DAME OPPORTUNITY
The first thing to do was to see the Englishman. For the third time in
twenty-four hours I went to the commandant's quarters.
The prisoner was at the window when I entered, and again I caught his
look of keen intelligence; a look which he apparently tried to veil as
his eyes met mine. That bred suspicion in me. Yet I could not mistake
the welcome with which he greeted me.
"I am gratified to see you again, monsieur." Now it was a civil
phrase, and well spoken, but it annoyed me. I could not understand his
change of look, and I dislike complexities. What was the man
concealing that he should drop his eyes before me. In spite of the
seriousness of our joint state, I felt much inclination to take time,
then and there, to box his ears, and tell him to be more forthright.
My annoyance made it easier for me to come without phrases to the meat
of the matter. I pressed him to a chair, and stood over him.
"You looked out of the window, Monsieur Starling. What did you learn?"
He glanced upward. "The Indians are excited. Am I the cause?"
"Yes, monsieur."
His glance fell. "They want me--for torture," he said, with steadiness
I could not but commend. Then he turned suddenly. "Can your
commandant protect me?"
Now this was unexpected. I had intended to lead up to this situation
gradually, and the question caught me unguarded. The prisoner was
looking me full in the face, and he read there what I had hoped to hide.
"I understand," he said.
I have been with many men when they heard their death sentence, and
those who take it as this man did, with spirit and knowledge, rob me of
my hold on myself, so that I show emotion of which I am ashamed. I
turned away. "Wait, wait, monsieur, I have not said all!" I cried.
"There is still one chance for you."
He shook his head. "Small chance for me with that swarm outside.
Well, what must come, will come." He was white, and his eyes grew even
more sombre; but, though his blood might play him traitor, his will was
unshaken. I saw that. I saw, too, that his manner had lost all
bravado. He suddenly came to me, and laid his hand on my arm. "I am
glad, monsieur, that it was you who came to tell me. It is much easier
to hear it from you. All day you have been thoughtful for me; for me,
a stranger and an enemy. I wish that my blessing might bring you
happiness, monsieur." And before I could check him, he raised my hand
to his lips.
I was greatly disturbed. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I expostulated, too
much stirred to think what I was saying. "This is not the end. You
are to go west with me."
He drew away. "With you? Who are you? What is the west? You
said--you said that I had to die."
I felt unsteady, and ill at ease. "Let us discuss this like sane men!"
I exclaimed, angry at myself. "You jump at conclusions. That is a
woman's foible. Who am I? A trader, Armand de Montlivet, from
Montreal. I am going west for peltries. It will be a hard trip, and
you will suffer; but it is your only chance. I will get you to the
canoe in some fashion soon after dusk. I have not made my plans. I
must reconnoitre. Hold yourself ready to do what I ask."
Still he drew away. "I shall be a burden. Tell me the truth, shall I
be a burden?"
"Yes."
He did not look angered. Indeed, his eyes softened till I thought him
near tears. "And you will do this for me! Run all this risk! And yet
you never saw me before to-day!" He touched his hand to mine.
Somehow this again annoyed me. The man was concealing something from
me, yet affected to be moved to open emotion by his gratitude. I was
not at the bottom of him yet. I removed his hand.
"Monsieur, you forget," I corrected. "You said we were foes, and we
are. I never embraced an Englishman, and I shall not begin now--now
that our nations are at war. You may be a spy."
"You think me a spy!"
I sighed from exasperation, and pointed to the window. "Monsieur
Starling, wake up to this situation. What does it matter what you are,
or what I think? We waste time. Say that you will follow me, and I
shall go and make my plans."
But still he looked at me. "Then you encumber yourself with me from
abstract duty. Personally you distrust me."
The truth seemed best. I bowed.
He thought this over. "Then I refuse to go," he decided quietly. "I
refuse." And he bowed toward the door to put a period to our interview.
But here my patience broke. I took him by the arm, and held him
ungently. "Words! Words! Words!" I mocked at him. "What would you
have me say? That I love you? In faith, I don't. You irritate me;
annoy me. But save you I will, if only for my peace of mind. Look at
me. Look at me, I say."
He obeyed. All his hard nonchalance had returned.
"Do you trust me?" I demanded.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then you will come with me?"
"No, monsieur."
This was madness--and it took time. "Indeed you will come," I said
between my teeth. "And that without more words. Good-by."
But he caught my sleeve. "Then you take me against my will."
I brushed him away. "And against mine, too, if you balk my wishes at
every turn. But I will take you. It is the only chance you have, and
if you are mad enough to refuse it, I must force it on you. Remember,
I shall use force. Now stay by the window, and await my signal. I
shall come when I can."
He followed to the door. "You will not need to use force with me,
monsieur," he said soberly. "If you insist on taking me, I shall
follow your directions, and use what wit I can. But I cannot thank
you, for I cannot feel grateful. You give under protest, and I accept
in the same way. It is a forced companionship. I do not wish to die;
but, after all, it will soon be over, and life has not been sweet. I
would rather risk what meets me here than take help from you, now that
I see you give it grudgingly."
This chilled me, and excuses pressed hot on my tongue. Yet it was
unwise to protest. Why should I wish his gratitude? It would hamper
us both. I had no desire to bind him to me with obligations. I felt
shame for my coldness; but, for once, my head ruled, and I let the
situation stand.
"You are a brave man, monsieur," I said inconsequently. "I know that
you will bear your share to-night."
He laid his hand on the door, and searched me with his sad eyes. "One
last word," he said, "and then I shall bury this for aye. Monsieur, if
I bring you misfortune, I ask you to remember--to remember from now
on--that you took me against my will."
For all my impatience, I had some effort not to smile. He would be a
burden, he might be a nuisance, but he could hardly be a misfortune.
He had a weighty sense of his importance, to use so large a term. But
I would not ridicule him. "I promise," I said.
He held out his hand. "Say that again with your hand in mine. Promise
me that, whatever disaster I bring you, you will remember that I came
against my will."
Somehow that sobered me. "I promise," I repeated, and touching his
hand, and again bidding him be on the watch, I went away.
I had no plans. My mind was cloudy as muddy water, and I sauntered
around the camp looking important and weighty with calculation, but
feeling resourceless and slow. Then I bethought me of Singing Arrow.
I shouldered my way to her lodge with speed that made me a target for
scantily hidden laughter. But I could not find her. Lodge and fire
were alike deserted. I asked questions, but was met by shrugs. My
eagerness had been unwise. I had sought too openly and brusquely, and
the Ottawas suspected my zeal of being official rather than personal.
I saw myself in their eyes as an officer of the law, and knew that I
had closed one door in my own face. I told myself contemptuously that
I had made so many blunders in that one day that I must, by this time,
have exhausted the list, and that I would soon stumble on the right
road as the only one left.
And so it proved. For I went to my canoes, and there, perched
bird-wise on my cargo, and flinging jests and laughter at Pierre and
the men, sat Singing Arrow.
It was what I most wanted, and so relieved was I at finding it, that I
could not forbear a word of reproof.
"I told you to keep away from Singing Arrow!" I stormed at Pierre, like
the mother who stops to shake her recovered child before she cries over
it.
Pierre grinned shamefacedly, but Singing Arrow smiled like May sunlight.
"Has monsieur been looking for me?" she asked. "He carries the wet red
clay that lies in front of my wigwam," and she pointed a curving finger
at my boots.
I could have embraced her. If I had no wit, she had it and to spare.
I made up my mind, then and there, to trust her. It was a mad chance,
but a good gamester likes a dangerous throw.
"Come here, Singing Arrow," I commanded, and I would have led her down
the beach out of earshot.
She followed but a step or two, then halted, balancing herself on one
foot like a meditative crane. "I want sunset-head to go too," she
insisted, darting her covert bird-glance at Pierre, and when I would
have objected, I saw her mouth pinch together, and I remembered that no
Indian will submit to force. So I let her have her will.
We held short council: Pierre the peasant, Singing Arrow the squaw, and
I, the Seignior de Montlivet. We mingled suggestions and advice, and
struck a balance. The sunset flamed in the woods behind us, and I knew
that the moon rose early. I could have used a knife upon Pierre for
the time it took me to convince him that our canoes could carry one man
more. Heretofore my nod had been enough to bring him to my heels, but
now he thought his head in danger, so he fought with me like an animal
or an equal. The equal I would not tolerate, and the animal I cowed in
brute fashion. Then I sent Singing Arrow to do her work, and I went to
the Englishman.
The Englishman saw me from the window, and was at the door before I
could lift the latch. Yet his eagerness did not trip him into
carelessness, and so long as the guards could see, he greeted me with a
hostile stare.
I pushed him within, and closed the door. "Have you seen any one?" I
asked.
"Only the guard with my supper."
I drew a freer breath. "Good tidings. Then Cadillac has succeeded in
holding off the Indians until moonrise."
He glanced out at the dusk. "That is not long," he said
dispassionately.
I put out my hand. Somehow this youth could move me curiously by his
calmness, although I was no stranger to brave men.
"The time is terribly short," I agreed, "but we will make it suffice.
And we need not haste. We can do nothing till it is a little darker,
then we shall move swiftly. A young squaw, Singing Arrow, will be here
in a few minutes. You are to escape in her dress."
He wasted no time in comment. "Am I dark enough?" he demurred. "My
neck, where I am not sunburned, is very white."
I had thought of this, and had warned Singing Arrow. "There is no
opportunity to stain your skin," I said, "so we must trust to the dark,
and a blanket wrapping. The Indian will wear leggings, skirt and
blouse of skin, so you will be fairly covered. The hands and hair are
the weak points. You will have to keep them in the blanket."
He hesitated. "You can trust this girl?" he asked slowly.
Now why should he ask what he knew I could not answer? "Can you trust
me--or I you, for the matter of that?" I jerked out with a frown.
"This is an outlaw's land, and the wise man trusts no one except under
compulsion. I would not trust Singing Arrow for a moment if I could
help myself, but she is our only hope, so I trust her implicitly. I
advise you to do the same. Half measures are folly. If you try to be
cautious in your dealings with her, you will tie her hands so that the
whole thing will fall through. If she betrays us--well, you are in no
worse estate than now, and we will still have my sword and my men to
depend on. But that is a slender hope, and we will save it for a last
resort. Now we will hazard everything on this plan."
I had made my long speech nervously, knowing, in my heart, that what I
asked the man to do would take more courage of soul than one would
expect to find in his slender frame. For I might be throwing him over
to fiendish torment. The Indian women were cruel as weasels, and more
ingenious in their trap-setting than the men. It cooled my blood to
think what Singing Arrow's friendliness might really mean.
The prisoner heard me without flinching. "But what is Singing Arrow's
motive?" he asked, with his mournful eyes full on my own. "We cannot
read men's hearts, but, after all, there are but few springs that rule
their action. You know that I will be loyal to you to save my head, to
which, though it has served me badly, I yet cling. I know that you
will be loyal to me because I see that God gave you a softness of heart
which your brain tells you is unwise. But what string pulls this
Indian that she should be a traitor to her people? If you will give me
a hint, I will play upon it as best I can."
I could only shrug. "It may be my man, Pierre," I hazarded. "He is
red as a flamingo, and a fool into the bargain; but he has shoulders
like an ox, so the women want him. I can see no other motive. Will
you trust to that, monsieur?"
He looked back at me with the flicker of a smile. "It is sufficient."
I do not like smiles that I cannot understand, so I changed the
subject. "The plan is simple, monsieur," I said briskly. "Singing
Arrow will come to the window, and you are to make love to her. After
a time--not too long--you are to beguile her inside. I think the
guards will be complaisant, if you play your part well. Be as debonair
as possible. A soldier is always tempted to be lenient to a jaunty
foe."
The prisoner nodded. "And you will meet me?"
"Outside in the camp. I shall stand near a fire, so that you can find
me at once. Remember, monsieur, that you are Singing Arrow, and that
it will be your cue to follow me, and mine to shrug you away."
The Englishman drew a long breath. "I am ready, monsieur," he said,
with a little squaring of the shoulders, and I saw that, mortal danger
that he was in, his spirit yet responded to the touch of comedy in the
game.
I saluted him with a laugh of my own. "Then I will go, monsieur. Go
into the next room to change your clothing, or the guard may come in
and find you. One thing more. Remember you have overpowered Singing
Arrow, and taken your disguise by force. It may be well to lock her in
that inside room before you leave; but do as you like. I leave details
to you."
He made acknowledgment with a sweeping bow. "I will be a monster of
cruelty," he promised, and he pulled at imaginary mustachios like a
child at play.
Now it may be well to commend nonchalance, but there are bounds that
should not be passed. Had this man no reverence toward the mystery of
his own life that he jested on the edge of it? I had rather have seen
him with a rosary in his hand than with defiance on his lips.
"Is life all bitterness and sharp-edged laughter with you, monsieur?" I
asked bluntly. "This may be our last talk. It is hardly a seemly one.
If you have messages to send that will not compromise you, I will try
and get them through--in case our plans fail."
The prisoner eyed me oddly. "And in case you still live, monsieur," he
corrected. "You show much solicitude that I meet my end decorously,
yet I cannot see that you display any dolor over your own condition.
Why should I have less fortitude? You are like a man who cares not for
religion for himself, yet insists upon it for children and for his
womenkind,--for his inferiors in general. Why should you feel that I
need so much prompting?" His voice suddenly hardened. "Tell me. Is
it my youth that makes you feel yourself my mentor, or have I failed
you in any way? Answer." And he gave the stamp of the foot that I had
heard once before.
How could I answer but with laughter? "You are a leopard, and a lamb,
and a bantam cock all in one," I jeered at him. "No wonder that I feel
you need a priest to shrive you;" and I laughed again, and would not
notice the hurt shining of his eyes as I went away.