It is scarcely to be wondered at that, amid such events as were daily
passing around her, poor Bibi had begun to despair of ever seeing her
husband again. His avocations had often enough taken him away for a
month or two, but more than a year had now elapsed without her even
hearing of him. Proportionably great was her surprise and joy at his
sudden re-appearance, and his happiness was not less real at seeing
once more those he so dearly loved. What with Bibi's eager questions,
and the prattle of the little ones, an hour or two had glided away
swiftly enough, when Boulanger suddenly asked what had become of
Amoahmeh.
Bibi shook her head. "She has been living here with us for some
months," said she, "helping and comforting me as she only could do; but
I am afraid that those horrid Indians have got hold of her again. Only
this morning there was one lurking about here, and I am sure Amoahmeh
must have seen him, for she has hardly spoken a word all day, and
looked quite miserable. Just before you came she threw her arms around
my neck, and said that very likely I should never see her again; and
when I began to cry, and begged her to tell me what was the matter, she
tried to cheer me by saying that she was only going to 'The Steps'--you
know the place, up there on the Montmorency River. Then, before I
could say another word, she was gone. In my joy at seeing you again I
had forgotten all about it, that's a fact."
Boulanger's countenance fell, and after musing a while he said, "That's
strange. Are there any Algonquins about here?"
"Oh, they are on the English side now," answered Bibi. "I heard only
yesterday that a number of them, under a chief called White Eagle, had
come into the English camp at Montmorency."
The Canadian started up. "And she has been so good to you whilst I
have been away!" said he. "Put the little ones to bed, Bibi. I'll go
up to the 'Steps' and see if I can find out what she is at."
"I wish you would," said Bibi. "I am quite anxious about her; but come
back as soon as you can."
Boulanger kissed his wife and children, and then, shouldering his
rifle, he quitted the cottage.
There are few spots near Quebec more picturesque than those so-called
"Natural Steps" on the Montmorency River. Between almost perpendicular
rocks, that look like huge stone towers, or the ruins of ancient walls,
the little river foams and rushes along, over and between great flat
slabs of stone, which here and there assume the shape of steps as
regular as if the hand of man had fashioned them. The summits of the
castellated banks are crowned with trees, and wherever their rocky
steepness will allow of it, luxuriant shrubs grow in profusion from
every crevice, and add another charm to the wild beauty of the scene.
Long had Amoahmeh stood alone on one of those rocky steps, pale and
anxious, and evidently expecting some one to meet her there. He came
at last, and White Eagle stood before her.
For a short time neither of them spoke; each seemed under some strange
constraint. Perhaps the Indian could not shake off the awe with which
his race regard all those who are, or have been, deprived of the light
of reason. Amoahmeh had risen above such childish superstitions, but
she seemed as though the chief possessed some hold over her which had
power to subdue even her lofty spirit. She was the first to speak.
"White Eagle has bidden me come here. What would he have of me?"
"Can the daughter of War-thunder ask?" was the reply. "Did she not
promise that if I brought back the young French brave from Fort
Duquesne the wigwam of the chief of the Algonquins should remain no
longer empty. He is safe in Quebec and among his friends; Amoahmeh
will keep her promise."
"To whom did she give that promise? To a great chief who fought under
the flag of France, ay, and one who professed to have forsaken the
worship of Manitou for a holier faith. What is White Eagle now that he
should ask her, or even wish her, to keep that promise?"
"He is not a girl that he should kneel at the bidding of a French
priest," retorted the Indian, with evident irritation, "nor a child
that he should let a squaw choose for him what war-path he shall tread.
Is Amoahmeh a cheating French trader, who, when he has gotten the red
skin's peltries that he bargained for, refuses to pay for them? She
will keep faith."
"Faith!" replied Amoahmeh, indignantly. "How dares White Eagle even
name the word with the scalps of the friends he swore to fight for to
the death hanging at his belt? Amoahmeh at least will never desert
those she loves."
"Ay," rejoined the chief, passionately, "her white soul only loves the
pale faces; she hates the red skin now, and would fain be happy in the
wigwam of the young French warrior."
"Why does the great chief talk like a whining child?" said she, at once
regaining her wonted composure. "Amoahmeh does indeed love the French
brave, but it is with a sister's affection for one without whom she
never could have known the way to happiness here and hereafter. Beyond
this he is nought to her. He has a bride already, and it was even for
her sake that Amoahmeh gave the hasty, the wicked promise that White
Eagle wrung from her as the price of his help. She will yet keep it,
yes, even though her heart should break, if he still bids her do so;
but what she has not promised she will not do at his bidding. She will
not forsake her faith, nor will she rejoice when his warriors come back
from the war-path with the spoils of slaughtered Frenchmen. Let White
Eagle choose, but let him beware, lest when the Algonquins again see
the face of the daughter of War-thunder, and hear her voice, they dig
up again the hatchet that they buried at the false counsel of White
Eagle, and shout once more the war-cry of 'France and King Louis!'"
"That they shall never do!" exclaimed the Indian fiercely. "Listen!
Amoahmeh is free. Let her go her way, but not with the glad heart she
hoped for. Manitou has even now given into White Eagle's hand the
father and the kinswoman of the young French brave. Amoahmeh might
have saved them. Now let her come with me and see them die."
With these words the Indian grasped his tomahawk and sprang up the
rugged path. As he reached the top of the bank he turned and waved the
weapon aloft, as if to beckon after him the amazed and agitated girl.
At the same moment Boulanger started up from the underwood, and with
one sweep of his clubbed rifle dashed the deadly hatchet from his hand,
then with another stroke he laid the savage at his feet.
To pinion the prostrate Indian's arms with his belt was the work of a
minute; another sufficed for Boulanger to tear a couple of withes from
a bush, and bind him securely by the ankles to the nearest tree.
"So you have gone over to the English, have you?" said he sternly, as
the half-stunned chief began to recover a little. "By rights, I
suppose I ought to have shot you down without mercy; but luckily for
you I have not quite forgotten our last meeting in the woods."
As the Canadian uttered these words the sharp rattle of half a dozen
muskets was heard at a short distance down the river. Then followed
shouts, mingled with the terrific war-whoop, at which the dark form of
White Eagle seemed to quiver from head to foot. Then all became still
again.
Boulanger, with his knee on the Indian's chest, had listened to the
sounds with breathless anxiety.
"The red skins have had the worst of that," said he at last, as he
arose and grasped his rifle; "but there is something going wrong, or we
should have heard more of it. Follow me, Amoahmeh."
Forcing their way through the dense wood for three or four hundred
yards along the crest of the bank, they came at length to an opening
through which they heard the sound of voices, and passing through the
gap they were soon looking down upon the scene below.
There on the border of the stream stood a group of Canadian militia
leaning on their muskets. Two or three Indians lay dead upon the
ground, and near them lay also a female figure, by the side of which,
with his hands clasped and his head bowed down, stood the Baron de
Valricour. There was another prostrate figure, that of a spare old
man, to whom two persons seemed to be attending. One of them was
Isidore, the other Boulanger did not recognise--it was the Marquis de
Beaujardin.
The story was soon told. That afternoon Jacques Duboscq, who had been
captured on his return to the "Pompadour" had been considerately sent
on shore by the commander of the English sloop in order that he might
inform the Baron de Valricour of the circumstances under which Madame
de Valricour and the marquis had been put on shore at Cape Tourment two
days before. On hastening to the military offices to see if any steps
could be taken on behalf of their relatives, should they have fallen
into the hands of the English, the baron and Isidore found that an
Indian scout or spy had just come in with the intelligence that some
Algonquins with three French prisoners had been seen that day encamped
on the Montmorency River. In less than an hour Isidore and his uncle
had set out for the spot, accompanied by a small body of picked men,
and, guided by the scouts, they took the Indians completely by
surprise, killing or dispersing them with a single volley. With
instinctive ferocity, however, one of the savages had struck Madame de
Valricour dead, whilst another singled out the marquis, as he supposed,
and grievously wounded poor Perigord.
Two rude litters were soon made by some of the Canadians, on one of
which they laid the body of Madame de Valricour, on the other they
placed old Perigord, and the party then set out for the lines at
Montmorency. They had not gone far before the attention of Amoahmeh
and the Canadian was attracted by a sound like the scream of an eagle,
which was immediately echoed from afar: "Yes, our friend yonder is
calling to his eaglets," said Boulanger, "and they hear him; but we can
laugh at them and him too now."
On the way the marquis kept by the side of his old servant, more than
once expressing his grief at what had befallen him.
"Nay, monseigneur," replied Perigord, smiling in spite of the pain he
was evidently enduring, "do not mind about me. It was fortunate that
those stupid savages mistook me for my betters. Besides, have I not
seen my dear young master once again?"
Dear old Achille! These were the last words he spoke. When they
reached the lines at Montmorency he was dead. The scheming and haughty
baroness and the humble and faithful servitor had met the same fate.
Death does indeed bring us all down to one level, but only in the
grave--not beyond it.
[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VIII]
[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter IX]