"I have not been near the Doom Trail," I answered.
"No," answered de Veulle. "I found him cozening that old fool
Joncaire at Jagara."
"So!"
Murray pursed his lips.
"'Tis a serious offense."
"For which, it seems, Joncaire is not to be permitted to take
revenge," I added.
"You are a dangerous youth, Master Ormerod," admonished Murray
gravely. "You had opportunity to win free of your past misdemeanors,
you will allow, yet you would hear none of my advice. No, you must
mix in affairs which did not concern you. And as I warned you, it
hath been to your sore prejudice. Much as I----"
Marjory flung out her arms in a gesture of appeal.
"Why do you talk so much, sir?" she cried. "What have you in mind?
This man is an Englishman! Is he to be given up to the savages?"
Murray surveyed her gravely.
"Tut, tut, my dear! Is this the way to conduct in public? 'Given up
to the savages,' forsooth! The young man is a traitor, a
renegade--and a sorry fool into the bargain. He is in an
uncomfortable situation, thanks to his own mistakes and heedlessness.
He hath meddled in matters beyond his comprehension or ability. We
must reckon up the harm he hath done, and assess his punishment in
proportion."
"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" she demanded coldly.
He brushed a speck of snuff from his sleeve.
"Frankly, my dear lass, I can not tell you as yet."
"I think you mock me," she asserted. "And I tell you, sir, I will be
party to no such crime against humanity. You talk of traitors. I am
wondering if there is more than one meaning to the word."
She turned with a flutter of garments and sped into the house. De
Veulle eyed Murray rather quizzically, but the arch-conspirator gave
no evidence of uneasiness.
"You shall tell me about it," he said, as if nothing had happened.
"Meantime I suppose they may be lodged with the Keepers."
"Yes," agreed de Veulle; "but I desire to give some particular
instructions for their entertainment."
"Do so; do so, by all means," answered Murray equably. "But wait;
here comes Père Hyacinthe."
The Indians surrounding us huddled back, cringing against the
stockade, their eyes glued upon a tall, thin figure in a threadbare
black cassock of the Jesuit order. He walked with a peculiar halting
gait. His face was emaciated, the akin stretched taut over prominent
bones. His eyes blazed out of twin caverns.
Parts of his ears were gone, and as he drew nearer I saw that his
face was criss-crossed by innumerable tiny scars. When he raised his
hand in blessing the Indians I realized that two fingers were
missing, and those which were left were twisted and gnarled as by
fire.
"Whom have we here?" he called in a loud, harsh voice.
"Two prisoners, reverend sir," replied Murray. "English spies caught
at Jagara by the vigilance of Monsieur de Veulle."
"Are they heretics?" demanded the priest.
"I fear I have never conversed with Master Ormerod concerning his
religious beliefs," said Murray whimsically. "I should add, by the
way, father, that the young man is the spy of whom I told you, who
crossed upon our ship with us."
The priest peered closely at me.
"Well, sir," he asked brusquely, "are you a son of the true faith?"
"Not the one you refer to, sir," I said.
"And this savage here?"
"He believes, quite devoutly, I should say, in the gods of his race."
The Jesuit locked and unlocked his fingers nervously.
"I fear, _monsieur_, that you will suffer torment at the hands of my
poor children here," he said. "Will you not repent before it is too
late?"
"But will you stand by and see your children torture an Englishman in
time of peace?" I asked.
His eyes fairly sparked from the shelter of their cavernous retreats.
"Peace?" he rasped. "There is no peace--there can be no
peace--between England, the harlot nation, and holy France. France
follows her destiny, and her destiny is to rule America on behalf of
the Church."
"Yet peace there is," I insisted.
"I refuse to admit it. We know no peace here. We are at war,
endless war, physically, spiritually, mentally, with England. If you
come amongst us, you do so at your bodily peril. But"--and the
challenge left his voice and was replaced by a note of pleading, soft
and compelling--"it may be, _monsieur_, that in your bodily peril you
have achieved the salvation of your soul. Repent, I urge you, and
though your body perish your soul shall live."
Murray and de Veulle stirred restlessly during this harangue, but the
savages were so silent you could hear the birds in the trees. I was
interested in this man, in his fanatic sincerity, his queer
conception of life.
"But if I repented, as you say," I suggested, "would not you save my
body?"
His eyes burned with contempt.
"Would you drive a bargain with God?" he cried. "For shame! Some
may tolerate that, but I never will! What matters your miserable
body! It has transgressed the rights of France. Let it die! But
your soul is immortal; save that, I conjure you!"
"Aye; but do you think it Christian to permit a fellow-man, whether
he be of your faith or not, to be tortured by savages?"
The contempt died in his eyes, and was replaced by a dreamy ecstasy.
"Death? What is death?" he replied. "And what matters the manner of
death? Look at me, _monsieur_."
He fixed my gaze on each of his infirmities.
"I am but the wreck of a man. These poor, ignorant children of the
wilderness have worked their will with me, and because it was best
for me God permitted it. Torture never hurt any man. It is
excellent for the spirit. It will benefit you. If you must die----"
His voice trailed into nothingness.
De Veulle interposed.
"Reverend father," he said, "I have a letter for you from Jacques
Fourier. The rivermen would like you to give them a mass Sunday.
'Tis a long----"
"Give me the letter," he cried eagerly. "Ah, that is good reading!
Sometimes I despair for my sons--aye, more than for the miserable
children of the wilderness. But now I know that a seed grows in the
hearts of some that I have doubted. I shall go gladly."
He turned to depart, retraced his steps and fixed me with his gaze
that seemed almost to scorch the skin.
"Remember what I have said, _monsieur_. Repent, and in the joy which
will come to your soul you will rejoice in your agony. You will
triumph in it. Your heart will be uplifted by it. Do I not know! I
have suffered myself, a whole day at the stake once, and again for
half a day."
De Veulle winked at Murray as the priest limped away.
"I must send Jacques a barrel of brandy for this," he remarked; "but
our Cahnuagas would be in the sulks if they could not celebrate the
Moon Feast, and they stand in such fear of the worthy Hyacinthe that
they would never risk his wrath."
"The Moon Feast!" exclaimed Murray. "True, I had forgotten. Well,
'twill be an excellent introduction to the customs of the savages for
our friend the intruder."
"'Twill make a great impression upon him," laughed de Veulle. "In
fact, upon both of them. I have a surprize for our Iroquois captive
as well. The Mistress of the False Faces awaits them."
"Then haste the dancing. Will you dine with us?"
De Veulle hesitated, looked longingly toward the end of the clearing
and more longingly toward the house within the stockade which housed
Marjory.
"Aye," he said at last.
He murmured some orders to our guards, kicked me out of his path and
sauntered through the gateway beside Murray.