PIERRE D'ANTONS PARRIES ANOTHER THRUST
And now to tell something of the movements of Pierre d'Antons, which, of
late, have been carried on behind the screen of the forest and beyond
the ken of the reader.
The defeat of Panounia's warriors, on that night of fire and blood,
knocked the adventurer's fortunes flatter than they had ever been. You
may believe that he cursed Ouenwa bitterly, and wished that he had
killed him long ago, when the lad threw his followers into the battle.
It was then that D'Antons himself left his post beyond the scuffle, and,
with desperate efforts, tried to turn the reverse back to victory. His
swordsmanship and energy availed him nothing. He missed capture only by
slipping the buckle of his sword-belt. Then, a fugitive from both sides,
he ran to the woods, avoiding the scattered and retreating warriors who
had so lately been struggling in his behalf as fearfully as he would
have avoided William Trigget or Sir Ralph Westleigh. One of his late
comrades, trailing wounded limbs along the snow, hurled a Beothic curse
after him. Another, better prepared, let fly a war-club, and missed him
by an inch. He slashed on, through the underbrush, the drifts, and the
dark, sure that capture by any of the defeated savages would mean death
and perhaps torture.
The black captain did not run on any vague course, despite his haste. He
knew where a possibility of help awaited him. He had given his wits to
more than plans of revenge and kidnapping during his sojourn with
Panounia. In winning the men to him, he knew that his hold upon them
would not outlast defeat; but in winning the love of the Beothic maiden
Miwandi, he had laid up store against an evil day. But he had not won
her heart simply on a chance of defeat--far from it, for he had not
dreamed of such a chance. It was a pleasant thing in itself to be the
lover of that nut-brown, lithe-limbed, warm-hearted young girl--for
Miwandi suspected nothing of his desire for, and plans concerning, the
lady in the fort. She loved the tall foreigner quickly and surely. She
was extravagantly proud of his power over the warriors of her people. He
was her brave, and as such she cherished him openly, to the envy rather
than the criticism of the other women of the encampment.
Miwandi was the daughter of a lesser chief of Panounia's faction. She
was seventeen years of age. Her skin was ruddy brown, darker than the
skins of some of her people and lighter than that of others. Her hair
was brown and of a silken texture, very unlike the straight locks of the
savages of the great continent to the westward. Her features were good,
and her eyes were full of life and warmth. D'Antons' conquest rankled in
the breasts of more than one of the young bucks of the camp.
Pierre d'Antons, fleeing from the fighting men of both parties, shaped
his course for the lodge in which Miwandi dwelt. As he ran, with fear at
his heels, he forgot to regret the girl in the fort; instead, a pang of
honest affection for the comely young woman toward whom he was flying
for help stirred in him. He stumbled into the lodge, and Miwandi caught
him in her arms. In a few quick words, he told her of the defeat, and of
the anger of Panounia's warriors toward him. She kissed him once,
passionately, and then fell to collecting a few things--a quiver of
arrows, a bow, furs, and some food. She pressed a bundle into his arms.
He accepted it without a word. She bound her snow-shoes to her feet, and
retied the wrenched thongs of his. Then they slipped from the dark
lodge to the darker woods; and his sheathless sword, damp with blood,
was still in his hand. They heard the cries of the wounded behind them,
and other cries that inspired them to flight.
They fled for hours, without pausing to ease their breathing. Of the
two, it was the man who sometimes lagged, who often stumbled, and who
cried once that he would rather be captured than strain limb and lung to
another effort. D'Antons had been actively employed throughout the day,
and again during the most desperate passages of the battle, and his
strength was well-nigh exhausted. At last he fell and lay prone. In an
instant the girl was beside him, pillowing his head and shielding his
body from the cold, and revived him with brandy from the scanty supply
in his flask. By that time the dawn was breaking gray under the stars,
and all sounds of the chase had died away. She cut an armful of
fir-branches, and with them and the skins she and D'Antons had carried,
she made a rude bed and a yet ruder shelter. So they lay until high
noon, fugitives in a desolate wilderness, with death, in half a dozen
guises, lurking on either hand.
Behind D'Antons and Miwandi, the broken band of Panounia's followers
soon gave up the hunt. Matters were not in condition to be mended by
killing a long-faced Frenchman and a pretty girl. The defeated savages
had their own wounds to see to, and already too many dead to hide under
the snow. A matter of sentiment, like the torturing and killing of their
false leader D'Antons, would have to wait. Now, of all those valorous
warriors who had menaced the little fort since the very beginning of
winter, only ten remained unhurt. Panounia was dead. He had breathed his
last in the edge of the woods, while the battle was still raging, and
had been carried farther in by one of his men. Thus his death had
remained unknown to the victors; as had also the deaths of many more of
the besiegers. Wolf Slayer, that courageous savage lad who had once
boasted of his deeds to Ouenwa, was desperately hurt. Painfully and
hopelessly, those of the wounded who could move at all, the women, and
the unhurt of the band, retreated toward farther and surer fastnesses.
The wounded who could not drag themselves along were left to perish in
the snow. Some were frozen stiff before morning. Some bled to death
within the same time. A few lived until they were discovered by Ouenwa's
men in the bright daytime,--they were reported as having been found
dead.
D'Antons and Miwandi travelled, by forced marches, until they reached a
wooded valley and a narrow, frozen river. Along this they journeyed
inland and southward. At last they found a spot that promised shelter
from the bleak winds as well as from prying eyes. There they built a
wigwam of such materials as were at hand. Game was fairly plentiful in
the protected coverts around. They soon had a comfortable retreat
fashioned in that safe and voiceless place.
"It will do until summer brings the ships," remarked D'Antons, busy with
plans whereby he might give Dame Fortune's wheel another twirl.
Sometimes he spent whole hours in telling Miwandi brave tales of far and
beautiful countries. He spoke of white towns above green harbours, of
high forests with strange, bright birds flying through their tops, and
of wide savannahs, whereon roved herds of great, sharp-horned beasts of
more weight than a stag caribou.
"Oh, but you do not mean to leave me, Heart-of-Life," she cried.
So he swore, by a dozen saints, that she, Miwandi, should be his queen
in a palace of white stone above a tropic sea.