THE WORDS OF LOVE
His eyes brightened, and his hand sought mine.
"The spirit of the old days; the words of a soldier's daughter, hey,
Barbeau?"
"A La Chesnayne could make no other choice," he answered loyally. "But
we have no time to waste here in compliment. You know a safe passage,
you say?"
"Not a safe one, yet a trail which may still remain open, for it is
known to but few. Let us aboard, and cross to the opposite shore,
where we will hide the canoe, and make our way through the forest.
Once safely afoot yonder I will make my purpose clear."
A dozen strokes landed us on the other bank, where the canoe was drawn
up, and concealed among the bushes, while we descended a slight
declivity, and found ourselves in the silence of a great wood. Here De
Artigny paused to make certain his sense of direction.
"I will go forward slightly in advance," he said, at last, evidently
having determined upon his course.
"And we will move slowly, and as noiselessly as possible. No one ever
knows where the enemy are to be met with in Indian campaign, and we
are without arms, except for Barbeau's gun."
"I retain my pistol," I interrupted.
"Of small value since its immersion in the lake; as to myself I must
trust to my knife. Madame you will follow me, but merely close enough
to make sure of your course through the woods, while Barbeau will
guard the rear. Are both ready?"
"Perhaps it might be well to explain more clearly what you propose,"
said the soldier. "Then if we become separated we could figure out the
proper direction to follow."
"Not a bad thought that. It is a rough road ahead, heavily wooded, and
across broken land. My route is almost directly west, except that we
bear slightly south to keep well away from the river. Three leagues
will bring us to a small stream which empties into the Illinois. There
is a faint trail along its eastern bank which leads to the rear of the
Rock, where it is possible for one knowing the way to attain the
palisades of the fort. If we can attain this trail before dark we can
make the remaining distance by night. Here, let me show you," and he
drew with a sharp stick a hasty map on the ground. "Now you
understand; if we become separated, keep steadily westward until you
reach a stream flowing north."
In this order we took up the march, and as I had nothing to bear
except a blanket, which I twisted about my shoulders, I found little
difficulty in following my leader. At first the underbrush was heavy,
and the ground very broken, so that oftentimes I lost sight entirely
of De Artigny, but as he constantly broke branches to mark his
passage, and the sun served as guidance, I had small difficulty in
keeping the proper direction. To our right along the river appeared
masses of isolated rock, and these we skirted closely, always in the
shadow and silence of great trees. Within half an hour we had emerged
from the retarding underbrush, and came out into an open wood, where
the walking was much easier.
I could look down the aisles of the trees for long distances, and no
longer experienced any difficulty in keeping within sight of my
leader. All sense of fear had passed away, we seemed so alone in the
silent forest, although once I thought I heard the report of a distant
gun, which brought back to mind a vision of that camp of death we had
left behind. It was a wearisome tramp over the rough ground, for while
De Artigny found passage through the hollows wherever possible, yet we
were obliged to climb many hills, and once to pick our way cautiously
through a sickly swamp, springing from hummock to hummock to keep from
sinking deep in slimy ooze.
De Artigny came back and aided me here, speaking words of encouragement,
and assuring me that the trail we sought was only a short distance
beyond. I laughed at his solicitude, claiming to be good for many a mile
yet, and he left me, never realizing that I already staggered from
weariness.
However we must have made excellent progress, for the sun had not
entirely disappeared when we emerged from the dark wood shadows into a
narrow, grassy valley, through which flowed a silvery stream, not
broad, but deep. Assured that this must be the water we sought, I sank
to the ground, eager for a moment's rest, but De Artigny, tireless
still, moved back and forward along the edge of the forest to assure
himself of the safety of our surroundings. Barbeau joined him, and
questioned.
"We have reached the trail?"
"Ay, beside the shore yonder; see you anything of Indian tepees across
the stream to the left?"
"Below, there are wigwams there just in the edge of the grove. You can
see the outlines from here; but I make out no moving figures."
"Deserted then; the cowards have run away. They could not have been
attacked, or the tepees would have been burned."
"An Algonquin village?"
"Miamis. I had hoped we might gain assistance there, but they have
either joined the whites in the fort, or are hiding in the woods. 'Tis
evident we must save ourselves."
"And how far is it?"
"To the fort? A league or two, and a rough climb at the farther end
through the dark. We will wait here until after dusk, eat such food as
we have without fire, and rest up for a bit of venture. The next trip
will test us all, and Madame is weary enough already."
"An hour will put me right," I said, smiling at him, yet making no
attempt to rise. "I have been in a boat so long I have lost all
strength in my limbs."
"We feel that, all of us," cheerily, "but come Barbeau, unpack, and
let us have what cheer we can."
I know not when food was ever more welcome, although it was simple
enough to be sure--a bit of hard cracker, and some jerked deer meat,
washed down by water from the stream--yet hunger served to make these
welcome. We were at the edge of the wood, already growing dark and
dreary with the shadows of approaching night. The wind, what there
was, was from the south, and, if there was any firing at the fort, no
sound of it reached us. Once we imagined we saw a skulking figure on
the opposite bank--an Indian Barbeau insisted--but it disappeared so
suddenly as to make us doubt our own eyes.
The loneliness and peril of our situation had tendency to keep us
silent, although De Artigny endeavored to cheer me with kindly speech,
and gave Barbeau careful description of the trail leading to the fort
gate. If aught happened to him, we were to press on until we attained
shelter. The way in which the words were said brought a lump into my
throat, and before I knew the significance of the action, my hand
clasped his. I felt the grip of his fingers, and saw his face turn
toward me in the dusk. Barbeau got to his feet, gun in hand, and stood
shading his eyes.
"I would like a closer view of that village yonder," he said, "and
will go down the bank a hundred yards or so."
"'Twill do no harm," returned De Artigny, still clasping my hand.
"There is time yet before we make our venture."
He disappeared in the shadows, leaving us alone, and I glanced aside
at De Artigny's face, my heart beating fiercely.
"You did not like to hear me speak as I did?" he questioned quietly.
"No," I answered honestly, "the thought startled me. If--if anything
happened to you, I--I should be all alone."
He bent lower, still grasping my fingers, and seeking to compel my
eyes to meet his.
"Adele," he whispered, "why is it necessary for us to keep up this
masquerade?"
"What masquerade, Monsieur?"
"This pretense at mere friendship," he insisted, "when we could serve
each other better by a frank confession of the truth. You love me--"
"Monsieur," and I tried to draw my hand away. "I am the wife of
Francois Cassion."
"I care nothing for that unholy alliance. You are his only by form. Do
you know what that marriage has cost me? Insults, ever since we left
Quebec. The coward knew I dare not lay hand upon him, because he was
your husband. We would have crossed steel a hundred times, but for my
memory of you. I could not kill the cur, for to do so would separate
us forever. So I bore his taunts, his reviling, his curses, his orders
that were insults. You think it was easy? I am a woodsman, a
lieutenant of La Salle's, and it has never before been my way to
receive insult without a blow. We are not of that breed. Yet I bore it
for your sake--why? Because I loved you."
"Oh, Monsieur!"
"'Tis naught to the shame of either of us," he continued, now speaking
with a calmness which held me silent. "And I wish you to know the
truth, so far as I can make it clear. This has been in my mind for
weeks, and I say it to you now as solemnly as though I knelt before a
father confessor. You have been to me a memory of inspiration ever
since we first met years ago at that convent in Quebec. I dreamed of
you in the wilderness, in the canoe on the great river, and here at
St. Louis. Never did _voyageur_ go eastward but I asked him to bring
me word from you, and each one, bore from me a message of greeting."
"I received none, Monsieur."
"I know that; even Sieur de la Salle failed to learn your dwelling
place. Yet when he finally chose me as his comrade on this last
journey, while I would have followed him gladly even to death, the one
hope which held me to the hardships of the trail, was the chance thus
given of seeking you myself."
"It was I you sought then at the home of Hugo Chevet? not service
under Francois Cassion? Yet, when we met, you knew me not."
"Nay; I had no thought that you were there. 'Twas told me in
Quebec--for what cause I cannot decide--that you had returned to
France. I had given up all hope, and that very fact made me blind to
your identity. Indeed, I scarce comprehended that you were really
Adele la Chesnayne, until we were alone together in the palace of the
Intendant. After I left you there, left you facing La Barre; left you
knowing of your forced engagement to his commissaire, I reached a
decision--I meant to accompany his party to Montreal, find some excuse
on the way for quarrel, and return to Quebec--and you."
He paused, but I uttered no word, conscious that my cheeks were
burning hotly, and afraid to lift my eyes to his face.
"You know the rest. I have made the whole journey; I have borne
insult, the charge of crime, merely that I might remain, and serve
you. Why do I say this? Because tonight--if we succeed in getting
through the Indian lines--I shall be again among my old comrades, and
shall be no longer a servant to Francois Cassion. I shall stand before
him a man, an equal, ready to prove myself with the steel--"
"No, Monsieur," I burst forth, "that must not be; for my sake you will
not quarrel!"
"For your sake? You would have me spare him?"
"Oh, why do you put it thus, Monsieur! It is so hard for me to
explain. You say you love me, and--and the words bring me joy. Ay, I
confess that. But do you not see that a blow from your hand struck at
Francois Cassion would separate us forever? Surely that is not the end
you seek. I would not have you bear affront longer, yet no open
quarrel will serve to better our affairs. Certainly no clash of
swords. Perhaps it cannot be avoided, for Cassion may so insult you
when he sees us together, as to let his insolence go beyond restraint.
But I beg of you, Monsieur, to hold your hand, to restrain your
temper--for my sake."
"You make it a trial, a test?"
"Yes--it is a test. But, Monsieur, there is more involved here than
mere happiness. You must be cleared of the charge of crime, and I must
learn the truth of what caused my marriage. Without these facts the
future can hold out no hope for either of us. And there is only one
way in which this end can be accomplished--a confession by Cassion. He
alone knows the entire story of the conspiracy, and there is but one
way in which he can be induced to talk."
"You mean the same method you proposed to me back on the Ottawa?"
I faced him frankly, my eyes meeting his, no shade of hesitation in my
voice.
"Yes, Monsieur, I mean that. You refused me before, but I see no harm,
no wrong in the suggestion. If the men we fought were honorable I
might hesitate--but they have shown no sense of honor. They have made
me their victim, and I am fully justified in turning their own weapons
against them. I have never hesitated in my purpose, and I shall not
now. I shall use the weapons which God has put into my hands to wring
from him the bitter truth--the weapons of a woman, love, and jealousy.
Monsieur, am I to fight this fight alone?"
At first I thought he would not answer me, although his hand grip
tightened, and his eyes looked down into mine, as though he would read
the very secret of my heart.
"Perhaps I did not understand before," he said at last, "all that was
involved in your decision. I must know now the truth from your own
lips before I pledge myself."
"Ask me what you please; I am not too proud to answer."
"I think there must be back of this choice of yours something more
vital than hate, more impelling than revenge."
"There is, Monsieur."
"May I ask you what?"
"Yes, Monsieur, and I feel no shame in answering; I love you! Is that
enough?"
"Enough! my sweetheart--"
"Hush!" I interrupted, "not now--Barbeau returns yonder."