Bedimm'dThe noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vaultSet roaring war.Shakspeare.
Bedimm'dThe noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vaultSet roaring war.Shakspeare.
At day-break, the vessels of La Tour and Stanhope spread their sails to a light wind, which bore them slowly from the harbor of St. John's. The fort long lingered in their view, and the richly wooded shores and fertile fields gradually receded, as the rising sun began to shed its radiance on the luxuriant landscape. But the morning, which had burst forth in brightness, was soon overcast with clouds; and the light, which had shone so cheeringly on hill and valley, like the last gleams of departing hope, became shrouded in gloom and darkness. Still, however, they kept on their course; and by degrees the wind grew stronger, and the dead calm of the sea was agitated by its increasing violence.
The confines of Acadia, which were then undefined, stretched along the borders of the bay, presenting a vast and uncultivated tract, varyingthrough every shade of sterility and verdure; from the bare and beetling promontory, which defied the encroaching tide, the desert plain, and dark morass, to the impervious forest, the sloping upland, and the green valley, watered by its countless streams. A transient sun-beam, at times, gilded this variegated prospect, and again the flitting clouds chequered it with their dark shadows, till the dense vapor, which hung over the water, at length arose, and formed an impenetrable veil, excluding every object from the sight.
Night closed in prematurely; the ships parted company, and, in the increasing darkness, there was little prospect of joining again; nor was it possible for either to ascertain the situation of its partner. La Tour's vessel had out-sailed the other, through the day; and he had so often navigated the bay, and rivers of the coast, that every isle and headland were perfectly familiar to him. But Stanhope had little practical knowledge of its localities, and, not caring to trust implicitly to his pilot, he proceeded with the utmost caution, sounding at convenient distances, lest he should deviate from the usual course, and run aground on rocks, or in shallow water. Though with little chance of success, he caused lights to be hung out, hoping they might attract the attention of La Tour; but their rays could not penetrate the heavy mist, which concealed even the nearest objects from observation. Signal guns were also fired at intervals, buttheir report mingled with the sullen murmur of the wind and waves, and no answering sound was heard on the solitary deep. Apprehensive that they approached too near the land, in the gloom and uncertainty which surrounded them, Stanhope resolved to anchor, and wait for returning day.
This resolution was generally approved; for, among the adventurers who accompanied him, Stanhope could number few expert seamen, and the natural fears of the inexperienced were heightened by superstitious feelings, at that time prevalent among all classes of people. Many seemed persuaded that they were suffered to fall into danger, as a judgment for joining with papists, in a cause of doubtful equity; and they expressed a determination to relinquish all further concern in it, should they be permitted to reach the destined shore in safety. Arguments, at such a moment, were useless; and Arthur, perplexed and anxious, yet cautious to conceal his disquietude, passed the whole of that tedious night in watch upon the deck.
Another dawn revived the hopes of all,—but they were only transient; the tempest, which had been so long gathering, was ready to burst upon their heads. Clouds piled on clouds darkened the heavens, the winds blew with extreme violence, and the angry waves, crested with foamy wreaths, now bore the vessel mountain high, then sunk with a tremendous roar, threatening to engulph it in the fearful abyss. Still the ship steered bravely on hercourse, in defiance of the raging elements; and Stanhope hoped to guide her safely to a harbor, at no great distance, where she might ride out the storm at anchor, for destruction appeared inevitable, if they remained in the open sea. This harbor lay at an island, near the entrance of the river Schoodic, or St. Croix; and was much frequented by the trading and fishing vessels of New-England and Acadia. Already they seemed to gain the promised haven, and every eye was eagerly directed to it, with the almost certain prospect of release from danger and suspense.
It was necessary to tack, to enter the channel of the river; and, at that fatal moment, the wind struck the mainmast with a force which instantly threw it over-board; and the ship, cast on her beam-ends by the violence of the shock, lay exposed to a heavy sea, which broke over her deck and stern. The crew, roused by their immediate hazard, used every exertion to right the vessel; and Stanhope, who had not abandoned the helm since the first moment of peril, managed, with admirable dexterity, to bear her off from the dangerous shore, to which she was continually impelled by the wind and tide. But another blast, more fierce than the former, combined with the waves, to complete the work of destruction. The vessel was left a mere hulk; and the rudder, their last hope, torn away by the appalling concussion, shewas driven among the breakers, which burst furiously around her.
"The ship is gone!" said Stanhope, with unnatural calmness, as he felt it reel, and on the verge of foundering; "save yourselves, if it is not too late!"
A boat had been fortunately preserved amidst the general wreck; and with the vehemence of despair, they precipitated themselves into it. It seemed perilous, indeed, to trust so frail a bark, and heavy laden as it was, amidst the boiling surge; but it was their only resource, and, with trembling anxiety, they ventured upon the dangerous experiment. Stanhope was the last to enter; and with silent, and almost breathless caution, they again steered towards the island, from which they had been so rudely driven. Some fishermen, who had found a refuge there from the storm, and witnessed the distress, which they were unable, sooner, to relieve, came to their assistance, and in a short time all were safely landed, and comfortably sheltered in huts, which had been erected by the frequenters of the island.
Stanhope's solicitude respecting La Tour was relieved by the fishermen, several of whom had seen his vessel early on that morning, standing out for Penobscot Bay; and though slightly damaged, they had no doubt she would weather the storm, which was, probably, less violent there, than in the more turbulent Bay of Fundy. Arthur was desirous of rejoining him, as soon as possible; to report his own misfortune, and assist in the execution of those plans, which had induced the voyage. But his men, in general, were still reluctant to complete their late engagement; they regarded the disaster which had so recently placed their lives in jeopardy as a signal interposition of Providence, and they resolved to obey the warning, and return to their respective homes. Stanhope, vexed with their wavering conduct, and convinced that he could not place any reliance on their services, made no attempt to detain them. The Scots, and a few of his own people, still adhered to him: and he hired a small vessel, which lay at the island, intending to proceed to Penobscot as soon as the weather would permit.
The storm continued through that day;—the evening, also, proved dark and tempestuous; but Stanhope, exhausted by fatigue, slept soundly on a rude couch, and beneath a shelter that admitted both wind and rain. He was awake, however, by the earliest dawn, and actively directing the necessary arrangements for his departure. The storm had passed away; not a cloud lingered in the azure sky, and the first tinge of orient light was calmly reflected from the waves, which curled and murmured around the beautiful island they embraced. The herbage had put on a deeper verdure, and the wild flowers of summer sent forth a richer fragrance on the fresh and balmy air. The moistenedfoliage of the trees displayed a thousand varying hues; and, among their branches, innumerable birds sported their brilliant plumage, and warbled their melodious notes, as if rejoicing in the restored serenity of nature.
Arthur had wandered from the scene of busy preparation; he was alone amidst this paradise of sweets, but his heart held intercourse with the loved and distant object of his hopes, whose image was ever present to his fancy. He stood against the ruins of a fort, which had been built almost forty years before, by the Sieur de Monts, who, on that spot, first planted the standard of the king of France, in Acadia. Circumstances soon after induced him to remove the settlement he had commenced there, across the bay to Port-Royal; the island was neglected by succeeding adventurers, and his labors were suffered to fall into ruin. Time had already laid his withering finger upon the walls, and left his mouldering image amid the fair creations of the youthful world. Fragments, overgrown with moss and lichen, strewed the ground; the creeping ivy wreathed its garlands around the broken walls, and lofty trees had struck their roots deep into the foundations, and threw the shadow of their branches across the crumbling pile.
The lonely and picturesque beauty of the scene, and the associations connected with it, at first diverted the current of Arthur's thoughts; but Luciè soon resumed her influence over his imagination.Yet a painful impression, that he had wasted some moments in this dream of fancy, which should have been spent in action, shortly aroused him from his musing; and, as he felt the airy vision dissolve, he almost unconsciously pronounced the name most dear to him.
That name was instantly repeated,—but so low, that he might have fancied it the tremulous echo of his own voice, but for the startling sigh which accompanied it, and struck him with almost superstitious awe. He turned to see if any one was near, and met the eyes of father Gilbert, fixed on him with a gaze of earnest, yet melancholy, enquiry. The cowl, which generally shaded his brow, was thrown back, and his cheeks, furrowed by early and habitual grief, were blanched to even unusual paleness. He grasped a crucifix in his folded hands, and his cold, stern features, were softened by an expression of deep sorrow, which touched the heart of Stanhope. He bent respectfully before the holy man, but remained silent, and uncertain how to address him.
"You have been unfortunate, young man," said the priest, after a moment's pause; "but, remember that the evils of life are not inflicted without design; and happy are they, who early profit by the lessons of adversity!"
"I have escaped unharmed, and with the lives of all my companions," returned Stanhope; "I should, therefore, be ungrateful to repine at the slight evilwhich has befallen me; but you were more highly favored, to reach a safe harbor, before the tempest began to rage!"
"Storms and sunshine are alike to me," he answered; "for twenty years I have braved the wintry tempests, and endured the summer heats, often unsheltered in the savage desert; and still I follow, wherever the duties of my holy calling lead, imparting to others that consolation, which can never again cheer my wearied spirit. Leave me, now, young man," he added, after a brief silence; "your duty calls you hence; and why linger you here, and dream away those fleeting moments, which can never be recalled?"
"Perhaps I merit that reproof," said Stanhope, coloring highly; "but I have not been inattentive to my duty, and I am, even now, in readiness to depart."
"Pardon me, my son, if I have spoken harshly," returned the priest; "but I would urge you to hasten your departure. La Tour, ere this, has reached Penobscot; he is too rash and impetuous to delay his purpose, and one hour may turn the scale to victory or defeat."
Stanhope answered only by a gesture of respect, as he turned away from him; and he proceeded directly to the beach, where his vessel lay, reflecting, as he went along, on the singularity of father Gilbert's sudden appearance, and wondering why he should have repeated the name of Luciè, andwith such evident emotion. The agitation he had betrayed, on meeting her in the garden at St. John's, was not forgotten; and Arthur had longed, yet dared not, to ask some questions which might lead to an elucidation of the seeming mystery.
The sun had scarcely risen, when Stanhope left the island of St. Croix; the wind was fair and steady, and the sea retained no traces of its recent turbulence, except some fragments of the wreck, which floated around. Their vessel was but a poor substitute for the one which they had lost, but it sailed well, and answered the purpose of their short voyage; and the crew were stout in heart and spirits, notwithstanding their late disasters. Stanhope particularly regretted the loss of their fire-arms and ammunition, though he had fortunately obtained a small supply from the people at the island. Early in the afternoon they entered the bay of Penobscot, and Stanhope directed his course immediately towards the fort; he ventured, at no great distance, to reconnoitre, and was surprised that he had, as yet, seen nothing of La Tour. The sun at length declined behind the western hills, leaving a flood of golden light upon the waveless deep. The extensive line of coast, indented by numerous bays, adorned with a thousand isles of every form and size, presented a rich and boundless prospect; and, graced with the charms of summer, and reposing in the calm of that glowing twilight, it seemed almost like a region of enchantment.
The serenity and beauty of such a scene was more deeply enjoyed, from the contrast which it presented to the turbulence of the preceding day; and Stanhope lingered around the coast, till warned by the gathering gloom that it was time to seek a harbor, where they might repose in security through the night. Trusting to the experience of his pilot, he entered what is called Frenchman's Bay, and anchored to the eastward of Mount Desert island. Night seemed to approach reluctantly, and gemmed with her starry train, she threw a softer veil around the lovely scenes, which had shone so brightly beneath the light of day. The wild solitudes of nature uttered no sound; the breeze had ceased its sighing, and the waves broke gently on the grassy shore. The moon rode high in the heavens, pouring her young light on sea and land; and the summit of the Blue Hills was radiant with her silver beams.
Mar.I'll fight with none but thee; for I do hate theeWorse than a promise-breaker.Auf.We hate alike;Not Afric owns a serpent, I abhorMore than thy fame and envy.Shakspeare.
La Tour, in the darkness of the night succeeding his departure from St. John's, had found it impossible to communicate with Stanhope; and, prudently consulting his own safety in view of the approaching storm, he crowded sail, hoping to reach some haven, before the elements commenced their fearful conflict. In his zeal for personal security, he persuaded himself, that Arthur's nautical skill would extricate him from danger; but he forgot the peculiar difficulties to which he was exposed by his ignorance of the coast, and also, that he was embarked in a vessel far less prepared than his own, to encounter the heavy gale which seemed mustering from every quarter of the heavens. Perfectly familiar, himself, with a course which he frequently traversed,—in an excellent ship, and assisted by experienced seamen,—he was enabled tosteer, with comparative safety, through the almost tangible darkness; and, early on the following morning, he entered the smoother waters of Penobscot Bay, and anchored securely in one of the numerous harbors which it embraces.
The day passed away, and brought no tidings from Stanhope; and De Valette, though their friendship had of late been interrupted by coldness and distrust, had too much generosity to feel insensible to his probable danger. But La Tour expressed the utmost confidence that he had found some sheltering port,—as the whole extent of coast abounds with harbors, which may be entered with perfect security,—and the night proving too tempestuous to venture abroad for intelligence, De Valette was obliged to rest contented with hoping for the best.
La Tour wishing to obtain more minute information respecting the situation of D'Aulney, intended to proceed, first, to Pemaquid; and, should Stanhope, from any cause, fail of joining him, he might probably receive assistance from the English at that place, who had always been friendly to him, and were particularly interested in suppressing the dreaded power of M. d'Aulney. But, while busied in preparation, on the day succeeding the storm, and repairing the slight damage which his vessel had sustained, the report of some fishermen entirely changed the plan and destiny of the expedition. La Tour learned from them, that D'Aulney was at that time absent from his fort, having left it, two or three days before, with a small party, to go on a hunting excursion up the river Penobscot. His garrison, they added, had been recently reduced, by fitting out a vessel for France, to return with ammunition, and other supplies, in which he was extremely deficient.
This information determined La Tour to attack the fort without delay. Every thing seemed to favor his wishes, and hold out a prospect of success. Though small in numbers, he placed perfect confidence in the courage of his men, most of whom had long adhered to his service, and followed him in the desultory skirmishes in which he frequently engaged. Impetuous to a fault, and brave even to rashness, he had, as yet, been generally successful in his undertakings, and, though often unimportant, even to his own interests, they were marked by a reckless contempt of danger, calculated to inspirit and attach the followers of such an adventurer.
La Tour, piloted by a fisherman whom he took aboard, landed on a peninsula, since called Bagaduce point, on which the fort was situated. He intended to make his first attack on a farm-house of D'Aulney's, where he was told some military stores were lodged; and, from thence, bring up his men in rear of the fort. He sanguinely believed, that in the absence of the commander, it would soon yield to his sudden and impetuous assault; or, if he had been in any respect deceived, that itwould be easy to secure a safe retreat to the boats from which he had landed. De Valette, in the mean time, was ordered to divert the attention of the garrison, by sailing before the walls; and, if necessary, to afford a more efficient succor.
In perfect silence, La Tour led on his little band through tangled copse-wood and impervious shades; and, with measured tread, and thoughts intent upon the coming strife, they crushed, unheeded, the wild flower which spread its simple charms before them, and burst asunder the beautiful garlands which summer had woven around their path. The melody of nature was hushed at their approach; the birds nestled in their leafy coverts; the timid hare bounded before their steps, and the squirrel looked down in silence from his airy height, as they passed on, and disturbed the solitude of the peaceful retreat.
They at length emerged from the sheltering woods, and entered an extensive plain, which had been cleared and cultivated, and, in the midst of which, stood the farm-house, already mentioned. It was several miles from the fort; a few men were stationed there, but the place was considered so secure, from its retired situation, that they were generally employed in the labors of agriculture. La Tour's party approached almost within musket shot, before the alarm was given, and the defenders had scarcely time to throw themselves into the house, and barricade the doors and windows. Thebesiegers commenced a violent onset, and volley succeeded volley, with a rapidity which nothing could withstand. The contest was too unequal to continue long; La Tour soon entered the house a conqueror, secured all who were in it as prisoners, and took possession of the few munitions which had been stored there. He then ordered the building to be set on fire, and the soldiers, with wanton cruelty, killed all the domestic animals which were grazing around it. Neither party sustained any loss; two or three only were wounded, and those, with the prisoners, were sent back, under a sufficient guard, to the boats; the remainder turned from the scene of destruction with utter indifference, and again proceeded towards the fort.
The noontide sun was intensely hot, and they halted a few moments on the verge of an extensive forest, to rest in its cooling shade, and allay their thirst from a limpid stream which gurgled from its green recesses. Scarcely had they resumed the line of march, when a confused sound burst upon their ears; and instantly, the heavy roll of a drum reverberated through the woods, and a party rushed on them, from its protecting shades, with overpowering force. La Tour, with a courage and presence of mind which never deserted him, presented an undaunted front to the foe, and urged his followers by encouragement and commands, to stand firm, and defend themselves to the last extremity. A few only emulated his example; the rest, seizedwith an unaccountable panic, sought refuge in flight, or surrendered passively to the victors.
La Tour, in vain, endeavoured to rally them; surrounded by superior numbers, and their retreat entirely intercepted, submission or destruction seemed inevitable. But his proud spirit could ill brook an alternative which he considered so disgraceful; and, left to sustain the conflict alone, he still wielded his sword with a boldness and dexterity, that surprised and distanced every opponent. Yet skill and valor united were unavailing against such fearful odds; and the weapon which he would never have voluntarily relinquished, was at length wrested from his grasp.
A smile of triumph brightened the gloomy features of M. d'Aulney, as he met the eye of his proud and defeated enemy; but La Tour returned it by a glance of haughty defiance, which fully expressed the bitterness of his chafed and unsubdued feelings. He then turned to his humbled followers, and surveyed them with a look of angry contempt, beneath which, the boldest shrunk abashed.
"Cowards!" he exclaimed, yielding to his indignation; "fear ye to meet my eye? would that its lightnings could blast ye, perjured and recreant that ye are! ay, look upon the ground, which should have drank your heart's blood before it witnessed your disgrace; look not on me, whom you havebetrayed—look not on the banner of your country, which you have stained by this day's cowardice!"
A low murmur rose from the rebuked and sullen soldiers; and D'Aulney, fearing some disturbance, commanded silence, and ordered his people to prepare for instant march.
"For you, St. Etienne, lord of la Tour," he said, "it shall be my care to provide a place of security, till the pleasure of our lawful sovereign is made known concerning you."
"To that sovereign I willingly appeal," replied La Tour; "and, if a shadow of justice lingers around his throne, the rights which you have presumed to arrogate will be restored to me, and my authority established on a basis, which you will not venture to dispute."
"Let the writ of proscription be first revoked," said D'Aulney, with a sneer; "let the names of rebel, and traitor, be blotted from your escutcheon, before you appeal to that justice, or reclaim an authority which has been long since annulled."
"False, and mean-spirited!" exclaimed La Tour, scornfully; "you stoop to insult a prisoner, who is powerless in your hands, but from whose indignation you would cower, like the guilty thing you are, had I liberty and my good sword to revenge your baseness! Go, use me as you will, use me as youdare, M. d'Aulney, but remember the day of vengeance may ere long arrive."
"Myday of vengeancehasarrived," returned D'Aulney, and his eye flashed with rage; "andyou will rue the hour in which you provoked my slumbering wrath."
"Your wrath hasneverslumbered," replied La Tour, "and my hatred to you will mingle with the last throb of my existence. Like an evil demon, you have followed me through life; you blighted the hopes of my youth,—the interests and ambition of my manhood have been thwarted by your machinations, and I have now no reason to look for mercy at your hands; still I defy your malice, and I bid you triumph at your peril."
"We have strong holds in that fort which you have so long wished to possess," said D'Aulney, with provoking coolness; "and traitors, who are lodged there, have little chance of escape."
La Tour refrained from replying, even by a glance: the soldiers, at that moment, commenced their march; and guarded, with ostentatious care, he walked apart from the other prisoners towards the fort. The angry aspect of his countenance yielded to an expression of calm contempt, and through the remainder of the way he preserved an unbroken silence.
In the mean time, De Valette had strictly obeyed the instructions of La Tour. His appearance before the fort evidently excited much sensation there; and though he kept at a prudent distance, he could observe the garrison in motion, and ascertain from their various evolutions, that they were preparing for a vigorous defence. He ordered his vessel to be put in a state for action, and waitedimpatiently to see the standard of D'Aulney supplanted by that of De la Tour. But his illusions were dispelled by the return of a boat with the prisoners, taken at the farm-house, and a few soldiers who had escaped by flight from the fate of their companions. Vexed and mortified by a result so unexpected, De Valette hesitated what course to pursue. La Tour had not thought necessary to provide for such an exigence, as he never admitted the possibility of falling a prisoner into the hands of D'Aulney. His lieutenant, therefore, determined to sail for Pemaquid, to seek assistance, which would enable him, at least, to recover the liberty of La Tour. He also hoped to gain some information respecting Stanhope, whose services at that crisis were particularly desirable.
M. d'Aulney had returned to his fort unexpectedly on the morning of that day; and the approach of La Tour was betrayed to him by a boy, who escaped from the farm-house, at the beginning of the skirmish. Nothing could have gratified his revenge more completely, than to obtain possession of the person of his rival; and this long desired object was thus easily attained, at a moment when least expected.
The prejudices of a superior are readily embraced by those under his authority; and, as La Tour approached the fort, every eye glanced triumphantly on him, and every countenance reflected, in some degree, the vindictive feelings of the commander. But he endured their gaze with stern indifference, and his step was as firm, and his bearing as lofty, as if he entered the gates a conqueror. A small apartment, attached to the habitable buildings of the fort, which had often served on similar occasions, was prepared; for a temporary prison, until his final destination was determined. D'Aulney, himself, examined this apartment with the utmost caution, lest any aperture should be unnoticed, through which the prisoner might effect his escape. La Tour, during this research, remained guarded in an adjoining passage, and through the open door, he perceived, with a smile of scorn, what indeed seemed the superfluous care, which was taken to provide for his security. The soldiers waited at a respectful distance, awed by the courage he had displayed, and the anger which still flashed from his full dark eye.
In this interval, La Tour's attention was attracted by the sound of light footsteps advancing along the passage; and immediately a delicate female figure passed hastily on towards a flight of stairs, not far from the spot where he was standing. Her motions were evidently confused and timid, plainly evincing that she had unconsciously entered among the soldiers; and her features were concealed by a veil, which she drew closely around them. She flitted rapidly by La Tour, but at a little distance paused, in a situation which screened her from every eye but his. Throwing back her veil, shelooked earnestly at him; a deep blush overspread her face, and pressing her finger on her lips, in token of silence, she swiftly descended the stairs.
That momentary glance subdued every stormy passion of his soul; early scenes of joy and sorrow rushed on his remembrance, and clasping his hands across his brow, he stood, for a time, unmindful of all around him, absorbed by his excited thoughts. But the voice of D'Aulney again sounded in his ears, and renewed the strife of bitter feelings, which had been so briefly calmed. His cheek glowed with deeper resentment, and it required a powerful effort of self-command to repress the invective that trembled on his lips, but which, he felt, it would be more than useless to indulge. He entered his prison, therefore, in silence; and, with gloomy immobility, listened to the heavy sound of the bolts, which secured the door, and consigned him to the dreariness of profound solitude.
That of all things upon the earth, he hatedYour person most: that he would pawn his fortunesTo hopeless restitution, so he mightBe called your vanquisher.Shakspeare.
That of all things upon the earth, he hatedYour person most: that he would pawn his fortunesTo hopeless restitution, so he mightBe called your vanquisher.Shakspeare.
The first hours of misfortune are generally the most tedious; and the night which succeeded the imprisonment of La Tour appeared to him almost endless in duration. A small and closely grated window sparingly admitted the light and air of heaven; and, through its narrow openings, he watched the last beams of the moon, and saw the stars twinkle more faintly in the advancing light of morning, before he sought that repose, which entire exhaustion rendered indispensable.
He was aroused at a late hour on the following morning, from feverish slumber, by the opening of his door; and, starting up, he, with equal surprise and displeasure, recognized M. d'Aulney in the intruder. A glance of angry defiance was the only salutation which he deigned to give; but it was unnoticed by D'Aulney, who had apparently resolved to restrain the violence, which they had mutually indulged on the preceding day.
"I come to offer you freedom, M. de la Tour," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "and on terms which the most prejudiced could not but consider lenient."
"Freedom from life, then!" La Tour scornfully replied; "I can expect no other liberty, while it is in your power to hold me in bondage."
"Beware how you defy my power!" replied D'Aulney; "or provoke the wrath which may burst in vengeance on your head. You are my prisoner, De la Tour; and, as the representative of royalty here, the command of life or death is entrusted to my discretion."
"I deny that command," said La Tour, "and bid you exercise it at your peril. Prove to me the authority which constitutes you my judge; which gives you a right to scrutinize the actions of a compeer; to hold in duresse the person of a free and loyal subject of our king;—prove this, and I may submit to your judgment, I may crave the clemency, which I now despise—nay, which I would not stoop to receive from your hands."
"You speak boldly, for a rebel and a traitor!" said D'Aulney, contemptuously; "for one whose office is annulled, and whose name is branded with infamy!"
"Come you hither to insult me, false-hearted villain?" exclaimed La Tour, passionately; "prisoner and defenceless, though I now am, you may yethave cause to repent the rashness which brings you to my presence!"
"Your threats are idle," returned D'Aulney; "I never feared you, even in your greatest strength; and think you, that I cannowbe intimidated by your words?"
"What is the purport of this interview?" asked La Tour, impatiently; "and why am I compelled to endure your presence? speak, and briefly, if you have aught to ask of me; or go, and leave me to the solitude, which you have so rudely disturbed."
"I spoke to you of freedom," replied D'Aulney; "but since you persist in believing my intentions evil, it would be useless to name the terms on which I offer it."
"You can offer no terms," said La Tour, "which comport with the honor of a gentleman and a soldier to accept."
"Are you ignorant," asked D'Aulney, "that you are proscribed, that an order is issued for your arrest, and that a traitor's doom awaits you, in your native land?"
"It is a calumny, vile as your own base heart," exclaimed La Tour; "and so help me, heaven, as I shall one day prove its falsehood."
"You have been denounced at a more impartial tribunal than mine," said D'Aulney, deliberately unrolling a parchment which he carried, and pointing to the seal of France; "these characters," headded, "are traced by high authority; and need you any farther proof, that your honors are wrested from you, and your name consigned to infamy?"
"Your malice has invented this," said La Tour, glancing his eye indignantly over the contents of the scroll; "but even this shall not avail you; and, cunningly as you have woven your treacherous web around me, I shall yet escape the snare, and triumph over all your machinations!"
"It is vain to boast of deeds, which you may never be at liberty to perform," replied D'Aulney; "your escape from this prison is impossible, and, of course, your fate is entirely at my disposal. But, grossly as you have injured me, I am willing to reconcile past differences; not from any hope of personal advantage, but to preserve the peace of the colony, and sustain the honor of the government."
"That mask of disinterestedness and patriotism," said La Tour, scornfully, "is well assumed; but, beshrew me! if it does not hide some dark and selfish purpose. Reconcile!" he added, in a tone of bitterness; "that word can never pass current with us; my hatred to you is so strong, so deeply-rooted, that nothing could ever compel me to serve you, even if, by so doing, I might advance my own fortunes to the height of princely grandeur."
"Your choice is too limited to admit of dainty scruples," said D'Aulney, tauntingly; "but, you may be induced to grant from necessity, what youwould refuse as a favor. You must be convinced, that your title and authority in Acadia are now abolished, and you have every reason to apprehend the severity of the law, if you are returned a prisoner to France. I offer you immediate liberty, with sufficient privileges to render you independent, on condition that you will make a legal transfer of your late government to me, and thus amicably reunite the colony, which was so unhappily divided on the death of Razilly. Put your signature to this paper, and you are that moment free."
"Now, by the holy rood!" said La Tour, bursting into a laugh of scorn; "but that I think you are jesting with me, I would trample you beneath my feet, as I do this;" and snatching the offered paper from his hand, he tore it in pieces, and stamped violently on the scattered fragments.
"You reject my proposals, then?" asked D'Aulney, pale with angry emotions.
"Dare you ask me, again, to accept them?" returned La Tour; "think you, I would sanction the slanders you have fabricated, by such a surrender of my rights? that I would thus bring reproach upon my name, and bequeath poverty and disgrace to my children?"
"It is well," replied D'Aulney; "and the consequences of your folly must fall on your own head; but, when too late, you may repent the perverseness which is driving you to destruction."
"Were the worst fate which your malevolence could devise, at this moment before me," said La Tour, "my resolution would remain unalterable. I am not so poor in spirit, as to shrink before the blast of adversity; nor am I yet destitute of followers, who will fight for my rescue, or bravely avenge my fall."
"We shall soon find other employment for them," D'Aulney coolly replied; "this fortunate expedition of yours has scattered your vaunted force, and left your fort exposed to assaults, which it is too defenceless to repel."
"Make the experiment," said La Tour, proudly; "and again you may return, vanquished by a woman's prowess. Try the valor of men, who burn to redress their master's wrongs; and, if you dare, once more encounter the dauntless courage of a wife, anxious for her husband's safety, and tenacious of her husband's honor."
"You are fortunate," said D'Aulney, sarcastically, "to possess so brave a representative; I trust, it has long since reconciled you to the chance, which prevented your alliance with one less valiant,—one, too gentle to share the fortunes of such a bold adventurer."
"Touch not upon that theme," said La Tour, starting with almost frenzied violence; "time may wear away every other remembrance, but the treachery of a friend must remain indelible and unforgiven."
"Solitude, perchance, may calm your moody feelings, and I will leave you to its soothing influence;" said D'Aulney, in a tone of assumed indifference, which was contradicted by the angry flash that darted from his eye. He laid his hand on the door, while he spoke; La Tour returned no answer, and the next moment he was left to his own reflections; and, bitter as they were, he felt that to be again alone, was a state of comparative happiness. But, whatever he endured, not a shadow of fear or apprehension obtruded on his mind. The shame of defeat, perhaps, most deeply goaded him; and his interview with D'Aulney had awakened every dark and stormy passion in his breast. Confinement was, indeed, irksome to his active spirit; but he would not admit the possibility of its long continuance; and he had no doubt, that the exertions of De Valette would soon restore him to freedom. He rightly believed, that both the pride and affection of his nephew would stimulate him to attempt it, and he hoped his efforts would be aided by Stanhope, if he had been so fortunate as to escape the storm.
Stanhope, however, was, as yet, ignorant of these events; and the morning light, which stole so heavily through the grated window of La Tour's prison-room, shone brightly on the waters of the Bay, where his vessel had anchored through the night. He was in motion at an early hour, anxious to obtain information of La Tour, though totally at a loss in what direction to seek for him. In themidst of this perplexity, he observed a boat, at some distance, slowly approaching the eastern extremity of Mount Desert island. Stanhope waited impatiently to hail the person who occupied it, believing he might receive some intelligence from him respecting La Tour. But, instead of making the nearest point of land, he suddenly tacked his boat, and bore off from the shore, apparently intending to double a narrow headland, which projected into the bay.
The little skiff moved slowly on its course, as if guided by an idle or unskilful hand, and the oars were dipped so lightly and leisurely, that they scarce dimpled the waves, or moved the boat beyond the natural motion of the tide. The earliest blush of morn was spreading along the eastern sky, and faintly tinged the surface of the deep; and, as Arthur watched the progress of the boat, his attention was arrested by the peculiar appearance of the occupant, who, on drawing near the headland, raised himself from a reclining posture, and stood erect, leaning, with one hand, on an upright oar, while he employed the other in lightly steering the boat. His tall figure, habited in the dark garments of a Romish priest, which floated loosely on the air, gave him, as he moved alone upon the solitary deep, a wild, and almost supernatural appearance. His face was continually turned towards the shore, and at times he bowed his head, and folded his hands across his breast, as if absorbed by mental devotion, or engaged in some outward service of his religion.
Arthur could not mistake the person of father Gilbert; nor was he greatly surprised at seeing him there, as he had heard much of his wandering course of life, and knew that he was in the habit of extending his pastoral visits to the remotest cabins of his flock. Stanhope thought it possible he might direct him to La Tour; and he ordered a boat to be got ready immediately, in the hope of overtaking him. But by that time, the priest had disappeared behind the projecting land, and probably proceeded on his voyage with more expedition; for when Stanhope doubled the point, he was no longer visible. Unwilling to give up the pursuit, Arthur continued on, passing through the channel between Craneberry Islands and Mount Desert, and entered a gulf which ran in on the south side of the latter. Almost at the entrance, he discovered a small boat, like the one in question, and from which he had no doubt father Gilbert had just landed.
Leaving the boatmen to wait his return, Stanhope sprang on shore without hesitation, and rapidly followed the windings of a narrow path, though ignorant where it led, and doubtful if it were trodden by wild animals, or by the foot of man. Shortly, the wood, which he traversed, terminated in an open plain, slightly elevated above the waters of the bay, that still murmured on his ear, and glanced brightly through the foliage of some trees whichfringed the shore. The spot was rich in verdure, retaining marks of former cultivation, and the trees, which rose to a noble height, were evidently a succession from the earlier monarchs of the forest. Some Jesuit missionaries had taken possession of the place at an early period, planted a cross there, and called it by the name of St. Saviour. But their settlement was soon broken up by a party of English from Virginia, who claimed it for their own king, on the plea of first discovery. It was long after neglected by both nations, and the improvements, which had been commenced, were entirely neglected.
Stanhope's attention was soon arrested by the object of his search. In the midst of the plain still lay the cross, which the English had overthrown; and, close beside it, father Gilbert was kneeling, as motionless, as if life had ceased to animate him. His eyes were fastened on a crucifix, and his pale and haggard countenance wore the traces of that mental anguish, which seemed forever to pursue him. His lips were firmly closed, and every limb and feature appeared so rigid, that Arthur could scarcely repel the dreadful apprehension, that death had seized his victim alone in that solitary spot. He approached him, and was inexpressibly relieved to perceive him start at the sound of his steps, and look round, though with a vacant air, like one suddenly roused from deep and heavy sleep.
"Pardon me, if I intrude, father," said Stanhope; "but I feared you were ill, and came to ask if I could serve you."
"Who are you?" demanded the priest, wildly, and springing from his knees; "who are you, that seek me here,—here, in this spot, consecrated to remorse and sorrow?"
"It is but a few hours since I parted from you," returned Stanhope; "and had I known you purposed coming hither, I would not willingly have left you to cross the waves alone, in that frail boat."
"I know you now, young man," replied the priest, the unnatural excitement of his countenance yielding to its usual calm; "and I thank you for your care; but solitude and gloom are most congenial to me, and I endure the fellowship of men, only in compliance with the duties of my holy office. Leave me," he added; "here, at least, I would be alone."
"This is a dreary place, father"—
"Dreary!" interrupted the priest; "and it is therefore that I seek it; twenty years have passed away, since I first found refuge in its shades, from the vanities of a world which I had too long trusted; and yearly on this day, the solitary waste is witness to my remorse and penance. Be warned by this, my son; and, in thy youth, avoid the crimes and follies which lead to an old age of sorrow."
"True repentance may obliterate every sin," said Stanhope; "and why should you despair of mercy, or even of earthly happiness?"
"Happiness!" repeated the priest; "name it not to one whose headstrong passions blasted every cherished joy, and threw their withering influence on all who loved and trusted in him; mock me not with that delusive hope, which only lives in the imagination of youth and inexperience. Again I bid you leave me; this day is consecrated to active duty, and I would fortify my mind to meet its difficulties."
"Pardon me, that I trouble you with one inquiry," said Stanhope; "have you heard aught of De la Tour?"
"He is a prisoner," returned the priest; "and if you would learn more concerning him, repair, without delay, to Pemaquid, where his lieutenant waits your arrival."
Father Gilbert turned away, as he finished speaking; and Stanhope retraced his steps to the boat, musing with deep interest on the intelligence he had received. He rowed rapidly back to his vessel; and, weighing anchor, sailed for the bay of Pemaquid, impatient to rejoin De Valette, and learn the particulars of La Tour's capture.