FATHER BERET'S OLD BATTLE
The room in which Alice was now imprisoned formed part of the upper
story of a building erected by Hamilton in one of the four angles of
the stockade. It had no windows and but two oblong port-holes made to
accommodate a small swivel, which stood darkly scowling near the middle
of the floor. From one of these apertures Alice could see the
straggling roofs and fences of the dreary little town, while from the
other a long reach of watery prairie, almost a lake, lay under view
with the rolling, muddy Wabash gleaming beyond. There seemed to be no
activity of garrison or townspeople. Few sounds broke the silence of
which the cheerless prison room seemed to be the center.
Alice felt all her courage and cheerfulness leaving her. She was alone
in the midst of enemies. No father or mother, no friend--a young girl
at the mercy of soldiers, who could not be expected to regard her with
any sympathy beyond that which is accompanied with repulsive leers and
hints. Day after day her loneliness and helplessness became more
agonizing. Farnsworth, it is true, did all he could to relieve the
strain of her situation; but Hamilton had an eye upon what passed and
soon interfered. He administered a bitter reprimand, under which his
subordinate writhed in speechless anger and resentment.
"Finally, Captain Farnsworth," he said in conclusion, "you will
distinctly understand that this girl is my prisoner, not yours; that I,
not you, will direct how she is to be held and treated, and that
hereafter I will suffer no interference on your part. I hope you fully
understand me, sir, and will govern yourself accordingly."
Smarting, or rather smothering, under the outrageous insult of these
remarks, Farnsworth at first determined to fling his resignation at the
Governor's feet and then do whatever desperate thing seemed most to his
mood. But a soldier's training is apt to call a halt before the worst
befalls in such a case. Moreover, in the present temptation, Farnsworth
had a special check and hindrance. He had had a conference with Father
Beret, in which the good priest had played the part of wisdom in
slippers, and of gentleness more dove-like than the dove's. A very
subtle impression, illuminated with the "hope that withers hope," had
come of that interview; and now Farnsworth felt its restraint. He
therefore saluted Hamilton formally and walked away.
Father Beret's paternal love for Alice,--we cannot characterize it more
nicely than to call it paternal,--was his justification for a certain
mild sort of corruption insinuated by him into the heart of Farnsworth.
He was a crafty priest, but his craft was always used for a good end.
Unquestionably Jesuitic was his mode of circumventing the young man's
military scruples by offering him a puff of fair weather with which to
sail toward what appeared to be the shore of delight. He saw at a
glance that Farnsworth's love for Alice was a consuming passion in a
very ardent yet decidedly weak heart. Here was the worldly lever with
which Father Beret hoped to raze Alice's prison and free her from the
terrible doom with which she was threatened.
The first interview was at Father Beret's cabin, to which, as will be
remembered, the priest and Farnsworth went after their meeting in the
street. It actually came to nothing, save an indirect understanding but
half suggested by Father Beret and never openly sanctioned by Captain
Farnsworth. The talk was insinuating on the part of the former, while
the latter slipped evasively from every proposition, as if not able to
consider it on account of a curious obtuseness of perception. Still,
when they separated they shook hands and exchanged a searching look
perfectly satisfactory to both.
The memory of that interview with the priest was in Farnsworth's mind
when, boiling with rage, he left Hamilton's presence and went forth
into the chill February air. He passed out through the postern and
along the sodden and queachy aedge of the prairie, involuntarily making
his way to Father Beret's cabin. His indignation was so great that he
trembled from head to foot at every step. The door of the place was
open and Father Beret was eating a frugal meal of scones and sour wine
(of his own make, he said), which he hospitably begged to share with
his visitor. A fire smouldered on the hearth, and a flat stone showed,
by the grease smoking over its hot surface, where the cakes had been
baked.
"Come in, my son," said the priest, "and try the fare of a poor old
man. It is plain, very plain, but good." He smacked his lips sincerely
and fingered another scone. "Take some, take some."
Farnsworth was not tempted. The acid bouquet of the wine filled the
room with a smack of vinegar, and the smoke from rank scorching fat and
wheat meal did not suggest an agreeable feast.
"Well, well, if you are not hungry, my son, sit down on the stool there
and tell me the news."
Farnsworth took the low seat without a word, letting his eyes wander
over the walls. Alice's rapier, the mate to that now worn by Hamilton,
hung in its curiously engraved scabbard near one corner. The sight of
it inflamed Farnsworth.
"It's an outrage," he broke forth. "Governor Hamilton sent a man to
Roussillon place with orders to bring him the scabbard of Miss
Roussillon's sword, and he now wears the beautiful weapon as if he had
come by it honestly. Damn him!"
"My dear, dear son, you must not soil your lips with such language!"
Father Beret let fall the half of a well bitten cake and held up both
hands.
"I beg your pardon, Father; I know I ought to be more careful in your
presence; but--but--the beastly, hellish scoundrel--"
"Bah! doucement, mon fils, doucement." The old man shook his head and
his finger while speaking. "Easy, my son, easy. You would be a fine
target for bullets were your words to reach Hamilton's ears. You are
not permitted to revile your commander."
"Yes, I know; but how can a man restrain himself under such abominable
conditions?"
Father Beret shrewdly guessed that Hamilton had been giving the Captain
fresh reason for bitter resentment. Moreover, he was sure that the
moving cause had been Alice. So, in order to draw out what he wished to
hear, he said very gently:
"How is the little prisoner getting along?"
Farnsworth ground his teeth and swore; but Father Beret appeared not to
hear; he bit deep into a scone, took a liberal sip of the muddy red
wine and added:
"Has she a comfortable place? Do you think Governor Hamilton would let
me visit her?"
"It is horrible!" Farnsworth blurted. "She's penned up as if she were a
dangerous beast, the poor girl. And that damned scoundrel--"
"Son, son!"
"Oh, it's no use to try, I can't help it, Father. The whelp--"
"We can converse more safely and intelligently if we avoid profanity,
and undue emotion, my son. Now, if you will quit swearing, I will, and
if you will be calm, so will I."
Farnsworth felt the sly irony of this absurdly vicarious proposition.
Father Beret smiled with a kindly twinkle in his deep-set eyes.
"Well, if you don't use profane language, Father, there's no telling
how much you think in expletives. What is your opinion of a man who
tumbles a poor, defenseless girl into prison and then refuses to let
her be decently cared for? How do you express yourself about him?"
"My son, men often do things of which they ought to be ashamed. I heard
of a young officer once who maltreated a little girl that he met at
night in the street. What evil he would have done, had not a passing
kind-hearted man reminded him of his honor by a friendly punch in the
ribs, I dare not surmise."
"True, and your sarcasm goes home as hard as your fist did, Father. I
know that I've been a sad dog all my life. Miss Roussillon saved you by
shooting me, and I love her for it. Lay on, Father, I deserve more than
you can give me."
"Surely you do, my son, surely you do; but my love for you will not let
me give you pain. Ah, we priests have to carry all men's loads. Our
backs are broad, however, very broad, my son."
"And your fists devilish heavy, Father, devilish heavy."
The gentle smile again flickered over the priest's weather-beaten face
as he glanced sidewise at Farnsworth and said:
"Sometimes, sometimes, my son, a carnal weapon must break the way for a
spiritual one. But we priests rarely have much physical strength; our
dependence is upon--"
"To be sure; certainly," Farnsworth interrupted, rubbing his side,
"your dependence is upon the first thing that offers. I've had many a
blow; but yours was the solidest that ever jarred thy mortal frame,
Father Beret."
The twain began to laugh. There is nothing like a reminiscence to stir
up fresh mutual sympathy.
"If your intercostals were somewhat sore for a time, on account of a
contact with priestly knuckles, doubtless there soon set in a
corresponding uneasiness in the region of your conscience. Such shocks
are often vigorously alterative and tonic--eh, my son?"
"You jolted me sober, Father, and then I was ashamed of myself. But
where does all your tremendous strength lie? You don't look strong."
While speaking Farnsworth leaned near Father Beret and grasped his arm.
The young man started, for his fingers, instead of closing around a
flabby, shrunken old man's limb, spread themselves upon a huge, knotted
mass of iron muscles. With a quick movement Father Beret shook off
Farnsworth's hand, and said:
"I am no Samson, my son. Non sum qualis eram." Then, as if dismissing a
light subject for a graver one, he sighed and added; "I suppose there
is nothing that can be done for little Alice."
He called the tall, strong girl "little Alice," and so she seemed to
him. He could not, without direct effort, think of her as a
magnificently maturing woman. She had always been his spoiled pet
child, perversely set against the Holy Church, but dear to him
nevertheless.
"I came to you to ask that very question, Father," said Farnsworth.
"And what do I know? Surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless an
old priest is against all you British. And besides--"
"Father Beret," Farnsworth huskily interrupted, "is there a place that
you know of anywhere in which Miss Roussillon could be hidden, if--"
"My dear son."
"But, Father, I mean it."
"Mean what? Pardon an old man's slow understanding. What are you
talking about, my son?"
Father Beret glanced furtively about, then quickly stepped through the
doorway, walked entirely around the house and came in again before
Farnsworth could respond. Once more seated on his stool he added
interrogatively:
"Did you think you heard something moving outside?"
"No."
"You were saying something when I went out. Pardon my interruption."
Farnsworth gave the priest a searching and not wholly confiding look.
"You did not interrupt me, Father Beret. I was not speaking. Why are
you so watchful? Are you afraid of eavesdroppers?"
"You were speaking recklessly. Your words were incendiary: ardentia
verba. My son, you were suggesting a dangerous thing. Your life would
scarcely satisfy the law were you convicted of insinuating such
treason. What if one of your prowling guards had overheard you? Your
neck and mine might feel the halter. Quod avertat dominus." He crossed
himself and in a solemn voice added in English:
"May the Lord forbid! Ah, my son, we priests protect those we love."
"And I, who am not fit to tie a priest's shoe, do likewise. Father, I
love Alice Roussillon."
"Love is a holy thing, my son. Amare divinum est et humanum."
"Father Beret, can you help me?"
"Spiritually speaking, my son?"
"I mean, can you hide Mademoiselle Roussillon in some safe place, if I
take her out of the prison yonder? That's just what I mean. Can you do
it?"
"Your question is a remarkable one. Have you thought upon it from all
directions, my son? Think of your position, your duty as an officer."
A shrewd polemical expression beamed from Father Beret's eyes, and a
very expert physiogomist might have suspected duplicity from certain
lines about the old man's mouth.
"I simply know that I cannot stand by and see Alice--Mademoiselle
Roussillon, forced to suffer treatment too beastly for an Indian thief.
That's the only direction there is for me to look at it from, and you
can understand my feelings if you will; you know that very well, Father
Beret. When a man loves a girl, he loves her; that's the whole thing.".
The quiet, inscrutable half-smile flickered once more on Father Beret's
face; but he sat silent some time with a sinewy forefinger lying
alongside his nose. When at last he spoke it was in a tone of voice
indicative of small interest in what he was saying. His words rambled
to their goal with the effect of happy accident.
"There are places in this neighborhood in which a human being would be
as hard to find as the flag that you and Governor Hamilton have so
diligently and unsuccessfully been in quest of for the past month or
two. Really, my son, this is a mysterious little town."
Farnsworth's eyes widened and a flush rose in his swarthy cheeks.
"Damn the flag!" he exclaimed. "Let it lie hidden forever; what do I
care? I tell you, Father Beret, that Alice Roussillon is in extreme
danger. Governor Hamilton means to put some terrible punishment on her.
He has a devil's vindictiveness. He showed it to me clearly awhile ago."
"You showed something of the same sort to me, once upon a time, my son."
"Yes, I did, Father Beret, and I got a load of slugs in my shoulder for
it from that brave girl's pistol. She saved your life. Now I ask you to
help me save hers; or, if not her life, what is infinitely more, her
honor."
"Her honor!" cried Father Beret, leaping to his feet so suddenly and
with such energy that the cabin shook from base to roof. "What do you
say, Captain Farnsworth? What do you mean?"
The old man was transformed. His face was terrible to see, with its
narrow, burning eyes deep under the shaggy brows, its dark veins
writhing snakelike on the temples and forehead, the projected mouth and
chin, the hard lines of the jaws, the iron-gray gleam from all the
features--he looked like an aged tiger stiffened for a spring.
Farnsworth was made of right soldierly stuff; but he felt a distinct
shiver flit along his back. His past life had not lacked thrilling
adventures and strangely varied experiences with desperate men. Usually
he met sudden emergencies rather calmly, sometimes with phlegmatic
indifference. This passionate outburst on the priest's part, however,
surprised him and awed him, while it stirred his heart with a profound
sympathy unlike anything he had ever felt before.
Father Beret mastered himself in a moment, and passing his hand over
his face, as if to brush away the excitement, sat down again on his
stool. He appeared to collapse inwardly.
"You must excuse the weakness of an old man, my son," he said, in a
voice hoarse and shaking. "But tell me what is going to be done with
Alice. Your words--what you said--I did not understand."
He rubbed his forehead slowly, as one who has difficulty in trying to
collect his thoughts.
"I do not know what Governor Hamilton means to do, Father Beret. It
will be something devilish, however,--something that must not happen,"
said Farnsworth.
Then he recounted all that Hamilton had done and said. He described the
dreary and comfortless room in which Alice was confined, the miserable
fare given her, and how she would be exposed to the leers and low
remarks of the soldiers. She had already suffered these things, and now
that she could no longer have any protection, what was to become of
her? He did not attempt to overstate the case; but presented it with a
blunt sincerity which made a powerfully realistic impression.
Father Beret, like most men of strong feeling who have been subjected
to long years of trial, hardship, multitudinous dangers and all sorts
of temptation, and who have learned the lessons of self-control, had an
iron will, and also an abiding distrust of weak men. He saw
Farnsworth's sincerity; but he had no faith in his constancy, although
satisfied that while resentment of Hamilton's imperiousness lasted, he
would doubtless remain firm in his purpose to aid Alice. Let that wear
off, as in a short time it would, and then what? The old man studied
his companion with eyes that slowly resumed their expression of
smouldering and almost timid geniality. His priestly experience with
desperate men was demanding of him a proper regard for that subtlety of
procedure which had so often compassed most difficult ends.
He listened in silence to Farnsworth's story. When it came to an end he
began to offer some but half relevant suggestions in the form of
indirect cross-questions, by means of which he gradually drew out a
minute description of Alice's prison, the best way to reach it, the
nature of its door-fastenings, where the key was kept, and everything,
indeed, likely to be helpful to one contemplating a jail delivery.
Farnsworth was inwardly delighted. He felt Father Beret's cunning
approach to the central object and his crafty method of gathering
details.
The shades of evening thickened in the stuffy cabin room while the
conversation went on. Father Beret presently lifted a puncheon in one
corner of the floor and got out a large bottle, which bore a mildewed
and faded French label, and with it a small iron cup. There was just
light enough left to show a brownish sparkle when, after popping out
the cork, he poured a draught in the fresh cup and in his own.
"We may think more clearly, my son, if we taste this old liquor. I have
kept it a long while to offer upon a proper occasion. The occasion is
here."
A ravishing bouquet quickly imbued the air. It was itself an
intoxication.
"The Brothers of St. Martin distilled this liquor," Father Beret added,
handing the cup to Farnsworth, "not for common social drinking, my son,
but for times when a man needs extraordinary stimulation. It is said to
be surpassingly good, because St. Martin blessed the vine."
The doughty Captain felt a sudden and imperious thirst seize his
throat. The liquor flooded his veins before his lips touched the cup.
He had been abstaining lately; now his besetting appetite rushed upon
him. At one gulp he took in the fiery yet smooth and captivating
draught. Nor did he notice that Father Beret, instead of joining him in
the potation, merely lifted his cup and set it down again, smacking his
lips gusto.
There followed a silence, during which the aromatic breath of the
bottle increased its dangerous fascination. Then Father Beret again
filled Farnsworth's cup and said:
"Ah, the blessed monks, little thought they that their matchless brew
would ever be sipped in a poor missionary's hut on the Wabash! But,
after all, my son, why not here as well as in sunny France? Our object
justifies any impropriety of time and place."
"You are right, Father. I drink to our object. Yes, I say, to our
object."
In fact, the drinking preceded his speech, and his tongue already had a
loop in it The liquor stole through him, a mist of bewildering and
enchanting influence. The third cup broke his sentences into
unintelligible fragments; the fourth made his underjaw sag loosely, the
fifth and sixth, taken in close succession, tumbled him limp on the
floor, where he slept blissfully all night long, snugly covered with
some of Father Beret's bed clothes.
"Per casum obliquum, et per indirectum," muttered the priest, when he
had returned the bottle and cup to their hiding-place." The end
justifies the means. Sleep well, my son. Ah, little Alice, little
Alice, your old Father will try--will try!"
He fumbled along the wall in the dark until he found the rapier, which
he took down; then he went out and sat for some time motionless beside
the door, while the clouds thickened overhead. It was late when he
arose and glided away shadow-like toward the fort, over which the night
hung black, chill and drearily silent. The moon was still some hours
high, smothered by the clouds; a fog slowly drifted from the river.
Meantime Hamilton and Helm had spent a part of the afternoon and
evening, as usual, at cards. Helm broke off the game and went to his
quarters rather early for him, leaving the Governor alone and in a bad
temper, because Farnsworth, when he had sent for him, could not be
found. Three times his orderly returned in as many hours with the same
report; the Captain had not been seen or heard of. Naturally this
sudden and complete disappearance, immediately after the reprimand,
suggested to Hamilton an unpleasant possibility. What if Farnsworth had
deserted him? Down deep in his heart he was conscious that the young
man had good cause for almost any desperate action. To lose Captain
Farnsworth, however, would be just now a calamity. The Indians were
drifting over rapidly to the side of the Americans, and every day
showed that the French could not long be kept quiet.
Hamilton sat for some time after Helm's departure, thinking over what
he now feared was a foolish mistake. Presently he buckled on Alice's
rapier, which he had lately been wearing as his own, and went out into
the main area of the stockade. A sentinel was tramping to and fro at
the gate, where a hazy lantern shone. The night was breathless and
silent. Hamilton approached the soldier on duty and asked him if he had
seen Captain Farnsworth, and receiving a negative reply, turned about
puzzled and thoughtful to walk back and forth in the chill, foggy air.
Presently a faint yellow light attracted his attention. It shone
through a porthole in an upper room of the block-house at the farther
angle of the stockade. In fact, Alice was reading by a sputtering lamp
a book Farnsworth had sent her, a volume of Ronsard that he had picked
up in Canada. Hamilton made his way in that direction, at first merely
curious to know who was burning oil so late; but after a few paces he
recognized where the light came from, and instantly suspected that
Captain Farnsworth was there. Indeed he felt sure of it. Somehow he
could not regard Alice as other than a saucy hoyden, incapable of
womanly virtue. His experience with the worst element of Canadian
French life and his peculiar cast of mind and character colored his
impression of her. He measured her by the women with whom the coureurs
de bois and half-breed trappers consorted in Detroit and at the posts
eastward to Quebec.
Alice, unable to sleep, had sought forgetfulness of her bitter
captivity in the old poet's charming lyrics. She sat on the floor, some
blankets and furs drawn around her, the book on her lap, the stupidly
dull lamp hanging beside her on a part of the swivel. Her hair lay
loose over her neck and shoulders and shimmered around her face with a
cloud-like effect, giving to the features in their repose a setting
that intensified their sweetness and sadness. In a very low but
distinct voice was reading, with a slightly quavering emotion:
"Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,
Que ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpe au soleil."
When Hamilton, after stealthily mounting the rough stairway which led
to her door, peeped in through a space between the slabs and felt a
stroke of disappointment, seeing at a glance that Farnsworth was not
there. He gazed for some time, not without a sense of villainy, while
she continued her sweetly monotonous reading. If his heart had been as
hard as the iron swivel-balls that lay beside Alice, he must still have
felt a thrill of something like tender sympathy. She now showed no
trace of the vivacious sauciness which had heretofore always marked her
features when she was in his presence. A dainty gentleness, touched
with melancholy, gave to her face an appealing look all the more
powerful on account of its unconscious simplicity of expression.
The man felt an impulse pure and noble, which would have borne him back
down the ladder and away from the building, had not a stronger one set
boldly in the opposite direction. There was a short struggle with the
seared remnant of his better nature, and then he tried to open the
door; but it was locked.
Alice heard the slight noise and breaking off her reading turned to
look. Hamilton made another effort to enter before he recollected that
the wooden key, or notched lever, that controlled the cumbrous wooden
lock, hung on a peg beside the door. He felt for it along the wall, and
soon laid his hand on it. Then again he peeped through to see Alice,
who was now standing upright near the swivel. She had thrown her hair
back from her face and neck; the lamp's flickering light seemed
suddenly to have magnified her stature and enhanced her beauty. Her
book lay on the tumbled wraps at her feet, and in either hand she
grasped a swivel-shot.
Hamilton's combative disposition came to the aid of his baser passion
when he saw once more a defiant flash from his prisoner's face. It was
easy for him to be fascinated by opposition. Helm had profited by this
trait as much as others had suffered by it; but, in the case of Alice,
Hamilton's mingled resentment and admiration were but a powerful
irritant to the coarsest and most dangerous side of his nature.
After some fumbling and delay he fitted the key with a steady hand and
moved the wooden bolt creaking and jolting from its slot. Then flinging
the clumsy door wide open, he stepped in.
Alice started when she recognized the midnight intruder, and a second
deeper look into his countenance made her brave heart recoil, while
with a sinking sensation her breath almost stopped. It was but a
momentary weakness, however, followed by vigorous reaction.
"What are you here for, sir?" she demanded. "What do you want?"
"I am neither a burglar nor a murderer, Mademoiselle," he responded,
lifting his hat and bowing, with a smile not in the least reassuring.
"You look like both. Stop where you are!"
"Not so loud, my dear Miss Roussillon; I am not deaf. And besides the
garrison needs to sleep."
"Stop, sir; not another step."
She poised herself, leaning slightly backward, and held the iron ball
in her right hand ready to throw it at him.
He halted, still smiling villainously.
"Mademoiselle, I assure you that your excitement is quite unnecessary.
I am not here to harm you."
"You cannot harm me, you cowardly wretch!"
"Humph! Pride goes before a fall, wench," he retorted, taking a
half-step backward. Then a thought arose in his mind which added a new
shade to the repellent darkness of his countenance.
"Miss Roussillon," he said in English and with a changed voice, which
seemed to grow harder, each word deliberately emphasized, "I have come
to break some bad news to you."
"You would scarcely bring me good news, sir, and I am not curious to
hear the bad."
He was silent for a little while, gazing at her with the sort of
admiration from which a true woman draws away appalled. He saw how she
loathed him, saw how impossible it was for him to get a line nearer to
her by any turn of force or fortune. Brave, high-headed, strong as a
young leopard, pure and sweet as a rose, she stood before him fearless,
even aggressive, showing him by every line of her face and form that
she felt her infinite superiority and meant to maintain it. Her whole
personal expression told him he was defeated; therefore he quickly
seized upon a suggestion caught from a transaction with Long-Hair, who
had returned a few hours before from his pursuit of Beverley.
"It pains me, I assure you, Miss Roussillon, to tell you what will
probably grieve you deeply," he presently added; "but I have not been
unaware of your tender interest in Lieutenant Beverley, and when I had
bad news from him, I thought it my duty to inform you."
He paused, feeling with a devil's satisfaction the point of his
statement go home to the girl's heart.
The wind was beginning to blow outside, shaking open the dark clouds
and letting gleams of moonlight flicker on the thinning fog. A ghostly
ray came through a crack between the logs and lit Alice's face with a
pathetic wanness. She moved her lips as if speaking, but Hamilton heard
no sound.
"The Indian, Long-Hair, whom I sent upon Lieutenant Beverley's trail,
reported to me this afternoon that his pursuit had been quite
successful. He caught his game."
Alice's voice came to her now. She drew in a quivering breath of relief.
"Then he is here--he is--you have him a prisoner again?"
"A part of him, Miss Roussillon. Enough to be quite sure that there is
one traitor who will trouble his king no more. Mr. Long-Hair brought in
the Lieutenant's scalp."
Alice received this horrible statement in silence; but her face
blanched and she stood as if frozen by the shock. The shifty
moon-glimmer and the yellow glow of the lamp showed Hamilton to what an
extent his devilish cruelty hurt her, and somehow it chilled him as if
by reflection; but he could not forego another thrust.
"He deserved hanging, and would have got it had he been brought to me
alive. So after all, you should be satisfied. He escaped my vengeance
and Long-Hair got his pay. You see I am the chief sufferer."
These words, however, fell without effect upon the girl's ears, in
which was booming the awful, storm-like roar of her excitement. She did
not see her persecutor standing there; her vision, unhindered by walls
and distance, went straight away to a place in the wilderness, where
all mangled and disfigured Beverley lay dead. A low cry broke from her
lips; she dropped the heavy swivel-balls; and then, like a bird,
swiftly, with a rustling swoop, she went past Hamilton and down the
stair.
For perhaps a full minute the man stood there motionless, stupefied,
amazed; and when at length he recovered himself, it was with difficulty
that he followed her. Everything seemed to hinder him. When he reached
the open air, however, he quickly regained his activity of both mind
and body, and looked in all directions. The clouds were breaking into
parallel masses with streaks of sky between. The moon hanging aslant
against the blue peeped forth just in time to show him a flying figure
which, even while he looked, reached the postern, opened it and slipped
through.
With but a breath of hesitation between giving the alarm and following
Alice silently and alone, he chose the latter. He was a swift runner
and light footed. With a few bounds he reached the little gate, which
was still oscillating on its hinges, darted through and away, straining
every muscle in desperate pursuit, gaining rapidly in the race, which
bore eastward along the course twice before chosen by Alice in leaving
the stockade.