress, and so want to help those unfortunate Loyalists."
"So you are on your way to get food and clothing from the mast-cutters?"
"Yes, but we won't have to go to them now, as I am sure you will help out those poor people. You have plenty of supplies."
"And they will stay here, young woman."
"What! you won't send any to those people in distress?"
"Why should I? They are Loyalists, and that is enough."
Jean started and stared at the man in amazement.
Surely she had not heard aright.
"Do you mean what you say?" she asked.
"I certainly do. Those Loyalists will never receive any help from me.Let them starve and freeze; it is no more than they deserve."
These cold, inhuman words stirred Jean's fighting blood. She rose quickly to her feet, her eyes ablaze with anger.
"I don't know who you are," she began, "and I don't know why you hate the Loyalists. But—" she paused just for an instant, "some of that food and clothing will leave this place to-morrow morning."
The man sat bolt upright at this declaration, and flung out his right hand as if to hit the girl. Then he sank back upon the bed with a groan.
"You can't help yourself," Jean reminded, "so it is better for you to keep quiet. Some of those supplies are going, whether you like it or not."
"But this is a hold-up, a robbery," the man charged.
"I don't care what you call it, and I'm not worrying about that. I only know that men, women, and children are starving not far away, so while there is food here they are going to have some of it."
Jean was surprised at her boldness. But it was not time for half-way measures. If the owner would not agree to let the supplies go, she would take matters into her own hands.
"Oh, but for this confounded pain in my side I would soon teach you who is master of this house," the man shouted. "You are an impudent hussy, and I believe the story you told me about being carried away is a lie. And how do I know but what you are lying about those Loyalists? You and your Indian companions may keep what you take for yourselves."
"You can believe me or not, just as you wish," Jean quietly and firmly replied. "But those supplies are going to the Loyalists in the morning. I would be ashamed to be called Colonel Sterling's daughter if I were afraid to use strong measures to save starving people."
At these words the man suddenly lifted himself on his right elbow, and peered keenly at the girl.
"Light the rest of those candles," he ordered. "I must see your face.I want to know if you are telling me the truth."
Jean did so, and then returned to the man's side.
"Stand there," he commanded, "a little to the right, so I can see your face. Ah, that's better. Now, tell me your father's Christian name."
"James," the girl replied.
"Yes, but James what? He has a second name, has he not?"
"Witrow. James Witrow Sterling; that's his full name."
"What was your mother's name?"
"Deborah Ruth."
"But her maiden name?"
"Winslow."
"And your name?"
"Priscilla Jean, although I only get 'Jean.'"
"After whom were you named?"
"A very dear friend of my parents."
"Who was she?"
"Priscilla Jean Norman, so I have been told."
"Where is she now?"
"I do not know. She and her husband disappeared years ago, and no word has been received from them since. They were the dearest friends my father had, and he feels the loss very keenly."
"Is your mother alive?"
"No; she died several years ago."
With a deep sigh the man dropped back upon the pillow, and remained silent for a few minutes. Jean sat down by his side, lost in thought. What was the meaning of the man's sudden excitement? she asked herself. And why did he question her so closely about her parents' names? Perhaps he had known them in the past. At length the man stirred, reached out his right hand and touched hers.
"Young woman," he began, "for your parents' sake alone I give you permission to take food and clothing to those starving people."
"Oh, I am so glad!" Jean replied. "But did you know my father and mother?"
To this question the man seemed to pay no heed. His eyes were fixed upon the seven candles.
"Yes, there were seven of us," he murmured as if to himself, "seven who were all in all to one another. But six went out, and I was left alone. Put them out again, Miss, and leave just one burning. You may go now, as I want to think. Send Sam to me. He can sleep in here to-night. You will find plenty of blankets in the next room. Good night."
Quietly and almost reverently Jean extinguished six of the candles, and then left the room. She felt that there was a deep mystery surrounding this man's life of which the seven-branch candle-stick was but the outward symbol.
Jean awoke the next morning much refreshed after the good night's rest. She slept upon a liberal supply of blankets which Kitty had prepared for her upon the floor. This was a treat after camp-life, and when she opened her eyes the Indian woman was cooking breakfast. It was not yet daylight, but the room was quite bright from the dancing flames of the fire-place. It felt nice to lie there with a roof above her and no weary journey ahead for that day, at least. She recalled the events of the previous day, and wondered how the injured man had passed the night. She had fallen asleep thinking about him, and the mystery of his life. Whoever he was, she was thankful that he had known her parents, and that for their sake he was willing to send food to the Loyalists. The Indians were to start that morning, so she must be ready to assist them in selecting the supplies.
About a quarter of an hour later Sam entered the room. He did not knock, for such etiquette was not in his simple code of Indian manners. He merely looked to see what his wife was cooking, and then turned toward Jean.
"Beeg chief want see babby," he announced.
"How is he this morning, Sam?"
"No good. Bad."
Fearing that the man was much worse, Jean hurried into the other room, and went at once to the couch.
"Good morning," she brightly accosted. "How are you feeling now?"
"None too good," was the reply. "I didn't sleep a wink last night."
"Your side hurt you, I suppose."
"Perhaps so. But never mind about that now. I want you to help Sam pack up the outfit. Don't let him take too much, and see that he doesn't get any of that rum. It's in a keg near the molasses.
"You will have some breakfast, will you not?" Jean asked.
"I suppose so. There's a box yonder," and he pointed to the opposite side of the room. "You'll find some bread and cold meat. You might bring me a cup of strong tea; perhaps it will steady my nerves. Hand me my pipe and tobacco; they're on that flat stone projecting from the fire-place."
About the middle of the forenoon the relief party drew away from the house on their arduous journey to the A-jem-sek. It had taken Sam some time to repair the broken toboggan he had found in a shed near by. When this had been loaded with supplies, Sam threw the rope across his shoulders and started forward, with Kitty following. It would be a hard trip, Jean was well aware, so she told the Indians how grateful she was, and that no doubt King George would hear of their good deed. Her words pleased the simple-minded natives, and they undertook the difficult task in the best of spirits.
"Don't forget to tell the Loyalists about the moose," Jean reminded as she stood watching them from the back door.
"Injun no forget," Sam replied. "White man come bimeby. Sam, mebbe."
The girl watched her faithful friends until they had disappeared from view. All at once she seemed inexpressibly lonely as she stood there. While the Indians were with her she felt secure. But now she was alone with the mysterious invalid in the next room. She might have gone, too, but the man had asked her to stay until the natives returned, and she could not very well refuse his request. Anyway, she would be of more use here than out on the trail. She wondered what was the cause of the feeling of depression that had so suddenly swept upon her, and which was contrary to her buoyant nature. All at once the great silent forest appeared to her like some sinister monster, holding a lurking enemy within its brooding depths. She chided herself for her foolishness, but for all that, she could not entirely banish the strange feeling.
Going into the adjoining room, she found the invalid asleep. Not wishing to disturb him, she sat down by the table and picked up the book lying open there. It was a copy of Shakespeare's works, well-bound, and showing signs of much use. She turned to the front blank pages, hoping to see a name inscribed there. But nothing could she find. She examined two other books, one a copy of Virgil's "Aeneid," and the second "The Tatler," but no clue could she obtain as to the identity of the owner. In one of them, however, she did find where a name had been scratched out, as with a knife.
Taking up again the copy of Shakespeare's works, she glanced at the play where the book was lying open. It was "Timon of Athens," and the page upon which her eyes rested contained Timon's terrible curse outside the walls of Athens. She read it through, and then let the book drop upon her lap, wondering why any one in his right mind could so curse his fellow beings. She glanced toward the man upon the cot. Had he been reading those words ere he laid the book aside? she mused. What connection had that curse with him? Did he hate his fellow men as Timon did of old? Perhaps he, too, had been wronged, and had fled to this lonely place. She recalled what he had said about those starving Loyalists. Surely there must be some good reason for his intense bitterness.
As she thus sat there gazing dreamily into the fire, the man on the cot stirred, uttered a slight moan, opened his eyes and looked at the girl.
"Ah, so you've been keeping watch, have you?" he asked. "Pretty lonely job, isn't it?"
"Not at all," Jean brightly replied, laying aside the book and rising to her feet. "I have been looking at your books. My, what a reader you must be! But why do you read such stuff as that?"
"What stuff? I hope you don't call Shakespeare's works 'stuff.'"
"Oh, I am merely referring to Timon's curse. It is terrible. But, there, I don't want to talk about it. Let me make you a cup of tea. That will do you more good than any book."
"Make it good and strong," the man reminded. "And while you are about it you might as well bring me a noggin of rum. I haven't had any since yesterday morning."
The invalid drank the tea first, and pronounced it excellent. He let the rum remain by his side while he filled and lighted his pipe.
"Did you have a good sleep?" Jean asked as she again sat down by the table. "I hope you feel better."
"I had a fairly good sleep, Miss, although the pain in my side is no better. However, I am used to suffering. So you don't care for Shakespeare, eh?"
"I didn't say that," Jean defended. "But I don't like reading those terrible passages about curses and such like."
"But I like them, Miss. They just suit me, and I feed on them."
"How can you? It is more than I can understand."
"You would, though, if you had been treated as I have been. I am Timon, and his sufferings were no greater than mine. His so-called friends were false to him, and so were mine. He cursed them, and I have made his curses mine. I am really Timon."
"Suppose I call you 'Timon,' then," Jean suggested with a smile. "I don't know what else to call you, for I do not know your name. 'Mr. Timon' sounds very well, does it not?"
"Yes, you may call me anything you like. I suppose Timon is as good as any other name. And it suits me, too."
"You must have had a hard life," Jean replied, not knowing what else to say. "It has evidently made you very bitter against your fellow men."
"Hard is not a strong enough word, Miss. You see that copy of the 'Aeneid'? Well, I read as much of that as I do Shakespeare. I like to follow the history of Old Aeneas. Many of his troubles were mine, and truly has Virgil sung of them. He was an exile by fate, and so am I. He had many wanderings, and so have I. He was treated with base ingratitude, and so was I. Yes, Timon and Aeneas are my brothers in tribulation. Like them I hate and curse my enemies."
"But this is a Christian age," Jean reminded. "We are taught by ourGreat Master to love our enemies, to bless and curse not."
"What! love King George, that crazy fool? Love a thing that brought on the war? Love a creature with the brains of a mouse? Nonsense. I don't believe the Lord ever meant us to love such a being."
Jean little expected that her quiet rebuke would cause such an outburst. She had always held the King in the highest esteem, as one who ruled by divine authority. To hear him now reviled, was more than she could endure.
"You have no right to talk about our good King in such a manner," she stoutly defended. "He is a great King, and thousands have died for him in the terrible war."
"A great King! A great King!" the man sneered. "And how great is he? He is so great that he objected to painting St. Paul's Cathedral as being too much like the Roman Catholic custom. He is so great that he doesn't like Shakespeare, but he laughs to split his sides at farces and pantomimes, where clowns swallow carrots and strings of sausages. He is so great that he spends much of his time learning the exact number of buttons, tags and laces, and the cut of all the cocked-hats, pigtails, and gaiters in his army. Oh, yes, he is so great that he is always meddling in other people's affairs. He pokes his red face into every cottage for miles around. Imagine the King of England going about in his old wig, shovel-hat, and Windsor uniform, hob-nobbing with pig-boys, and old women making apple dumplings, and hurrahing with lazy louts early in the morning! That is the great King of England! How proud you must be of such a creature."
"I am proud of him," Jean retorted, "and you should not misrepresent him. The people love him for his pure and simple manner of living. He goes among them that he might know how they live, for he wants to help them all he can. They call him 'Farmer George,' so I have heard my father say, and I am sure that is an honour for any King."
"Queer honour, I should say, Miss. And he won great honour in his fight with America, didn't he? He was going to teach the colonies a lesson, and whip them into line. I'd like to have seen his old red face when the news of the defeat of his forces reached him. He's getting his punishment now, and he'll get more before he's through. He ruined me, an honest man. But he's getting his turn. I've heard that he goes out of his mind at times, and that his sons are turning out bad. Yes, yes, he's finding out now what it is to suffer. Oh, he'll learn, and I'm glad."
To these bitter words Jean made no reply. She realised that the less she said the better it would be. To oppose this man would only inflame his anger. She knew that his excitement increased his suffering, for at times during his tirades he had placed his hand to his injured side and gasped for breath. As she gazed into the fire she knew that the man was watching her, although she did not look in his direction. For a few minutes a deep silence pervaded the room, and when the man again spoke it was in a much milder tone.
"You must have had a hard time of it," he said. "I can well imagine how greatly worried your father must be."
"I fear he is about heart-broken," Jean replied. "He has been failing of late, and I am afraid this blow will go hard with him. I was his only comfort."
"It was a great trial for him to leave his old home, I suppose."
"In a way it was. But he was very brave through it all. He did what he could to encourage others, and many were helped by his cheerful manner. He told them that it was a great privilege to suffer in a noble cause, and that it was an honour to be loyal pioneers in a strange land."
No sooner had Jean uttered these words than she wished them unsaid.But the man appeared not to have heard them.
"Tell me about your old home," he requested. "Also about the war, and your coming to this country. It will help to pass the time."
Jean was only too glad to do this, so quietly and simply she told about her old happy home in Connecticut, her mother's death, the war, and all that it meant to them, of their arrival at Portland Point, the voyage up the river, and the settlement in the wilderness. Of Dane Norwood she did not speak, for it was not her nature to reveal to a stranger the deep things of the heart. Neither did she mention the rangers and their march with the men of the settlement against the rebels. A natural caution restrained her from speaking of this to one who so hated the Loyalists and King George.
When she had finished she waited for the man to make some remarks. When, however, he did not speak, she rose, went into the other room, and busied herself in preparing dinner. It was a simple repast, but it satisfied the invalid, and he showed his pleasure by a faint smile, the first that the girl had seen upon his face.
"It is good of you to stay here and wait upon me," he said, "especially after what I said about the Loyalists and King George. I owe my life to you, Miss, and I am not ashamed to acknowledge it."
"It was Sam who saved you, Mr. Timon," Jean smilingly replied.
"Ah, yes, in actually shooting the moose. But for you, though, Sam would not have been on hand at the right minute. It was you who suggested going to the mast-cutters on behalf of those Loyalists."
"The real credit, then, should be given to the ones who plotted to carry me away from home. But for them I would not be here now."
"And my body would be lying out there in the snow, gored, torn and trampled. Wonderful, indeed, is the chain of events."
"It is wonderful," Jean agreed. "I have been thinking so much about it ever since Sam rescued me that night from Seth Lupin. I was in absolute despair, but just when help was needed most it seemed as if God reached out His hand and saved me. The words of that beautiful hymn, 'The Lord's My Shepherd,' have been often in my mind. I sang it one night to Sam and Kitty, and they were greatly pleased."
"Will you sing it to me?" the man asked. "It has been many years sinceI have heard any singing, except rough camp songs."
Although surprised at this request, as well as the sudden change in theman's manner, Jean did as she was requested. In a clear, sweet voiceshe sang the first verse,The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,He makes me down to lieIn pastures green; He leadeth meThe quiet waters by.
She was about to begin the next verse when a step was heard outside, and then a heavy knock sounded upon the door.
As Jean rose and opened the door a man at once entered, who stared at her in amazement. He was of medium size, clad in a short fur jacket, belted at the waist, heavy cap, rough homespun trousers, stuck into coarse socks, and moccasins on his feet. His face was covered with a ragged, bushy beard, flecked with frost, while particles of ice clung to his moustache. His small piercing eyes attracted Jean most of all, causing her to retreat a step or two. This the visitor noted, and laughed.
"I won't hurt ye, Miss," he said. "But, Lord! where have you dropped from? I didn't know there was a wench like you on this side of hell."
"Hold your tongue, Dave, and come over here," the man on the couch ordered.
The visitor at once obeyed, and crossed the room. He looked upon the invalid with surprise.
"Hello! what's wrong with you?" he asked.
"Oh, I met with an accident. But what are you doing here, Dave? What do you want?"
Dave, however, made no reply, but turned and stared hard at Jean who was now standing near the table.
"Did you hear what I said, Dave? What do you want?"
"Guess there's only one thing I want now, chief. Where did ye git her?My! she's a beauty."
At these words the injured man's eyes flashed with anger. He lifted himself to a sitting position, and seized Dave by the arm.
"She's my daughter," he lied, "and if you harm her I'll kill you. See?"
The visitor cowered and shrank back at this fierce threat.
"I didn't mean to harm her," he muttered. "But I didn't know ye had a daughter like that. Where have ye kept her all this time?"
"That's none of your business, Dave. Tell me what you want, and then get out. But, wait, I know you're thirsty. Bring in some rum, daughter," he ordered, looking over at Jean.
The latter was only too glad to get out of the room, and away from the man who in such a short time had filled her heart with fear. Her hands trembled as she picked up a mug and filled it with liquor. She then glanced toward the muskets in the opposite corner, and wondered if they were loaded. She felt more lonely now than ever, and wished for Sam and Kitty. She feared that stranger, and longed to close and bolt the door until he was out of the house. At present, however, there was nothing else for her to do but to be as brave as possible. No trace of fear did she show as she went into the other room, and paused just inside the door. The two men were talking very earnestly, and the invalid seemed to be quite excited.
"You must not let them come here," he was saying. "Keep them away for a day or two, at least."
"I can't," the other replied. "They are on their way now, and should be here sometime to-night."
At this Jean stepped forward and held out the noggin of rum. Dave eagerly seized the mug, and drained it to the last drop.
"My, that's great!" he declared, smacking his lips. "Fill it again, won't you?"
"No more now, Dave," his chief told him. "You may have another, though, before you leave. And you must leave soon and stop those men. They must wait until I am better."
"But I can't stop them, chief. They won't listen to me. They're out for a big time, an' they're goin' to have it. An' besides, there's that gang comin' from the Washademoak, an' they expect to meet them."
"Oh, Lord! I know it," the injured man groaned. "But that doesn't make any difference. I want you to stop that first gang from coming here. Tell them that I am very sick and can't see them now."
"Don't stop them, chief," Dave pleaded. "This is about the last chance they'll have. The rangers are on the way, so I hear, so we must get ahead of them. Davidson, the devil, has got wind of this."
"How did he hear?"
"How did he hear?" Dave repeated with a laugh. "How did he hear about that meeting on the Wed-nee-bak, an' round up that bunch at the lake? I guess you know as well as anybody."
"Never mind about that now, Dave. All I want you to do is to stop those men from coming here to-night. Tell them to leave me out this time, and to march straight overland until they meet the men coming eastward. I can't talk any more now, as my side hurts me very much. Daughter, give this man some more rum."
Jean started at this order, and quickly left the room. She was greatly excited, for she realised that serious trouble of some kind was on foot. She believed that the rebels were about to attack that helpless band of Loyalists on the A-jem-sek as others had planned to do to the ones at Loyal. What she had gathered from Dave's words led her to believe that the latter attempt had failed. This was the first news she had received, and it greatly relieved her mind. But what about the others, those suffering men, women and children but a short distance away?
She was thankful when Dave at last left the house, and she was once more alone with the invalid. The latter was very still, staring straight before him. Jean crossed the room and stood by his side.
"I want to know the truth," she began. "Is an attack to be made upon those Loyalists?"
"What do you mean?" the man asked in surprise.
"Just what I said. The rebels planned to wipe out the Loyalists down river, and it looks to me as if they are about to try the same upon the ones on the A-jem-sek."
"Nonsense, girl," was the impatient reply. "It is foolish to think of such a thing."
"Well, what is the meaning, then, of this gathering of men from various parts who are so anxious to do something before the rangers arrive? They surely intend some mischief."
"Just a little fun, Miss, that's all. The boys like a lark occasionally. It keeps them in good spirits."
"Are they all like Dave?"
"Why, don't you like him?"
"No, I do not. He has evil eyes."
"Dave is not as bad as you think. He is a weak creature, with little brains, and no sense at all. But the rest are not a bad lot, though rather rough at times, especially when they are drinking. But let us forget all about them for the present. Read some to me. Let it be Timon again. I feel in a mood for him to-day. If you knew Latin, I would have you read about Old Aeneas. I like Virgil's full sounding sentences, 'Arma virumque cano.' There's nothing like them."
"Yes, there is," Jean quietly replied, as she rose to her feet, crossed the room, and took down a book from a small shelf on the wall. This she opened as soon as she had taken her seat before the fire, and turned over several pages.
"Here is something better than Virgil," she said, "and I am going to read from it now. It will do both of us much good."
"Is that the Bible, Miss?"
"It is, and from all appearances you have not read much from it of late. It is very dusty."
"That's true, and I don't want to hear it now. I don't like it."
"Neither do we like medicine, Mr. Timon. But when we are sick we take it whether we like it or not. It is for our good."
"So you think I am sick?"
"There is something wrong with you, I am sure, more serious than your injured side. This is the only thing, I believe, that will help you."
"But I won't listen."
"You don't have to. I am going to read it, though. You liked the verse of the hymn I sang, didn't you?"
"Oh, that was different. It was your voice I liked, but not the sentimental mush of words."
"Well, then, you can listen to my voice now if you want to. But I guess you will listen to the words, too, unless you are different from what I think you are."
"What makes you say that?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Certainly."
Jean gazed into the fire for a few minutes, while the man watched her curiously.
"Go on," he ordered. "Out with it."
"I believe you are trying to be what you are not," the girl bluntly charged. "At first I thought you were a brute, and I was afraid of you. But since I have learned what an educated man you are, and watched you after your outburst about the King and the Loyalists, I have come to the conclusion that you are fighting against your best convictions."
"Why, girl, you surprise me!" the man gasped.
"Perhaps so, Mr. Timon. But can you truthfully say that I am not right? You cannot, and I know that you have nothing in common with such a creature as that Dave who was here. It isn't natural for a man like you to be in league with a gang of rebels. There, now, I have told you what I think, so you can say what you like. I am going to read the Master's words, for I believe you need them."
Although outwardly calm, Jean's heart was beating fast. She expected to hear the man deny what she had said, or say something in his own defence. When, however, he remained silent, she glanced at him, and then turned her eyes upon the open page.
"Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you."
"Stop, stop!" the man cried. "I can't stand those words. They are not meant for me. I can't pray for my enemies. Do you think I can pray for King George?"
"That is for you to decide, Mr. Timon. I am sure that I can pray for those who carried me away from home. Don't you think that they need it?"
Jean was about to close the book, when her eyes rested upon some words on the front page. As she looked, her face turned pale, and she gave a slight gasp of astonishment.
"What is the matter?" the man asked.
But the girl did not hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon the words
"To darling Dane,With Mother's best love.May God bless and keep you."
Her heart almost stopped beating as she stared at the writing, especially the word "Dane." What did it mean? she asked herself. It must be her own Dane; there could not be two. Was this his book? Was this his home? Then a sudden thought flashed into her mind, and something which had greatly worried and puzzled her passed like the mist before the morning sun. It must be so, and she understood now why Dane had not told her.
Rising swiftly to her feet, she approached the couch.
"Are you Dane Norwood's father?" she asked in a voice that trembled with emotion and excitement.
With a gurgling cry, the man sat bolt upright, and glared at the girl.
"Why do you ask me that?" he demanded. "How dare you mention that name in this house? What do you know about him?"
"I know him to be one of the best men I have ever met. Next to my father I love him more than any one in the world."
"You do!" It was all the man could say, so great was his astonishment. He dropped back upon the pillow, breathing heavily, and clutching hard at his side.
"Yes, I know him," Jean continued, "and I think I understand now why he never told me about you. And he had good reason, too."
"And he never told you what kind of a being I am?" the man asked in a hoarse whisper.
"He said nothing about you at all."
"Are you sure, Miss? Didn't he tell you how I forced him to leave home, and told him never to come here again?"
"He said nothing to me about it, Mr. Timon. He never mentioned your name, and when I asked him about his father, he always changed the subject."
"My God! Did he!" The man's hands clutched hard at the blanket, and his eyes turned upon the girl's face expressed something of the agony of his soul. "And he never betrayed me," he murmured as if to himself. "Did he tell you about his mother?"
"Oh, yes, he often spoke to me about her, and told me what a noble woman she was. He said that he owed everything to her."
"He did, eh? Well, I guess it's true. She influenced him more than I did, and that was why he left after her death."
"Why was that?"
"He followed her in loyalty to King George. Later he joined the King's rangers, and became Davidson's chief courier, 'The King's Arrow,' as he is called. That was more than I could stand."
"And so you had a fight?"
"No, not a fight, Miss. I was hot, I acknowledge, but Dane never said a word. I can't forget, though, the look in his eyes as he left me, and I have not seen him since."
"But you have heard about him, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, reports of his doings reach me from time to time; that is all." The man sighed, and shifted a little to an easier position.
"Would you like to see him?" Jean asked. "I am sure that he would be only too glad to come to you."
"Do you think so, Miss? But why should he come after what I said to him?"
"Because he is so noble and true. You little know what he is to me. Look," and she raised her hand to the arrow at her throat, "he gave me this. It is a token of our love. He made it with his own hands from a coin given to him by his mother. It was the means of saving me from the slashers. Kitty saw it first, and it told her about me."
"Your story is really wonderful, girl, and I am thankful that you have been saved. It means more to me than you imagine."
"In what way?"
"Don't you know? Because you were saved, you and those Indians were on hand to deliver me from that moose."
"So that is the reason, then, why you are so kind to me, and allowed those supplies to go to those needy Loyalists."
"No it is not," was the curt reply. "My life is of little value to any one. It's because you are James Sterling's daughter; that's why. I would do anything for his sake. He was a good friend of mine, and so was his wife."
"I am thankful that you knew them. Was it for long, Mr. Norwood?"
"Why do you call me that?"
"Isn't that your name?"
"Heavens! No. I am Thomas Norman, your father's old friend."
At this confession Jean uttered a cry of amazement, and stared at the man before her. She was almost too confused to think, so overwhelming was her emotion. She felt that she must be dreaming, so wonderful did it all appear.
"Yes," the man continued, "it is better for you to know all, and it relieves my mind. Dane took the first part of his right name, and merely changed the second. Now you understand all."
Jean did understand, and it gave her cause for much thought. She sat down and gazed silently into the fire. How glad her father would be to know that his friend was alive. And yet he would be greatly distressed when he learned that he was a rebel. Could they ever be friends again? she wondered. This modern Timon, with such hatred in his heart to the King and the Loyalists, was not the man her father had known in the days of old. Loyalty with the latter was a vital thing, and how could he endure a man so bitterly opposed to the King?
The invalid surmised her thoughts as he watched her. She presented a charming picture, ensconced in the deep chair, and he could well understand how Dane must love her. He had always longed for a daughter, and of the many girls he had ever known, the one now before him appealed to him most of all. She was the only white woman who had entered his house since his wife's death, and he had been strongly drawn to her from the first time of meeting. Living so much among rough, rebellious men, he had acquired many of their ways. But in the presence of this sweet, gentle girl these had vanished like ice before the bright sun, and the real nobleness of his nature re-asserted itself. He was tired of the life he had been living for years. He longed for companions after his own heart, and a home such as he had known in the past. And what a home the girl before him would make! And reconciled to his only son, what a heaven on earth it would be!
When Thomas Norman fled with his wife and child from the restraining bonds of civilisation and became the leader of a band of lawless rovers of the wild, he little realised how far-reaching would be the effect of his rash and hasty action. In the spirit of revenge he had sown the wind, but he had forgotten the whirlwind that one day he would be called upon to reap. For a time he had rejoiced in flaming the embers of rebellion against the King, thinking thus to get more than even for his imaginary injury. The war had filled him with delight, and he did everything in his power to arouse the people, both whites and Indians, against King George. For a while he was certain of success, especially when assistance came from the rebelling states in the form of presents for the Indians and a personal letter from General Washington, accompanied by belts of wampum. For a time he made remarkable progress, and so stirred the Indians that at last they started on the warpath against the English. Ninety canoes filled with warriors headed down river to ravage the country around Fort Howe. But they were met by James Simonds, the trader at Portland Point, and a conference was held along the river. Before giving an answer, the head chief, Pierre Tomah, said that he must consult the Divine being. So throwing himself upon his face in the sand, he lay motionless for the space of nearly an hour. Then rising, he informed the other chiefs that he had been advised by the Great Spirit to keep peace with King George's men. After that a treaty was signed at Fort Howe. General Washington's presents were delivered up, the Indians drank the health of the King, they were feasted and presented with numerous gifts. All this was a great blow to Thomas Norman, although he continued to inflame the few Indians who still remained rebellious as well as the renegade white men.
His wife, a gentle and refined woman, never agreed with him in his disloyalty to the King. At first she pleaded and reasoned, but at last gave up in despair, and devoted herself to her simple household affairs, and the training of her one child, the only comfort of her solitary life. When at length she left him and he laid her body to rest at the foot of a big pine tree, he was a heart-broken man. He understood when it was too late what she had meant to him. Then when Dane, influenced by his mother's teaching, left him to become one of the King's rangers, his cup of sorrow was filled to overflowing. For months after he lived a lonely life within his silent house, dreaded by the slashers and Indians alike. The latter shunned his solitary abode, and always spoke of him on rare occasions as the chief with the "twisted head."
When, however, the English forces were defeated, and the war brought to a close, Norman's hopes again revived. He became active once more, feeling certain that the Indians and others would now side with the conquerors and wrest England's grip from the valley of the St. John River. The King's mast-cutters had been a source of continual worry to him. Why should those great pines be used for the royal navy? he asked. They belonged to the natives and other occupants of the land, and should be reserved for future needs. The marking of the choicest trees with the broad arrow filled his heart with bitterness, and his words so aroused the rebel brood around him that they decided to drive the mast-cutters out of the country, and put a stop to the business. The arrival of thousands of Loyalists also stirred him deeply, and he spread the report, which was readily taken up, that the newcomers would settle on all the good land, slaughter the game, and force the rightful owners to leave.
The failure of the attempt upon the Loyalists during the fall, and the carrying of Flazeet and Rauchad to Fort Howe had only embittered the rebels who had not taken part in the affair. They roused to action, and determined to wreak revenge upon the mast-cutters between the St. John and the A-jem-sek. They had arranged their plans with much secrecy, but they learned at the last minute that in some mysterious manner word had reached the rangers, who were hastening to the assistance of the King's men. There was, accordingly, no time to lose. They must strike at once, and then vanish into the depths of the forest.
Thomas Norman was well aware of this proposed attack upon the mast-cutters. Although he did not oppose it, he took little interest in the matter. In fact, he had very little ambition for anything. He was feeling somewhat weary during the fall, and the silence of his house was more depressing than ever. During the lonely days, and still more lonely nights, he thought much about the past. He knew that he had made a failure of life, and that he had nothing to live for now. At times he would endeavor to fan the coals of rebellion by reading "King Lear," "Timon of Athens," and the story of Old Aeneas. But the effect was never lasting, and when the artificial stimulation subsided he was more depressed than ever.
Such was his mood the day he rushed forth from the unbearable loneliness of his house and encountered the moose. The accident, and the meeting with the girl had aroused him for a while, and his old-time spirit of rebellion flared up in his passionate outburst against the King and the Loyalists. But it was only temporary, and when he learned that the girl was James Sterling's daughter, he was forced to capitulate. He made a few spasmodic efforts after that, but the gentleness of the girl, together with the fact that she knew and loved Dane, swept everything else away.
His great concern now was about the rebels. They could march against the mast-cutters if they wished, but he did not want them to see Jean. He knew what they were like, and when their coarse brutal natures became inflamed through liquor, there was no telling what they might do. For this reason he had urged Dave to turn them aside, and induce them to march straight overland. Of the success of this plan he had little hope, as the slashers knew of the rum he kept on hand, and for that they would come, if for nothing else.
So that night as he lay there watching Jean as she sat before the fire, he listened intently, expecting every minute to hear the voices and steps of the undesired rebels. Bitterly now he regretted his action in the past, and almost cursed himself for his blind folly. Several times he was on the point of warning Jean of her danger. But how could he tell her, and what good would it do? There was no place where she could go for protection, and he was helpless to aid her. His only comfort lay in the hope that he could influence the men by making them think that she was his daughter. This, he knew, would be but a poor excuse, and it was hardly likely that they would believe him. They were well aware that he had no daughter, and would look upon the girl's presence in the house in one light only. A groan escaped his lips as he thought of this.
"Are you suffering much?" Jean asked, going to his side. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Not for me, I'm afraid," was the reply. "There is something, though, that you can do. I may have visitors to-night, and no doubt they will be hungry. Do you think you could carry those provisions into this room? I don't want the men to disturb you. I hope those sacks will not be too heavy."
"I think I can do it," Jean replied. "Where shall I put them?"
"As near the door there as possible. And the rum; don't forget that, I was going to ask you to pour it out in the snow for fear that the men might drink too much. But that might not be wise. They know I have it, and if they do not get it they might become ugly."
It took Jean some time to carry and drag in the supplies and stack them in a corner near the door. She understood fairly well the meaning of this, and it filled her heart with a nameless fear. This was increased when she had with difficulty brought in the rum, and stood panting after the exertion.
"There is a strong bolt on the door of your room," Norman explained. "It might be well to keep it fastened when the men are here, for one can never tell what might happen."
"You think there will be danger, then?" Jean asked, as she sat down in the big chair.
"There is always danger more or less with those men around. When I was well I could keep them within bounds. But now I am helpless. And, besides, you are here, and that makes a difference."
"I must keep out of sight, then."
"It might be just as well. I am afraid that Dave has told the men about you, so they will be anxious to see my—my daughter."
Jean asked no further questions, but her face was very pale and her heart beat fast. She felt more helpless than she had been when with her Indian captors upon the river. What could she do to defend herself? She thought of the guns in the other room, and wondered if they were loaded. She might use them, but what could one woman do against a band of lawless men? Anyway, she was determined to do almost anything to defend herself, if necessary.
Slowly the evening wore away, and anxiously Jean listened to every sound. The man on the cot slept, and at times muttered words which the girl could not understand. She felt inexpressibly lonely, and she often glanced toward the small window as if expecting to see faces peering in upon her. She did not dare to sleep lest the slashers should come and catch her off guard. How she longed for Sam and Kitty. What a comfort they would be.
At length she rose to her feet, crossed the room, opened the door and looked out. It was not a dark night, but the moon, now almost at the full, was invisible. A keen wind was driving over the land and it sounded among the trees the same as it did before the storm she enjoyed so much in the lodge by the lake. How weird appeared the great trees, and she imagined she could see menacing forms watching her from their sombre depths. She knew where lay the trail by which the slashers would come, and she kept her eyes fixed in that direction. At the back of the house another trail began, which led to the St. John River, so Sam had told her, and passed the very place where the mast-cutters were at work. This to the lonely girl seemed the trail of hope, while the other was the trail of doom.
She was about to close the door, for the wind was piercing, when casting a final glance toward the forest, she caught sight of dim forms moving swiftly and silently toward the house. That they were the dreaded slashers she had not the slightest doubt. Quickly she shut the door, and hastened over to the cot. Norman opened his eyes and looked at her in a dazed manner.
"They are coming!" she cried. "I have seen them!"
"Where are they?" the man asked, rising to a sitting position.
"Just out there," and she motioned to the right.
"Hurry up, then, and go into the other room. Bolt the door, and put out the light."
Jean needed no further bidding. In another minute she had the door securely fastened, and the candle blown out. She then took up her position in a dark corner, where with fast-beating heart she waited to hear what might take place in the adjoining room.