_THE DEPARTURE._
PIERRE LE BER and de Crisasi were standing side by side; the Chevalier
was also to form one of the expedition. As Diane looked at the two men
she was conscious of a pang of keen self-reproach. Had her girlish
levity and thoughtlessness indeed made havoc of their lives? Her
imagination endowed them with the pathos of her own suffering. Pierre
was thin and haggard. He had drifted far from that state of acquiescent
contemplation, passionless and impersonal, destitute of either desire or
movement, which in the estimation of the mystic constitutes the highest
conception of enduring bliss. A dreadful tension of resistance, a dim
anguish of fear and impotence, had him in possession. His passion
blinded him, but it could not stifle the abhorrence of the chains which
bound him, nor could it restore his self-esteem. He seemed to have
fallen to the lowest depths, yet this despairing dream was more
exquisite than any of his mystical visions.
De Crisasi, on the contrary, in the perfection of his high breeding, was
even blander and more courtly than ever. He was a strong man, who could
calmly set self aside and rise above the sensations of the hour. The
Indian witch’s prediction, in his opinion, had settled the whole affair.
He had received his death-warrant, and since all was so soon to be over,
it was really not worth while to trouble about mundane matters. Life had
been hard of late years, and this very conflict would likely end all. He
had always desired a soldier’s death; he had a soldier’s simple faith,
too, in the duty of obedience, courage and discipline, and made no
question that fate had dealt hardly with him. As Diane’s glance met his,
over her whole frame there came a tremulous fluttering of apprehension,
as though beneath the warmth of true affection her self-control were
breaking; something inexpressibly touching came into her eyes. That look
overcame the man who loved her. De Crisasi removed his hat, and bowed
profoundly.
“M. de Chevalier,” the girl exclaimed impulsively, “let me wish you
God-speed. My prayers shall follow you.”
His heart leaped into his throat. Could it be possible that his devotion
had won its reward, that the twilight of life should be gilded by a ray
of vivid sunshine? Then he smiled at the absurdity of his own fancy. Two
great hot tears, that scorched like fire, gathered in Mademoiselle de
Monesthrol’s eyes, and fell upon her cheeks unheeded.
“M. Le Chevalier, my cousin du Chesne carries with him all our hopes,
especially those of my uncle and my poor Lydia. If it should happen to
be in your power to shield him from danger, I know we can rely upon you,
our friend.”
The Sicilian had given this girl the best love of his heart, yet their
acquaintance had been at best but a formal one. His fancy had endowed
her with many high qualities, but never before had he realized her
tenderness and simple womanliness. He spoke in a low, moved tone.
“The confidence with which you have honored me, Mademoiselle, shall not
be in vain. It is a soldier’s fate to die with fortitude and
resignation, professing the fate of a Christian. Du Chesne is my valued
friend and comrade; if any act of mine can avail to help him, to bring
him back to those who love him, you can trust to me. The prayers of such
as you, Mademoiselle, must ever be heard in heaven.”
* * * * *
“Diane, hold up the little one, high, there, that his father’s last look
may rest upon his face. I can no longer see,” pleaded Madame de St.
Rochs, “and Armand must not see me weep.”
“Diane, I can’t bear it, I am fainting; take me home.” Sobbing and
quivering, Lydia clung to her friend. “I am afraid of the Indians and
the noise. Oh! let us go away.”
“For our Blessed Lady’s sake try to comfort her,” were du Chesne’s
parting words. “She is only a child, sensitive and tender-hearted, and
it is I who have brought this sorrow upon her. For my sake be good to
her, Diane.”
“My daughter!”
As he looked upon his youngest son, Jacques Le Ber grasped his ward’s
arm. He spoke almost sternly. The strong muscles about his mouth
quivered, though the facial lines did not lose their firm expression.
A soft golden haze, obscuring the view of the opposite shore, lay upon
the river, sweeping on in subdued silvery tints. The Indians manned the
large elm-bark canoes, their paddles cleaving the sunshine and dimpling
the waters of the river. The savage voices arose in a wild tumult of
resounding yells; the soldiers cheered lustily; a sharp wailing cry
resounded from the shore.
The agony of parting, the strain and stress of the hour at last over, du
Chesne stood erect in the bow of his canoe. His handsome young face,
eager and animated with the excitement of adventure, bore no trace of
grief or care or doubt; in the relief afforded by action all dark
forebodings had sunk into the background. As the boats vanished from the
tear-dimmed eyes that watched the last gleam of the receding oars, the
strains of a stirring chorus resounded across the wave—
“_Grand Dieu! sauvez le Roi._
_Grand Dieu! sauvez le Roi,_
_Sauvez le Roi._
_Que toujours glorieux,_
_Louis victorieux,_
_Voit ses enemies,_
_Toujours soumis._”