Sullen and troubled and restless, I paced the porch, and at length sat
down on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands.
And as I sat, there came my cousin Dorothy to the porch to look for me,
fanning her flushed face with a great, plumy fan, the warm odor of roses
still clinging to her silken skirts.
"Have they ended?" I asked, none too graciously.
"They are beginning," she said, with a laugh, then drew a deep breath
and waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the sweet May night!" she murmured, eyes
fixed on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of war
in this quiet paradise of silence?"
I made no answer, and she went on, fanning her hot cheeks: "They're off
to Oswego by dawn, the whole company, gallant and baggage." She laughed
wickedly. "I don't mean their ladies, cousin."
"How could you?" I protested, grimly.
"Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill;
Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. There
are post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. But
nobody would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour."
"Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked.
"A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none
dare stop her."
"A real hag? You mean a ghost?"
"No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could
choke an ox."
"Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused.
"Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."
"Where does she run to?"
"I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, followed her, and they say
no one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she ran and ran, and he after
her, till the day fell down, and he fell gasping like a foundered horse.
But she ran on."
"Oh, tally," I said; "do you believe that?"
"Why, I know it is true," she replied, ceasing her fanning to stare at
me with calm, wide eyes. "Do you doubt it?"
"How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?"
"They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father
was that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that her
mother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know.
Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... they
say. Once it rained blood on our front porch."
"Those red drops fall from flocks of butterflies," I said, laughing. "I
have seen red showers in Florida."
"I should like to be sure of that," said Dorothy, musing. Then, raising
her starry eyes, she caught me laughing.
"Tease me," she smiled. "I don't care. You may even make love to me if
you choose."
"Make love to you!" I repeated, reddening.
"Why not? It amuses--and you're only a cousin."
Astonishment was followed by annoyance as she coolly disqualified me
with a careless wave of her fan, wafting the word "cousin" into my
very teeth.
"Suppose I paid court to you and gained your affections?" I said.
"You have them," she replied, serenely.
"I mean your heart?"
"You have it."
"I mean your--love, Dorothy?"
"Ah," she said, with a faint smile, "I wish you could--I wish somebody
could."