Alone through that twilight Madame walked, muttering as was her wont, and started in superstitious terror when she saw a tall figure standing erect, spectral, beside the leaping fire. A few more steps and the Frenchwoman recognised a priest. She hurried forward, and a minute later genuflected to kiss the cloak of that man of blood, the Abbé La Salle.
In wonder the priest gave her the blessing which she sought and went on to question her. Eagerly Madame responded, telling him her name and circumstance, explaining her position, and mentioning her longing to escape from that lonely spot. Her desires were, like herself, made up of selfishness. She did not question the priest concerning the son who had been driven out by her bitter tongue to join the commandant's little force; nor did she mention Roussilac's name, because—so entirely isolated was that shelter in the grove—she was not even aware that the man who ruled the land was indeed her nephew. But La Salle waived her petulant inquiries aside, and asked whether any Englishman had lately been known to pass that way. Then Madame shortly acquainted him with the coming of Viner.
"Bring me here something to eat," said the priest wearily, when he had obtained the information which he sought. "Afterwards I will rest me by this fire."
"Now the saints forbid," cried Madame. "Shall an infidel lie in my house, while a holy Churchman sleeps outside? Out the Lutheran shall go, and you, my father, must honour my poor home this night."
"'Tis not for me to provoke a quarrel," La Salle replied. "I may but fight in self-defence. Let me have food and a palliasse here."
Madame bent her grey head, and went to do his bidding.
The cabin was in gloom when Madame entered and passed through silently to procure food for the priest. Madeleine rose, seeking to be of service, but the grating voice sent her back to the fireside. Viner had also arisen, dimly suspicious. The girl's head reached his shoulder, and to put away the thought, which recurred more strongly when he noted her helplessness, he resorted to selfishness.
"Am I safe?" he asked.
Madeleine gave him a reproachful glance.
"My mother hates all Protestants. The heathen Indians are merely animals in her sight; but such as you and I are children of the devil."
"The fire beyond the palisade is burning more strongly," he said.
The door was open, and the glow entered the cabin like moonlight.
"It is to keep away the wolves. You do not suspect—me?"
"No, no," he said, in a manner that brought a smile to her mouth. "For myself I care nothing, but I may not forget my comrades. I must be upon my guard for their sake."
The dame reappeared, a mantle over her shoulders and her hands. She smiled grimly, and gently addressed her guest:
"I have my birds to feed. They are the sole companions of my loneliness, and each night finds them awaiting me beyond the palisade. They are brighter birds than those of my country, but sadder because songless. The saints protect you, sir, in your sleep to-night."
"Shall I come with you, mother?" said Madeleine.
"Why upon this night more than others?" answered Madame bitterly. "Your way is never mine. When you shall learn to pray with me then you may walk with me."
She left the cabin, drawing the door close.
"Stay you here," whispered Madeleine, detaining Viner with a gentle hand. "There was that in my mother's manner which makes me fear. I will follow her and bring you word."
"I would not have you put yourself to danger."
"For me there is no danger."
"I go with you," he said.
"No!" cried Madeleine, stamping her foot. "You shall not."
He gave way and let her have her will.
When Madeleine returned with the tidings that a tall French priest was without, the young man's first impulse suggested that he should rush out and attempt to silence the spy, but prudence and a girl's hand detained him. For the first time Geoffrey shuddered at the thought of danger. With those two beautiful eyes watching him tenderly he felt that it was good indeed to live.
"I shall watch over you," said Madeleine's fearless young voice. "See, I will move your palliasse. Now this thin wall of wattles shall alone divide us. We shall be so near that I can listen to your breathing, and shall hear your faintest whisper. I pray you trust in me."
"In the morning I shall see you," he urged. "I shall not depart without thanking you?"
"Oh, talk not of the morning," she cried.
He seized her fingers, and when he kissed the hand it fluttered like a bird.
"I shall have my dreams," cried Madeleine, her face uplifted, and her eyes moistened. "And they may be so happy that I shall not wake. See! Yonder is my resting-place. The wattle-wall shall separate us. There my head will lie. Give me your sword."
She grasped the hilt, and thrust the blade through the trifling wall. Then she spoke with averted face: "When you are lying down to rest I shall tell you why I have done this."
They separated after a few tender words of commendation. The fire burnt down, and the north wind played roughly among the trees until the cabin hummed like a cave. Madame entered, as noiseless as a cat, and passed into her room. The rattling of her beads sounded at intervals, before sleep deadened the enmity of her mind.
"My hair is long," whispered Madeleine's sweet voice. "I am passing a coil through the hole in the wattles. Hold it, and if you hear disquieting sounds do not speak, but pull."
"I have it," he whispered, seizing the warm silk enviously.
"The holy angels watch over you," she murmured.
"And you. As for me, I am already protected by an angel."
"Angel?" she wondered.
"Sainte Madeleine is her name."
"Ah!" she said.
The sound of uneasy breathing arose between the groans of the wind. After a long pause Geoffrey spoke:
"In sleep I may lose what I am holding."
"Twist it about your fingers," said a whisper.
"Still, I may lose it. You will draw it away from me when you turn."
"Lie upon it."
"My hair is also long. I am tying yours to mine."
"I had thought of that," she murmured.
Another period of silence. Then, in turning, Geoffrey's lips pressed upon the rich coil, and left it with a kiss. There came a little movement and an almost soundless whisper:
"Did you call?"
"You are not yet asleep," he reproved.
"I am watching and listening."
"I would rather you slept while I watched."
"Then I should be the guardian no longer."
"But always the angel."
The glow from without was still over the cabin where Madeleine lay wide-eyed. A spider let itself suddenly from the roof, and swung spinning in wild glee at the end of a silver streak.
"Friend," Madeleine murmured.
"I am listening," he said.
"There is a spider spinning from the cross-beam."
"Would you have me destroy it?"
"No. Oh, no! It is so happy in its life. I do not remember why I called you. I had something more to say."
"I shall not sleep until you think of it."
"Shall you go away in the morning?" she whispered suddenly.
There was no reply.
"And leave me?"
"The present is life," he reminded her.
"The thought of the future may destroy the happiness of the present."
"What would you have me do—obey my conscience or my heart?"
"Both," she sighed.
"Let us talk of it in the morning."
"Now. Oh, the spider is spinning faster—faster."
"The morning," he repeated.
"Now," she breathed. "But soft! Set your lips to this hole, and you shall find my ear."
A sound of restless movement came from Madame's room, and a grating voice: "From witchcraft, enchantment, and heresy our Lady and the holy saints protect us."
It was her lips that Madeleine placed to the hole in the wattle wall.
Ambition and not chance had brought La Salle thus far from the beaten track. He had made it his policy to pursue the Englishmen in that land until he should have brought about their extermination, knowing well that any success in that direction would be rewarded by the richest gift which his master Richelieu had to bestow. From Onawa he learnt of Viner's departure for the south on the day following that venture against New Windsor. The girl had discovered the young man's track and gladly accompanied the priest, pointing out the trail, which was imperceptible to his untrained eyes, and so bringing him to the grove where Geoffrey tarried in the enchanted sleep.
After Madame Labroquerie had gone to find him food, La Salle reconsidered his plans by the light of her information. It was no way of his to hide his light beneath a bushel, and the slaying of Viner in that lonely country would, he reasoned, bring him little fame. If, however, he should return to lodge the information with Roussilac, all men would know of his agency. Therefore, when Madame returned, he impressed upon her the necessity of detaining Viner for at least three days within the grove.
"'Tis easy," the little woman muttered. "I shall be courteous to the young man, and praise his face and flatter his pride. Madeleine, my daughter, shall do the rest. I warrant you he shall not stir from here till the soldiers arrive; and then, I trust, a stake shall be prepared and a goodly pile of faggots for the proper despatch of his heretic soul."
"I shall see that execution be done upon him," La Salle replied grimly. "Now get you gone, for I would be alone."
"Your holiness will remain until the morning," Madame prayed. "I would then make my confession, and receive the peace of absolution."
"Find me here at the dawn," La Salle answered. Then, uplifting his blood-stained hand, he bestowed upon her his benediction and sent her away.
Not fifty yards distant Onawa stood as a guardian over the man she loved, staring into the night, heeding every sound in the valley, dreading the approach of some emissary from her tribe. The maid had become an outlaw. Through her treachery the boy Richard, her own flesh and blood, had come to his death. With her own hand she had slain a man friendly to all her race. In the forest beyond the river a cruel death by torture awaited her; her own father would be the first to condemn her to the fire. She was thus compelled to stand or fall beside the priest whom she had aided with that disregard for self which has ever dominated a woman's actions.
As she stood watching the firelight and the grove, dim ghosts arose and began her punishment. She seemed to hear a sound of scuffling, and to see young Richard and his great hound, Blood, wrestling together, as they had been wont to do among the pine barrens, to the roar of the wind and the lost waters. Again she heard the boyish voice, gasping and triumphant, "I have beaten him again. I am stronger than he." And as she shivered, there came an echo of her own former words from the line of tossing trees, "He is brave and strong. He shall make a man before he has grown."
Beside the fire La Salle slept, lulled by the wind. He knew Onawa was acting as a guard over him, else he had never dared to close his eyes. Yet his rest became presently broken into by spiritual beings hovering around in the grove, anxious to point out his future. The chafing of boughs, the beating of leaves, the gnawing of the beavers around the philosopher's grave, with more distant sounds from the country beyond, were the media these beings employed. The disturbances passed into his ear, which pressed upon the palliasse, and entered the torpid brain to make a dream.
Through the unlighted streets of a city a way was revealed before the sleeper by means of lightning flashes. No fellow-creatures were in sight, and yet the tongues of a multitude shouted as he ran, bells clashed above, and trumpets blared below. Before him a vast square opened, empty and wind-swept, and here the shoutings of the unseen mob became terrific, here also a mountainous building rose into the clouds, and midway upon a flight of marble steps sat an old man in white, crowned with the tiara, extending a red hat towards the yelling solitude. The dreamer rushed out to seize the prize; but between the principality and power, as represented by the scarlet blot rising in the gale, the silent lightning cut, and between this fire and Urbano the Eighth a figure descended, and the lightning was a sword, which his untiring arms flashed between the aspirant and his soul's desires. "Cardinal-Archbishop!" cried the white figure. "Bought by blood!" outcried the man in black, and his sword turned all ways in a flame of fire.
La Salle awoke with a shudder. That figure seemed to be upon him, bending, holding him down with the hands of Briareus. Casting off the terrible sleep, he started upright. A face was indeed over him, and arms were dragging at his shoulders. The wind-tossed grove cleared, with its fire glowing, and sparks flickering like a thousand eyes, and the sleeper awakened recognised Onawa, who was summoning him to action in her unknown tongue.
"Perdition!" he muttered. "The witch haunts me like an old sin."
Onawa went on pleading, pointing wildly at intervals down the wind.
"You shall lead me into no more death-traps!" the priest cried.
The frightened girl brought a knife from her side, and made as though she would stab him. Then she pointed again, and, falling to her knees, indicated her own tracks.
La Salle peered along the glow of the fire and beyond where the sparks were beaten back, then rose and approached the palisading, Onawa clinging to him like a shadow. There was no danger there. He advanced to the wattled door, prepared to receive an attack. When there came no response to his unspoken challenge he turned back, and Onawa again pointed along the way she had come.
"Would to God I had spared that child! His face is there!" the priest shivered.
"Tuschota!" cried the girl. She touched the ground, reading him with her eyes.
A smothered cry broke from the lips of the priest. Onawa followed his gaze, which went, not along the trail, nor into the fire-lit grove, but above where the eastern sky had almost cleared of drift.
"A portent!" moaned the priest. "'Tis the end of the world, and I am found with the sword drawn in my hand."
There was war in heaven. Across the plane of eastern sky hung a wild picture of forest and rockland where pigmy men rushed together without shock, where spectral weapons fell silently, and shadowy smoke burst and rose. Tiny figures climbed a cliff, and similar grotesques fought on high and pressed them back. The combatants appeared ant-like and ridiculous objects as they swayed reflected upon the floor of heaven.
Onawa watched the spectacle unmoved. She had witnessed the mirage before, and by this present vision merely understood that an attack upon the citadel was even then in progress. As the weird picture broke up and scud came flying across a faint grey sky, she prayed in her treacherous heart that the French might win.
La Salle rose with some shame when he perceived that the sky had resumed its normal aspect, and light at length dawned upon him as he sighted a shadowy being stealing within the radius of the fire.
"Tuschota!" warned the voice at his side.
The priest knew then that Onawa had saved him from the knife which would have avenged the half-breed boy, who had flung himself with such desperate courage upon death. Casting away the arms which encompassed him, he passed swiftly into the shadow of the grove, while Onawa advanced boldly and met the woman she had wronged so grievously, and dared to face her without shame. For a space they stood, gazing at one another by the firelight, until the younger cast down her eyes and began to shiver with the coldness of fear.
"Approach me, sister," said the stern woman. "There is a question I would have you answer. Refuse you dare not, for we are flesh and blood; we are daughters of Shuswap the truthful, and the same mother gave us birth. I seek not to know what brings you here this night, but tell me now have you seen that proud priest who has slain my son?"
"I have not seen him," cried Onawa fiercely; but she was cold to the heart beneath the gaze of those colder eyes.
"'Tis well. A daughter of the Cayugas lies not, save to an enemy. But why do you slink thus away? You do not fear me, sister?"
Onawa stared aside speechless.
"After I became wife to the great white man you came often to our home among the lost waters," Mary Iden went on. "My Richard loved you. Remember, sister, how often you played with the child, how many times you carried him in your arms, and told him the old stories of our race. Hast forgotten how he would laugh at your coming, how he would run down to meet you with a gift, and draw up your canoe and bring you to our shelter by the hand? Remember when he had committed a fault how you pleaded for him, calling himDear childandSunlight of the camp. Sister, I know that you grieve for the boy."
Chilled at her words Onawa passed to the fire, turning from those pursuing eyes.
"I shall not forget how Richard loved you. When you need me, sister, come, and I will give you your former place beside the fire. So shall you rest and forget the strangers in this land. By the love that you bore for my boy, sister, I will not forget you."
Onawa looked up and saw only the figure of La Salle emerging from the grove. Her sister had drawn back into the night.
The gale circled the embers in whitening eddies. Onawa wildly snatched a stick and raked the glowing fragments into a pyramid, upon which she flung some roots of willow. A yellow fog ascended, torn hither and thither by the spirits of the wind.
She crept to La Salle's feet and fawned upon them. He spurned her and still she struggled to approach, to cling as the weed upon a rock. She had made the sacrifice of her life that she might serve him. She had discharged the arrow to slay the Englishman solely that she might win his love. She had relied upon her fierce beauty, her youth, and her strength to conquer the handsome Frenchman. She had staked her all upon her heart's desires.
And now he flung her from him, and strode away from the fireside and the grove.
She followed, crying along the wind. He motioned her back and even threatened with his sword, but she pursued, setting her feet in the marks which his had made. When he halted for weariness she stood near to guard him from her sister. When the grey day came she still followed him, across open country, and so northward into the hills, and towards the river, where the wind contained a breath of smouldering bush.
When Madame found La Salle gone and the fire black in the early morning, she frowned until her eyes became hidden and went back to the palisade, passing her old servant, who was shredding ears of wild rice. She entered the windy house calling. Soon she came out, shaking a willow stick in her angry hand, and stopped opposite the old man, who continued his work, grumbling softly to himself, "Ah, Father Creator! Father Creator! Why do you send this north wind in summer time? The day is dark and cold. Send us the west wind, Father Creator."
"Have you heard noises in the night?" Madame's voice grated.
"I slept with the wind in my ears," answered the native.
"Have you seen my daughter, or the young Englishman?"
"I have seen the light struggling to break, and the grey heaven rushing, and the thick wind beating. I saw a red fox run and a blue-bird chattering across the wind," said the old man.
"Have you not seen the priest?" urged Madame.
"I was up at the dawn," replied the stolid worker. "The fire was dead and the sleeping-place white with rain. A bear was seeking warmth upon the embers."
"I have been blind and deaf," cried Madame in a rage.
At the first glance of light the cabin was as noisy as an ocean cave. Madeleine's brain became too active for sleep when she knew that the day was at hand. She rose softly, glowing with her new-found happiness, and as she stirred she murmured the intensely human line of that unhappy boy Kit Marlowe, who had perished in a tavern brawl a few years before her birth, "Whoever loved that loved not at first sight?" She darted up with that thought, but a coil of her long hair tightened, and there came a startled movement from beyond the wall.
"Hush!" she whispered, lifting a pink finger, forgetful that he could not see.
"Is it the day?" said Geoffrey.
"Yes, yes. Release me. Let me fly. Do you not hear the wind?"
"I am listening to you," he answered.
"Forget me. Listen! That was like thunder. Are you listening?"
"I am coming out with you," he said.
Reaching the open, Geoffrey discovered Madeleine, her arms outstretched, her hair rising in ripples above her head as she bathed in the wind, battling and panting, her lovely face all heather-pink.
"I can smell the pines," she gasped, "and the salt sea, and the mountains. I can hear the roaring of water and see the soaring of eagles. Oh, oh!" she panted. "It is glorious to live!"
She cried as she drew him away impetuously:
"The black priest has gone. Let us hope that he has been blown away into a swamp, where the fairies shall bewitch him into a frog to croak at the world for ever. Come now away. Tell me whether you had dreams in the night. But stay!"
She drew away from him suddenly.
"Madeleine!" he exclaimed, wondering at her changed face.
"I must remove this mask," she cried in a stately fashion, frowning and placing her hands upon her sides. "Sir, who are you that you should strive to win the heart of Madeleine Labroquerie? Why, I have sworn to wed a knight, a man of title and estate, and you, a smooth-faced boy, with long hair and cheeks as pink as mine, you come and speak to me of love. Sir, how dare you thus to use an innocent maid?"
She passed on ahead of her astonished lover and the trees of the grove closed round them.
"Madeleine——" he began, protesting.
"Madeleine," she imitated. "Here is free-speech indeed. Now, sir, stand and let me show you what you are. You are an Englishman, an adventurer, one of a small band who think themselves strong enough to attack the power of France in this new land, and you, the enemy of my people, come to me with a tale of love, believing me to be a maid of the wilds to be won and cast aside at will. Speak not to me. I will not hear you. I am no simple provincial maid that I should fall in love with a soldier's handsome face. Last night, yes, last night, after an acquaintance of but three days, you dared to own your love, and to humour you—in truth I was afraid—I confessed that I also loved you. I, a French girl, such a traitress as to love an enemy of my people! I was but fooling you. How I laughed to myself at deceiving you so readily."
She laughed disdainfully and curled her lovely lip.
"I fear I have already tarried here too long," was all that Geoffrey could say.
"Stay one moment," cried the haughty beauty. "I should be base did I not warn you. Soldiers are waiting for you upon every side. East, west, north, and south they lie in wait for you."
"There are no soldiers nearer than the fortress," said Geoffrey wildly.
"You may believe so," replied the traitress. "But you have learnt little of this country if you do not know that military posts are set about from place to place. One such post is near at hand, and thither I sent our servant after your coming. Can you not perceive that I have betrayed you?"
Had Geoffrey looked he might have seen her shiver as she spoke.
"I thank you for your warning, but I may stay no longer," the young man said, and he stepped away with his head down.
"Which way do you take?" she demanded.
"I am southward bound."
"You are—brave, friend."
"Friend!" he exclaimed, with a sobbing note of indignation. "Would you have me trust in you again?"
"I had forgot," she admitted. "Are you going now?"
He moved on through the grove; but he had not made a dozen steps before she called to him.
"Have you, then, no word of farewell?"
He turned, but did not look at her as he said: "May you live to fortune and a happy future."
"You said you loved me," said Madeleine, her figure drooping. "Why did you deceive me?"
"I loved you," he said hotly, moving back a step. "And I love you still. When I first saw you standing by the fire with the sun falling on your head I loved you. When I have left you I shall see, not the girl who desired to betray me, but her who gave me this to hold for my protection while I slept."
He drew forth a long coil of golden-brown hair and held it in the wind.
"You cut it off," she faltered. Then her manner changed again. "Throw it down. Stamp upon it. Tread it into the ground."
"I use it," he said, "as I longed to use you." And he put the lock back into his bosom.
At that she ran forward with the cry: "You love me. Take me there, Geoffrey. That is my place. I will not be held out. Geoffrey, I love you. Oh, blind, blind! I love you with all my heart and soul."
She tried to force herself into his arms, warm, loving, and irresistible.
"I am the wickedest of liars," she breathed, twisting her fingers within his. "I would not have gone so far, but I thought that you knew. I thought that you feigned to hate me in return for my cruelty. Ah, Geoffrey, I loved you when first our eyes met. I did so desire your love, but, sweetheart—foolish, credulous—I—I feared you might think I was won too easily. Will you value your prize the more, when I tell you that my treachery, the story of the soldiers, the settlement?—Oh, oh!"
He guessed what she would have said, and so had seized her.
"Betray you, blind love!" she whispered. "Dear foolish sweetheart, I would open my veins and give my blood for you. How I tortured you! Knowing what a cruel nature your love possesses, knowing it, can you still love her?"
"Madeleine——"
"Stop," she entreated, lifting her violet eyes. "Repeat that name a hundred times, and find for it a new attribute of love each time. But let the first be false and the second fair."
"Sweet Madeleine!"
"Call me so, Geoffrey," she murmured. "And I shall not wish to change."
There was a hill beyond, its sides covered with bleached grass, and above a few gaunt pines beating their ragged heads together and stabbing one upon the other with jagged arms where limbs had been amputated by previous storms. To this place Madeleine led her lover.
It was a strange day. Though long past sunrise there was barely light. The clouds swept low, grey or indigo masses rushing south with the speed of rapids. The dark, solid wind of the lowlands came in a furious succession of great waves. The lovers might have been upon an island with the ocean roaring round in storm. Out of the gloom the wet rocks glimmered and the trunks of long-fallen trees described weird shapes upon the plain.
"This is life!" cried Madeleine. "Glorious life!"
Geoffrey held her closely, looking down upon her wet and radiant face.
"We can fight together, you and I," she went on. "No wind shall conquer while we hold together. It may roar at us, but we are young and strong, and the wind is old and worn. Think you that you can bear with me always? I promise you I will never use deceit again. We shall be together when the winds have all passed under heaven, and the trees are gone, and the seas have dried. Our souls will live in the same life and the same love. Together while the old world crumbles, and the sun becomes cold, and the moon fades. There is no death. We shall close our eyes one day and change our home. Life will run on for us, the same magnificent life of love."
"There is no death," he repeated, as though the idea had not occurred to him before.
"How many thousand years has this wind rushed upon this hill? How many thousand shall it beat after we have changed our home? We are made to live, Geoffrey. It is not we who are sick, not we who are oppressed. We are made of stuff that does not perish, not flesh and blood which wither, but breath and love. Kiss me, Geoffrey, kiss me with your soul."
"Sweet, you have more knowledge than I," cried Geoffrey as he kissed her eyes.
"See that huge cloud! How the monster wishes to smother us! There it rushes, flinging its rain to spite us."
"I shall see this wild spot for ever," he murmured.
"In years to come," said Madeleine, "a city perchance may grow in this solitude, and where we now sit a palace or a cathedral may be built, a king may command, a pastor teach his people, bells may ring for Christmas, and heralds sound their trumpets. But we shall not see that city, my Geoffrey. We shall look below the brick and the stir of people, and we shall see a hill of white grass with old pines atop, and below streaming rocks and decaying trunks, with beyond a grove all covered in damp gloom and lashed by wind."
"I can see the faces of my friends," he muttered.
The girl turned upon his shoulder and drew his face lower with her cold hand, lifting her own until their eyes met.
"Look there," she entreated. "Tell me what you see."
"Heaven opening." He paused. "I see also my duty to my neighbour."
Madeleine's head drooped. Presently a small voice whispered out of the wind, "I would have you obey that message, lest by offending God we wreck our happiness."
"I live upon your will."
"You must leave me. You shall not see me shed a tear. But I must have you for this day, and afterwards"—she caught her breath. "Had ever a young soldier so brave a love?"
He kissed her hands, and her cold face, and her hair, which dripped like seaweed.
"No ifs," she implored, when her ears caught his broken words. "The doubter fails. Look upon the deed as done, and God shall pardon the presumption, because He was once a young man upon earth, and He knows the longing of a brave heart. Already I think of you, not as going forth to duty, but as returning to claim me for your bride."
"I shall succeed," he cried, in a voice which defied the winds. "Madeleine, you have made me strong. Listen, sweet. I have a home in Virginia, most fair, they say, of England's colonies, and I come to take you there. I have a house in a garden where the sun never sets, and where a river runs gently to the sea between banks of flowers. There is no hard winter or rough wind there, neither enemy nor noise of battle to terrify your dear heart. There the potato grows, and the white tobacco blooms scent the night, and there the voice of Nature sings of peace. Will come with me, sweet?"
"You have learnt your lesson," she sighed, content.
Misty rain smote them, but they strained at each other and laughed at it. The cold numbed their feet, but their hearts were so warm that they did not heed it. Nature thundered at them, but the roar of menace became a triumphal march, and the shriek of the fiends a benediction.
"This one day you shall spare to me," said Madeleine. "Let us spend it as a day to be remembered. I have a cave down yonder, around which I have trailed the bushes and taught ivy to grow. There we will build a fire and I will be your housewife. Come! let us run along the wind."
He bent to assist her, and she feigned to be stiff with cold, the lovely traitor, so that she might feel his arms about her. Hand in hand they ran, the rain and wind driven upon their backs, the angry sky lowering upon the two who thus dared to endure the perils of life so happily. But the lovers knew that behind the damp gloom and the storm smiled the kindly sun; and they knew that he would conquer in good time.
So that happy day drew to its end in mist and rain, and the wind died down, and the storm clouds went out of the sky one by one. The moon broke wanly into light and a pale star of hope gazed serenely down. Nature wearied of her tumult, and old Æolus drove the turbulent north wind back into its cave and set his seal upon the mouth.
Geoffrey and Madeleine stood struggling to part. There was no tear in the violet eyes of brave beauty as she looked up smiling, dwelling always upon the future to sweeten the bitterness of the present. "Love must be tested," she murmured with her radiant philosophy. "Hearts must be tried. Geoffrey, I love you."
"Madeleine, I love you."
She stood alone, swaying weakly, her face as pale as the moon. Then she laughed to drown the beating of her heart, threw out her hands, and ran breathlessly up the hill where the ragged pines merely nodded, and down into the plain towards the grove, crying to the solitude:
"Life is glorious—glorious!"
While Geoffrey Viner was winning the love of Madeleine Labroquerie, and escaping the snare which La Salle had contrived for his capture, history was being made around the river and the heights. The priest's daring venture into the forbidden country acted upon the tribes of the Iroquois confederacy as a spark upon gunpowder; and when it became known from one camp-fire to another that George Flower, and Richard, son of Gitsa, had fallen upon Cayuga territory by the hand of a Frenchman, the native stoicism was changed into madness and the signal for a general uprising went throughout the land. It was the eve of that great assault upon the French position which lives in oral tradition among those degraded descendants of a once great people who occupy the maritime provinces of to-day.
Previous to that struggle, one phase of which was shown through the portent of the mirage to La Salle while he stood in the haunted grove, many deeds occurred which the chronicler cannot afford to pass over. The narrative must therefore be resumed upon the second morning following the dispersion of the venturers, that morning which saw Mary Iden set forth on her mission of vengeance, and Oskelano returning to his fastness in the north to prepare his men for battle.
The sun had fought down the mists, and black craft of the fishermen were already leaping along the river, when Van Vuren abandoned the fortress and climbed the cliff, hoping, as every day he hoped, to find some trace of his missing men. The night had been cold with north wind, and the rock country, was still haunted with wet and flickering shadows. One shadow, so dark and angular as to attract the Dutchman's eyes, lurked under a crag, as a patch of sheltered ice might linger in the midst of a land steaming with sunshine; but when Van Vuren approached, this shadow moved and took upon itself a semblance of humanity, and with the dispelling of the illusion the Dutchman beheld the evil face of Gaudriole.
"Adversity finds hard resting-places, my captain," said the dwarf, as he crawled forth. "Your rock makes a bed rougher than a paving-stone, but methinks a safer. Here a rogue may snore in his sleep without bringing the king's men upon him. I have a message for you, my captain."
"Hast any tidings of my men?" asked the Dutchman eagerly.
The head of the dwarf was on a level with his elbow; his matted hair was wet with mist. His habiliments, partly native, partly civilised, surrounded his crooked body in a ragged suit of motley; and a long knife was driven into his belt.
"He who answers must be paid," answered the hunchback, grinning.
"Perchance you have already been paid," said Van Vuren suspiciously.
"The honourable captain possesses the gift of Divination," sneered Gaudriole. "See you how low yonder warship sits in the water?" he went on, pointing down at theSt. Wenceslas, which had lately arrived at that coast. "Is it true, as I have heard the settlers say, that she is loaded with gold from the shore of Labrador? 'Tis said that a man may there see the precious metal shining at his feet, and has but to bend to gather sufficient for a knight's ransom."
"I pray you give me the message, good dwarf," said Van Vuren flatteringly.
"The cloak upon my captain's shoulders is of a truth a thing to be desired," Gaudriole went on, fingering the rich stuff with his grimy fingers. "Were it upon my back, 'twould handsomely conceal some very clumsy work of nature. 'Tis the cloth that makes the courtier." He burst into a raucous laugh, as he danced the cold out of his limbs.
"His Excellency the commandant shall loosen that insolent tongue," cried Van Vuren hotly.
Gaudriole snapped his fingers in the Dutchman's face as he retorted: "This is not the old world, my brave captain, and there is no restraint upon lying here. Gaudriole is now a citizen of the New World. The Cardinal himself is but a shadow here. Even a mountebank of the gutter may turn traitor in the wilderness. Gaudriole is a man this side o' the sea. Were we in Paris I might bow to kiss your garments, and call you Holiness an you desired it. Here the jester is as good as the general. Hunt me into yonder forest at your sword-end, bold captain, and bid me play the will o' the wisp. I should but disappear into a thicket ahead, rise up at your back, and this knife and a moss-swamp would settle all your business. Doff your hat to a fool, captain, and give him pipe and tobacco."
Van Vuren clenched his teeth. He would then have given even his cloak to effectually silence that biting tongue. But he was a stranger upon French territory, and he knew that the slender tie of alliance would not stand a strain. He prudently choked down his anger, and satisfied the dwarf's more reasonable demand.
"Never was a better gift sent to man than this same tobacco," said Gaudriole. "See you, captain, how excellent are its qualities. It shall manage the warrior beyond the arts of woman. No man shall use the good smoke in anger, because at the first taste peace settles upon his body and his soul desires to be alone. But 'tis a dangerous drug upon an empty stomach."
"The message," said Van Vuren impatiently.
"Yonder comes in a good burden of fish," resumed Gaudriole, gazing down indifferently to indicate a boat grating across the shingle. "I know the oaf, one Nichet, who at home had not the wit to make a living. Here he becomes a man with a name. This land is Paradise for those not wanted across sea. Nichet shall presently leave his boat, to find himself a stone to anchor her, and then I shall pass that way and take of his best fish for my breakfast. The knave profits by the fool's work. Fare you well, brave captain."
"The message, villain," broke in Van Vuren.
"Ah! I grow forgetful. 'Tis said that the Abbé La Salle is to go from here to the land which the Scotch discovered and the valiant French took from them, to that country upon the gulf which we call Acadie. A happy quittance, say I. The abbé is too perilously apt with his long sword. Let them send the fat pig Laroche after him, and this fortress shall grow more peaceful than the streets of Versailles. Let there be trouble, you shall always find a fat priest at the root of it."
"Let La Salle descend into the bottomless pit," cried the Dutchman violently. "And Heaven be praised if he drags you down with him. Deliver me the message, hunchback."
"Now Nichet moves away to search for a fitting stone," went on Gaudriole. "Had I a message for you, captain? Let me consider. My memory is weak of a morning." He struck out his long arm suddenly. "Dost see that man signalling from yonder shore?"
Van Vuren turned quickly. "Where?" he exclaimed.
"This is the message," shouted Gaudriole, and as he spoke he rushed under the Dutchman's arm, and shambled swiftly down the road. "To the man who has to live upon his wits the Dutchman is a gift from Heaven itself. Remember, my captain! The tobacco leaf is a brave cure for ill humour."
Van Vuren hurled a curse after him, and turned to ascend. From the summit of the heights he scanned the prospect, and quickly learnt what Gaudriole might have told him had he exercised greater forbearance. The expedition had at last returned. Almost as soon as Van Vuren looked out he heard a welcome cry, and presently perceived a figure, clad in the distinctive dress of Holland, crossing the valley at a rapid walk. With an exclamation of relief the captain hastened down, and met Dutoit, his lieutenant and the leader of the exploration party, upon the plain.
Hurriedly the survivors collated their gloomy experiences.
"Twenty-eight left of our seventy-five," muttered Van Vuren, when he had heard Dutoit's report of two men lost and one dead of fever, "our supplies and ammunition gone, our ship destroyed. We have nothing now to hope for, except a safe passage home. Hast seen any Englishmen?"
"Yesterday we sighted a spy making south, and him we pursued until he escaped us in the bush," answered Dutoit.
"These men never recognise defeat," went on Van Vuren. "They shall spread upward from the south, flow into this land, and push the French back from fort to fort. They have a wondrous knack of gratifying the savages. Know you if any new expedition has come over?"
"We came upon a man mortally sick, who babbled as he died about a ship supplied by the wool-staplers, which started from Bristol some nine months ago and was lost upon the reefs. This fellow had his face set due north, and believed that he was travelling towards Boston——"
"Who comes here?" cried Van Vuren, breaking in upon the other's story with a note of fear.
They saw the tall, stern figure of Mary Iden descending towards them, armed as for the chase. She crossed the ridge and halted when she sighted the men. Her face was ghastly, and her eyes roved wildly over the prospect. Presently she put out her hand, and the Dutchmen waited when they saw her sign.
"Soldiers," cried a wild English voice, "have you seen the French priest known as La Salle pass into the fortress?"
Van Vuren, who had touched at most of the New World colonies in his time, knew the Anglo-Saxon well enough to answer; but he started, and said bitterly to his subordinate:
"The very savages speak English. Where is the Indian who has a knowledge of French in all this country, which the French rule? Did not I say to you that it is as impossible to keep the men of King Charles out of this land as it is to dam the ocean behind a bank of sand?"
He turned to the Englishman's wife, and demanded further knowledge.
The woman struggled to return the answer which policy advised, but passion overmastered her. Her eyes flashed wildly as she answered:
"Your race has ever been friendly with mine. 'Tis true you are foes of the English, but all nations hate England, even as the birds of the forest hate the eagle because of the strength of his flight. Soldiers, show me where I may find this priest. I have walked through the night seeking him. But a few hours ago I was a mother. To-day my son gives no answer to my voice. He was a great hunter was my son, though but a boy, and he feared no man. This day we bury him where the waters shout. He was good to look upon, he was strong like the young bear. He had brave eyes. Soldiers, it is the priest who has slain my son."
The anguished woman had spoken thus aloud as she walked through the cathedral-like aisles of the forest, addressing the columnar pines, the fretted arch of foliage, the dim bush shrines; so she had called as her heart bled to the climbing tits, the ghostly moths, and the long grey wolf as he slunk away.
"Who is the father of your son?" pressed the Dutchman.
Awaking to the consciousness that the question was not wholly dictated by sympathy, Mary Iden drew herself erect, and, pointing over the heads of the men, indicated the impregnable heights whereon waved the flag azure a fleur-de-lys or, that emblem which dominated the land from the islands in the gulf to the country where the foot of white men had never trod.
"I have learnt the story of the wanderings of the children of England," she said in a strained prophetic voice. "Of the journey of the man Cabot, who passed into the places of wind, into the great sea of ice, and reached the land where the Indians dare not walk. Of the seaman Frobisher, who touched the iron coast and lived. These men passed out like spirits into the unknown, and came back with their great story as men restored from the dead. As the crow follows the eagle, to take of that which the strong bird leaves, so Frenchmen followed the great adventurers of England. And now I see the French driven from their fortress, from Tadousac and St. Croix. Those who dwell in Acadie shall be driven out, and go as exiles into a strange country. I see soldiers sweeping the great cliffs, freeing the valleys and plains. I see the French settled upon their farms, and their flag no longer shines in the sun, and the people bend themselves to the rule of an English Queen, whose name is Victory and whose reign is peace. Many moons shall come and go, many suns shall heat the Father of Waters before these things shall be, and I shall not live to see that day." She pressed her hands to her aching eyes, and shivered as she swayed, and once more cried: "Soldiers, have you seen the priest who has slain my son?"
"A witch!" exclaimed Van Vuren hoarsely. "Let us escape before she overlooks us."
The superstitious Dutchmen hurried out to rejoin their men, who were camping in the forest; while Mary Iden made her way across the plain, and so into the great red eye of the sun.