That of all things upon the earth, he hated
Your person most: that he would pawn his fortunes
To hopeless restitution, so he might
Be 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
yet have 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 can _now_ be 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," he added, "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 you
would 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 the midst 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 which fringed 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.