CHAPTER XVII

WHITHER

A few hours later a coppery sun slowly dispersed the morning mists above

the Thames. The same sun warmed the court-yards of the London jail,

which lately had confined John Law, convicted of the murder of Beau

Wilson, gentleman. It was discovered that the said John Law had, in some

superhuman fashion, climbed the spiked walls of the inner yard. The

jailer pointed out the very spot where this act had been done. It was

not so plain how he had passed the outer gates of the prison, yet those

were not wanting who said that he had overpowered the turnkey at the

gate, taken from him his keys, and so forced his way out into London

city.

Far and wide went forth the proclamation of reward for the apprehension

of this escaped convict. The streets of London were placarded broadcast

with bills bearing this description of the escaped prisoner:

"Five hundred pounds reward for information regarding the escaped

felon, John Law, convicted in the King's Bench of murder and under

sentence of death. The same Law escaped from prison on the night of 20

July. May be known by the following description: Is tall, of dark

complexion, spare of build, raw-boned, face hath deep pock-marks. Eyes

dark, hair dark and scanty. Speaks broad and loud. Carries his shoulders

stooped, and is of mean appearance.

"WESTON, High Sheriff.

Done at Newgate prison, this 21 July."

Yet though the authorities of the law made full search in London, and

indeed in other of the principal cities of England, they got no word of

the escaped prisoner.

The clouded dawn which broke over the Thames below the Pool might have

told its own story. There sat upon the deck of the good ship Polly

Greenway, outbound from Thames' mouth, this same John Law. He regarded

idly the busy scenes of the shipping about him. His gaze, dull and

listless, looked without joy upon the dawn, without inquiry upon the far

horizon. For the first time in all his life John Law dropped his head

between his hands.

Not so Mary Connynge. "Good sir," cried she, merrily, "'tis morning.

Let's break our fast, and so set forth proper on our voyage."

"So now we are free," said Law, dully. "I could swear there were

shackles on me."

"Yes, we are free," said Mary Connynge, "and all the world is before us.

But saw you ever in all your life a man so dumfounded as was Sir Arthur

when he discovered 'twas I, and not the Lady Catharine, had stepped into

the carriage? That confusion of the carriages was like to have cost us

everything. I know not how your brother made such mistake. He said he

would fetch me home the night. Gemini! It sure seems a long way about!

And where may be your brother now, or Sir Arthur, or the Lady

Catharine--why, 'tis as much confused as though 'twere all in a play!"

"But Sir Arthur cried that my ship was for France. Yet here they tell me

that this brigantine is bound for the mouth of the St. Lawrence, in

America! What then of this other, and what of my brother--what of

us--what of--?"

"Why, I think this," said Mary Connynge, calmly. "That you do very well

to be rid of London jail; and for my own part, 'tis a rare appetite the

salt air ever gives me!"

Upon the same morning tide there was at this very moment just setting

aloft her sails for the first high airs of dawn the ship of McMasters,

the Polly Perkins, bound for the port of Brest.

She came down scarce a half-dozen cable lengths behind the craft which

bore the fugitives now beginning their journey toward another land. Upon

the deck of this ship, even as upon the other, there were those who

waited eagerly for the dawn. There were two men here, Will Law and Sir

Arthur Pembroke, and whether their conversation had been more eager or

more angry, were hard to tell. Will Law, broken and dejected, his heart

torn by a thousand doubts and a thousand pains, sat listening, though

but half comprehending.

"Every plan gone wrong!" cried Sir Arthur. "Every plan gone wrong, and

out of it all we can only say that he has escaped from prison for whom

no prison could be enough of hell! Though he be your brother, I tell it

to your face, the gallows had been too good for John Law! Look you

below. See that girl, pure as an angel, as noble and generous a soul us

ever breathed--what hath she done to deserve this fate? You have brought

her from her home, and to that home she can not now return unsmirched.

And all this for a man who is at this moment fleeing with the woman whom

she deemed her friend! What is there left in life for her?"

Will Law groaned and buried his own head deeper in his hands. "What is

there left for any of us?" said he. "What is there left for me?"

"For you?" said Sir Arthur, questioningly. "Why, the next ship back from

Brest, or from any other port of France. 'Tis somewhat different with a

woman."

"You do not understand," said Will Law. "The separation means somewhat

for me."

"Surely you do not mean--you have no reference to Mary Connynge?" cried

Sir Arthur.

Will bowed his head abjectly and left the other to guess that which sat

upon his mind. Sir Arthur drew a long breath and stopped his angry

pacing up and down.

"It ran on for weeks," said Will Law. "We were to have been married. I

had no thought of this. 'Twas I who took her to and from the prison

regularly, and 'twas thus that we met. She told me she was but the

messenger of the Lady Catharine."

Sir Arthur drew a long, slow breath. "Then I may say to you," said he,

"that your brother, John Law, is a hundred times more traitor and felon

than even now I thought him. Yonder he goes"--and he shook his fist into

the enveloping mist which hung above the waters. "Yonder he goes,

somewhere, I give you warning, where he deems no trail shall be left

behind him. But I promise you, whatever be your own wish, I shall follow

him into the last corner of the earth, but he shall see me and give

account for this! There is none of us he has not deceived, utterly, and

like a black-hearted villain. He shall account for it, though it be

years from now."

So now, inch by inch, fathom after fathom, cable length after cable

length, soon knot after knot, there sped two English ships out into the

open seaway. Before long they began to toss restlessly and to pull

eagerly at the helm as the scent of the salt seas came in. Yet neither

knew fully the destination of the other, and neither knew that upon the

deck of that other there was full solution of those questions which now

sat so heavily upon these human hearts. Thus, silently, slowly,

steadily, the two drew outward and apart, and before that morn was done,

both were tossing widely upon the swell of that sea beyond which there

lay so much of fate and mystery.

BOOK II

AMERICA

CHAPTER I

THE DOOR OF THE WEST

"Nearly a league farther, Du Mesne, and the sun but an hour high. Come,

let us hasten!"

"You are right, Monsieur L'as," replied the one addressed, as the first

speaker seated himself on the thwart of the boat in whose bow he had

been standing. "Bend to it, _mes amis_!"

John Law turned about on the seat, gazing back over the length of the

little ship which had brought him and his comrades thus far on the

wildest journey he had ever undertaken. Six paddlers there were for this

great _canot du Nord_, and steadily enough they sent the thin-shelled

craft along over the curling blue waves of the great inland sea. And now

their voices in one accord fell into the cadences of an ancient

boat-song of New France:

"_En roulant ma boule, roulant,

Roulant, rouler, ma boule roulant_."

The ictus of the measure marked time for the sweeping paddles, and

under the added impetus the paper shell, reinforced as it was by

close-laid splints of cedar, and braced by the fiber-fastened thwarts,

fairly yielded to the rush of the waves as the stalwart paddlers sent it

flying forward. A tiny blur of white showed about the bows, and now and

again a splash of spray came inboard, as some little curling white cap

was divided by the rush of the swiftly moving prow.

"We shall not arrive too soon, my friend," rejoined the captain of the

_voyageurs_, casting an eye back across the great lake, which lay black

and ominous under a threatening sky, the sweep and swirl of its white

caps ever racing hard after the frail craft, as though eager to break

through its paper sides and tear away the human beings who thus fled on

so lightly.

This boat, mysteriously appearing as though it were some spirit craft

railed from the ancient deeps, was far from the beginning of its wild

journey. Wide as the eye might reach, there arose no fleck of snowy

canvas, nor showed the dark line of any similar craft propelled by oar

or paddle. They were alone, these travelers. Before them, at the

entrance of the wide arm of the great lake Michiganon, lay the point

even at that early day known as the Door of the West, the beginning of

the winding water-way which led on into the interior of that West, then

so alluring and unknown. The eyes of all were fixed on the low,

white-fronted bluffs, crowned by dark forest growth, which guarded the

bay at either hand. This spot, so wild, so remote, so significant--it

was home for these _voyageurs_ as much as any; as much, too, for Law and

the woman who lay back, pale-faced and wide-eyed, among the bales in the

great canoe.

In time the graceful craft approached the beach, on which the long waves

rolled and curled, now gently, now with imposing force. With the water

yet half-leg deep, Du Mesne and two of the paddlers sprang bodily

overboard and held the boat back from the pebbles, so that its tender

shell might not be damaged. Law himself was as soon as they in the

water, and he waded back along the gunwale until he reached the stern,

the water nearly up to his hips. Reaching out his arms, he picked up

Mary Connynge from her seat and carried her dry-shod ashore, bending

down to catch some whispered word. Not so gallant was Du Mesne, the

leader of the _voyageurs_. He uttered a few short words of semi-command

to the Indian woman, who had been seated on the floor of the canoe, and

she, without protest, crawled forward over the thwarts and the heaped

bundles until she reached the bow, and then went ankle deep into the

creaming flood. The great canoe, left empty and anchored safe from the

pebbles of the beach, tossed light as a cork on the incoming waves.

A little open space was quickly found at the edge of the cove in which

the disembarkation was made, and here Du Mesne and his followers soon

kicked away the twigs and leveled out a smooth place upon the grass.

Each man produced from his belt a broad-bladed knife, and for the moment

disappeared in the deep fringe of evergreens which lined the shore.

Fairly in the twinkling of an eye a rude frame of bent poles was made,

above which were spread strips of unrolled birch bark from the cargo of

the canoe. Over the spaces left uncovered by the supply of bark sheets

there were laid down long mats made by Indian hands from dried reeds and

bulrushes, affording no inconsiderable protection against the weather.

Inside the lodge, bales of goods and packages of provisions were quickly

arranged in comfortable fashion. Gaudy blankets were spread upon layers

of soft skins of the buffalo. The Indian woman had meantime struck a

fire, whose faint blue smoke curled lakeward in the soft evening air.

Quickly, and with the system of experienced campaigners, the evening

bivouac had been prepared; and wildly picturesque it must have seemed

to a bystander, had there been indeed any possible spectator within many

leagues.

Far enough was this from the turmoil of London, which Law and his

companion had left nearly a year before; far enough still from the wild

capital of New France, where they had spent the winter, after landing,

as much by chance as through any plan, at the port of the St. Lawrence.

Ever a demon of unrest drove Law forward; ever there beckoned to him

that irresistible West, of which he was one of the earliest to feel the

charm. Farther and farther westward, swift and swifter than ever the

boats of the fur traders had made the journey before, he and his party,

led by Du Mesne, the ex-galley-slave and wanderer whom Law had by chance

met again, and gladly, at Montréal, had made the long and dangerous run

up the lakes, past Michilimackinac, down the lake of Michiganon, headed

toward the interior of a new continent which was then, as for

generations after then, the land of wondrous distances, of grand

enterprises, of magnificent promises and immense fulfilments. The bales

and bundles of this bivouac belonged to John Law, bought by gold from

the gaming tables of Montréal and Quebec, and ventured in the one great

hazard which appealed to him most irresistibly, the hazard of life and

fortune in a far land, where he might live unneighbored, and where he

might forget. Gambler in England, gambler again in New France, now

trading fur-merchant and _voyageur_, he was, as always, an adventurer.

Du Mesne and his hardy crew hailed him already as a new captain of the

trails, a new _coureur_, won from the Old World by the savage witchery

of the New. He was their brother; and had he indeed owned longer years

of training, his keenness of eye, his strength of arm, his tirelessness

of limb could hardly have been greater than they seemed in his first

voyage to the West.

"_Tous les printemps,

Tant des nouvelles_"

hummed Du Mesne, as he busied himself about the camp, casting the while

a cautious eye to note the progress of the threatening storm.

"_Tous les amants

Changent des maîtresses.

Jamais le bon vin n'endort--

L'amour me réveille_!"

"The best is before us now, Monsieur L'as," said Du Mesne, joining Law,

at length. "Assuredly the best is always that which is ahead and which

is unknown; but in point of fact the hardest of our journey is over,

for henceforth we may stretch our legs ashore, and hunt and fish, and

make good camps for madame, who, as we both perceive, is much in need of

ease and care. We shall make all safe and comfortable for this night,

doubt not.

"Meantime," continued he, "let us see that all is well with our men and

arms, for henceforth we must put out guards. Attention, comrades!

Present your pieces and answer the roll-call! Pierre Berthier!"

"_Ici_! Monsieur," replied the one better known as Pierre Noir, a tall

and dark-visaged Canadian, clad in the common costume, half-Indian and

half-civilized, which marked his class. A shirt of soft dressed buckskin

fell about his thighs; his legs were encased in moose-skin leggings,

deeply fringed at the seams. About his middle was a broad sash, once

red, and upon his head a scanty cap of similar color was pushed back. At

his belt hung the great hunting knife of the _voyageur_, balanced by a

keen steel tomahawk such as was in common use among the Indians. In his

hand he supported a long-barreled musket, which he now examined

carefully in the presence of the captain of the _voyageurs_.

"Robert Challon!" next commanded Du Mesne, and in turn the one addressed

looked over his piece, the captain also scrutinizing the flint and

priming with careful eye.

"Naturally, _mes enfants_," said he, "your weapons are perfect, as ever.

Kataikini, and you, Kabayan, my brothers, let me see," said he to the

two Indians, the former a Huron and the latter an Ojibway, both from the

shores of Superior. The Indians arose silently, and without protest

submitted to the scrutiny which ever seemed to them unnecessary.

"Jean Breboeuf!" called Du Mesne; and in response there arose from the

shadows a wiry little Frenchman, who might have been of any age from

twenty to forty-five, so sun-burnt and wrinkled, yet so active and

vigorous did he seem.

"_Mon ami_," said Du Mesne to him, chidingly, "see now, here is your

flint all but out of its engagement. Pray you, have better care of your

piece. For this you shall stand the long watch of the night. And now let

us all to bed."

One by one the little party was lost to view within the dark interior of

the hut which they had arranged for themselves. Du Mesne retired a

distance from the fire and seated himself upon a fallen log, his pipe

glowing like a coal in the enveloping darkness.

Law himself did not so soon leave the outer air. He remained gazing out

at the wild scene about him, at the rolling waves dashing on the shore,

their crests whitening in the glare of the lightning, now approaching

more closely. He harkened to the roll of the far-off thunder reënforced

by the thunder of the waves upon the shore, and noted the sweep of the

black forest about, of the black sky overhead, unlit save for one

far-off, faint and feeble star.

It was a new world, this that lay around him, a new and savage world. If

there were a world behind him, a world which once held sunlight and

flowers, and love and hope--why then, it was a world lost and gone

forever, and it was very well that this new world should be so different

and so stern.

In the darkness John Law heard a voice, the voice of a woman in terror.

Swiftly he stepped to the door of the rude lodge.

"Don't let them sing it again--never any more--that song."

"And what, Madam?"

"That one--'_us les amants changent des maîtresses_!'"

A moment later she whispered, "I am afraid."

CHAPTER II

THE STORM

Marshaling to the imperious orders of the tempest, and crowding close

upon the flaming standards of the lightning, the armies of the clouds

came on. The sea-wide surface of the lake went dull, and above it bent a

sky appalling in its blackness. The wind at first was light, then fitful

and gusty, like the rising choler of a man affronted and nursing his own

anger. It gained in volume and swept on across the tops of the forest

trees, as though with a hand contemptuous in its strength, forbearing

only by reason of its own whimsy. Now and again the cohorts of the

clouds just hinted at parting, letting through a pale radiance from the

western sky, where lingered the departing day. This light, as did the

illuminating glare of the forked flames above, disclosed the white

helmets of the trooping waters, rushing on with thunderous unison of

tread; and the rattling thunder-shocks, intermittent, though coming

steadily nearer, served but to emphasize these foot strokes of the

waves. The heavens above and the waters under the earth--these

conspired, these marched together, to assail, to overwhelm, to utterly

destroy.

To destroy what? Why this wild protest of the wilderness? Was it this

wide-blown, scattered fire, whose sparks and ashes were sown broadcast,

till but stubborn remnants clung under the sheltering back-log of the

bivouac hearth? Was it this frail lodge, built upon pliant, yielding

poles, covered cunningly with mats and bark, carpeted with robe of elk

and buffalo? Yet why should the elements rage at a tiny fire, and why

should they tear at a little house of nomad man, since these things were

old upon the earth? Was it somewhat else that incited this elemental

rage? This might have been; for surely, builder of this hearth-fire

which would not quench, master of this house which would not yield,

there was now come up to the door of the wilderness the white man, risen

from the sea, heralding the day which the tribes had for generations

blindly prophesied! The white man, stern, stubborn, fruitful, had come

to despoil the West of its secrets!

Let all the elements therefore join in riotous revolt! Let earth and sea

and sky make common cause! Rage, waves, and blaze, ye fiery tongues,

and threaten, forests, with all your ominous voices! Smite, destroy, or

terrify into swift retreat this little band! Crush out their tenement!

Loosen and brush off this feeble finger-grasp at the ancient threshold!

With banners of flame, with armies of darkness, with shoutings of the

captains of the storms, assail, denude, destroy, if even by the agony of

their terrors, these feeble folk now come hither! And by this more

especially, since they would set the seal of fruitfulness upon the land,

and bring upon the earth a generation yet to follow. Hover about this

bed in the frail and swaying lodge of bark and boughs, all ye most

terrifying spirits! Let not this thing be!

"Mother of God!" cried Jean Breboeuf, bending low and pulling his tunic

tighter by the belt, as he came gasping into the faint circle of light

which still remained at the fire log. "'Tis murderous, this storm! Ah,

Monsieur du Mesne, we are dead men! But what matter? 'Tis as well now as

later. Said I not so to you all the way down Michiganon from the

Straits? A rabbit crossed my path at the last camp before

Michilimackinac, and when we took boat to leave the mission at the

Straits, three crows flew directly across our way. Did I not beseech you

to turn back? Did I not tell you, most of all, that we had no right,

honest _voyageurs_ that we are, to leave for the woods without

confessing to the good father? 'Tis two years now since I have been

proper shriven, and two years is too long for a _voyageur_ to remain

unabsolved. Mother of God! When I see the lightnings and listen to that

wind, I bethink me of my sins--my sins! I vow a bale of beaver--"

"Pish! Jean," responded Du Mesne, who had come in from the cover of the

wood and was casting about in the darkness as best he might to see that

all was made secure. "Thou'lt feel better when the sun shines again.

Call Pierre Noir, and hurry, or our canoe will pound to bits upon the

beach. Come!"

All three went now knee-deep in the surf, and Du Mesne, clinging to the

gunwale as he passed out, was soon waist deep, and time and again lost

his footing in the flood.

"Pull!" he cried at last. "Now, _en avant_!" He had flung himself over

the stern, and with his knife cut the hide rope of the anchor-stone.

Overboard again in an instant, he joined the others in their rush up the

beach, and the three bore their ship upon their shoulders above the

reach of the waves.

"Myself," said Pierre Noir, "shall sleep beneath the boat to-night, for

since she sheds water from below, she may do as well from above."

"Even so, Pierre Noir," said Du Mesne, "but get you the boat farther

toward your own camp to-night. Do you not see that Monsieur L'as is not

with us?"

"_Eh bien_?"

"And were he not surely with us at such time, unless--?"

"Oh, _assurément_!" replied Pierre Noir. "Jean Breboeuf, aid me in

taking the boat back to our camp in the woods."

Now came the rain. Not in steady and even downpour, not with

intermittent showers, but in a sidelong, terrifying torrent, drenching,

biting, cutting in its violence. The swift weight of the rain gave to

the trees more burden than they could bear. As before the storm, when

all was still, there had come time and again the warning boom of a

falling tree, stricken with mysterious mortal dread of that which was to

come, so now, in the riot of that arrived danger, first one and then

another wide-armed monarch of the wood crashed down, adding with its

downfall to the testimony of the assailing tempest's strength and fury.

The lightning now came not only in ragged blazes and long ripping lines

of light, but in bursts and shocks, and in bomb-like balls, exploding

with elemental detonations. Balls of this tense surcharged essence

rolled out over the comb of the bluff, fell upon the shadows of the

water, and seemed to bound from crest to white-capped crest, till at

last they split and burst asunder like some ominous missiles from

engines of wrath and destruction.

And now, suddenly, all grew still again. The sky took on a lighter,

livid tone, one of pure venom. There came a whisper, a murmur, a rush as

of mighty waters, a sighing as of an army of the condemned, a shrieking

as of legions of the lost, a roaring as of all the soul-felt tortures of

a world. From the forest rose a continuous rending crash. The whiplash

of the tempest cracked the tree trunks as a child beheads a row of

daisies. Piled up, falling, riven asunder, torn out by the wind, the

giant trees joined the toys which the cynic storm gathered in its hands

and bore along until such time as it should please to crush and drop

them.

There passed out over the black sea of Michiganon a vast black wraith; a

thing horrible, tremendous, titanic in organic power. It howled,

execrated, menaced; missed its aim, and passed. The little swaying house

still stood! Under the sheltered log some tiny sparks of fire still

burned, omen of the unquenchable hearthstones which the land was yet to

know!

"Holy God! what was it? What was that which passed?" cried Jean

Breboeuf, crawling out from beneath his shelter. "Saint Mary defend us

all this night! 'Twas the great Canoe of the Damned, running _au large_

across the sky! Mary, Mother of God, hear my vow! From this time Jean

Breboeuf shall lead a better life!"

The storm, baffled, passed on. The rain, unsatisfied, sullenly ceased in

its attack. The waves, hopeless but still vindictive, began to call back

their legions from the narrow shore. The lightnings, unsated in their

wrath, flared and flickered on and out across the eastward sea. With

wild laughter and shrieks and imprecations, the spirit of the tempest

wailed on its furious way. The red West had raised its hand to smite,

but it had not smitten sure.

In the silence of the night, in the hush following the uproar of the

storm, there came a little wailing cry; so faint, so feeble, yet so

mighty, so conquering, this sign of the coming generation, the voice of

the new-born babe. At this little human voice, born of sorrow and sin,

born to suffering and to knowledge, born to life in all its wonders and

to death in all its mystery--the elements perchance relented and averted

their fury. Not yet was there to be punished sin, or wrong, or doubt, or

weakness. Not at once would justice punish the parents of this babe and

blot out at once the record of their fault. Storm and lightning,

darkness and the night yielded to the voice of the infant and allowed

the old story of humanity and sin, and hope and mercy to run on.

The babe wailed faintly in the silence of the night. Under the

hearth-log there still endured the fire. And then the red West, seeing

itself conquered, smiled and flung wide its arms, and greeted them with

the burgeoning dawn, and the voices of birds, with a sky blue and

repentant, a sun smiling and not unkind.

CHAPTER III

AU LARGE

It was weeks after the night of the great storm, and the camp of the

_voyageurs_ still held its place on the shore of the great Green Bay.

The wild game and the abundant fishes of the lake gave ample provender

for the party, and the little bivouac had been rendered more comfortable

in many ways best known to those dwellers of the forest. The light jest,

the burst of laughter, the careless ease of attitude showed the

light-hearted _voyageurs_ content with this, their last abode, nor for

the time did any word issue which threatened to end their tarrying.

Law one morning strolled out from the lodge and seated himself on a bit

of driftwood at the edge of the forest's fringe of cedars, where,

seemingly half forgetting himself in the witchery of the scene, he gazed

out idly over the wide prospect which lay before him. He was the same

young man as ever. Surely, this increased gauntness was but the result

of long hours at the paddle, the hollow cheeks but betokened hard fare

and the defining winds of the outdoor air. If the eye were a trace more

dim, that could be due but to the reflectiveness induced by the quiet

scene and hour. Yet why should John Law, young and refreshed, drop chin

in hand and sit there moodily looking ahead of him, comprehending not at

all that which he beheld?

Indeed there appeared now to the eye of this young man not the white

shores and black crowned bluffs and distant islands, not the sweep of

broad-winged birds circling near the waters, nor the shadow of the

high-poised eagle drifting far above. He felt not the soft wind upon his

cheek, nor noted the warmth of the oncoming sun. In truth, even here,

on the very threshold of a new world and a new life, he was going back,

pausing uncertainly at the door of that life and of that world which he

had left behind. There appeared to him not the rolling undulations of

the black-topped forest, not the tossing surface of the inland sea, nor

the white-pebbled beach laved by its pulsing waters. He saw instead a

white and dusty road, lined by green English hedge-rows. Back, over

there, beyond these rolling blue waves, back of the long water trail

over which he had come, there were chapel and bell and robed priest, and

the word which made all fast forever. But back of the wilderness

mission, back of the straggling settlements of Montréal and Quebec, back

of the blue waters of the ocean, there, too, were church and minister;

and there dwelt a woman whose figure stood now before his eyes, part of

this mental picture of the white road lined with the hedges of green.

A hand was laid on his shoulder, and he half started up in sudden

surprise. Before him, the sun shining through her hair, her eyes dark in

the shadow, stood Mary Connynge. A fair woman indeed, comely, round of

form, soft-eyed, and light of touch, she might none the less have been a

very savage as she stood there, clad no longer in the dress of

civilization, but in the soft native garb of skins, ornamented with the

stained quills of the porcupine and the bizarre adornments of the native

bead work; in her hair dull metal bands, like any Indian woman, upon her

feet little beaded moccasins--the very moccasin, it might have been,

which Law had first seen in ancient London town and which had played so

strange a part in his life since then.

"You startled me," said Law, simply. "I was thinking."

A sudden jealous wave of woman's divining intuition came upon the woman

at his side. "I doubt not," said she, bitterly, "that I could name the

subject of your thought! Why? Why sit here and dream of her, when here

am I, who deserve everything that you can give?"

She stood erect, her eyes flashing, her arms outstretched, her bosom

panting under the fringed garments, her voice ringing as it might have

been with the very essence of truth and passion. Law looked at her

steadily. But the shadow did not lift from his brow, though he looked

long and pondered.

"Come," said he, at length, gently. "None the less we are as we are. In

every game we take our chances, and in every game we pay our debts. Let

us go back to the camp."

As they turned back down the beach Law saw standing at a little distance

his lieutenant, Du Mesne, who hesitated as though he would speak.

"What is it, Du Mesne?" asked Law, excusing himself with a gesture and

joining the _voyageur_ where he stood.

"Why, Monsieur L'as," said Du Mesne, "I am making bold to mention it,

but in good truth there was some question in my mind as to what might be

our plans. The spring, as you know, is now well advanced. It was your

first design to go far into the West, and there to set up your station

for the trading in furs. Now there have come these little incidents

which have occasioned us some delay. While I have not doubted your

enterprise, Monsieur, I bethought me perhaps it might be within your

plans now to go but little farther on--perhaps, indeed, to turn back--"

"To go back?" said Law.

"Well, yes; that is to say, Monsieur L'as, back again down the Great

Lakes."

"Have you then known me so ill as this, Du Mesne?" said Law. "It has not

been my custom to set backward foot on any sort of trail."

"Oh, well, to be sure, Monsieur, that I know quite well," replied Du

Mesne, apologetically. "I would only say that, if you do go forward, you

will do more than most men accomplish on their first voyage _au large_

in the wilderness. There comes to many a certain shrinking of the heart

which leads them to find excuse for not faring farther on. Yonder, as

you know, Monsieur, lie Quebec and Montréal, somewhat better fitted for

the abode of monsieur and madame than the tents of the wilderness. Back

of that, too, as we both very well know, Monsieur, lie London and old

England; and I had been dull of eye indeed did I not recognize the

opportunities of a young gallant like yourself. Now, while I know

yourself to be a man of spirit, Monsieur L'as, and while I should

welcome you gladly as a brother of the trail, I had only thought that

perhaps you would pardon me if I did but ask your purpose at this time."

Law bent his head in silence for a moment. "What know you of this

forward trail, Du Mesne?" said he. "Have you ever gone beyond this point

in your own journeyings?"

"Never beyond this," replied Du Mesne, "and indeed not so far by many

hundred miles. For my own part I rely chiefly upon the story of my

brother, Greysolon du L'hut, the boldest soul that ever put paddle in

the St. Lawrence. My brother Greysolon, by the fire one night, told me

that some years before he had been at the mouth of the Green

Bay--perhaps near this very spot--and that here he and his brothers

found a deserted Indian camp. Near it, lying half in the fire, where he

had fallen in exhaustion, was an old, a very old Indian, who had been

abandoned by his tribe to die--for that, you must know, Monsieur, is one

of the pleasant customs of the wilderness.

"Greysolon and his men revived this savage in some fashion, and meantime

had much speech with him about this unknown land at whose edge we have

now arrived. The old savage said that he had been many moons north and

west of that place. He knew of the river called the Blue Earth, perhaps

the same of which Father Hennepin has told. And also of the Divine

River, far below and tributary to the Messasebe. He said that his father

was once of a war party who went far to the north against the Ojibways,

and that his people took from the Ojibways one of their prisoners, who

said that he came from some strange country far to the westward, where

there was a very wide plain, of no trees. Beyond that there were great

mountains, taller than any to be found in all this region hereabout.

Beyond these mountains the prisoner did not know what there might be,

but these mountains his people took to be the edge of the world, beyond

which could live only wicked spirits. This was what the prisoner of the

Ojibways said. He, too, was an old man.

"The captive of my brother Greysolon was an Outagamie, and he said that

the Outagamies burned this prisoner of the Ojibways, for they knew that

he was surely lying to them. Without doubt they did quite right to burn

him, for the notion of a great open country without trees or streams is,

of course, absurd to any one who knows America. And as for mountains,

all men know that the mountains lie to the east of us, not to the

westward."

"'Twould seem much hearsay," said Law, "this information which comes at

second, third and fourth hand."

"True," said Du Mesne, "but such is the source of the little we know of

the valley of the Messasebe, and that which lies beyond it. None the

less this idea offers interest."

"Yet you ask me if I would return."

"'Twas but for yourself, Monsieur. It is there, if I may humbly confess

to you, that it is my own ambition some day to arrive. Myself--this

West, as I said long ago to the gentlemen in London--appeals to me,

since it is indeed a land unoccupied, unowned, an empire which we may

have all for ourselves. What say you, Monsieur L'as?"

John Law straightened and stiffened as he stood. For an instant his eye

flashed with the zeal of youth and of adventure. It was but a transient

cloud which crossed his face, yet there was sadness in his tone as he

replied.

"My friend," said he, "you ask me for my answer. I have pondered and I

now decide. We shall go on. We shall go forward. Let us have this West,

my friend. Heaven helping us, let me find somewhere, in some land, a

place where I may be utterly lost, and where I may forget!"

CHAPTER IV

THE PATHWAY OF THE WATERS

The news of the intended departure was received with joy by the crew of

_voyageurs_, who, on the warning of an instant, fell forthwith to the

simple tasks of breaking camp and storing the accustomed bales and

bundles in their places in the great _canot du Nord_.

"_La voilà_!" said Tête Gris. "Here she sits, this canoe, eager to go

on. 'Tis forward again, _mes amis_! Forward once more; and glad enough

am I for this day. We shall see new lands ere long."

"For my part," said Jean Breboeuf, "I also am most anxious to be away,

for I have eaten this white-fish until I crave no more. I had bethought

me how excellent are the pumpkins of the good fathers at the Straits;

and indeed I would we had with us more of that excellent fruit, the

bean."

"Bah! Jean Breboeuf," retorted Pierre Noir. "'Tis but a poor-hearted

_voyageur_ would hang about a mission garden with a hoe in his hand

instead of a gun. Perhaps the good sisters at the Mountain miss thy

skill at pulling weeds."

"Nay, now, I can live as long on fish and flesh as any man," replied

Jean Breboeuf, stoutly, "nor do I hold myself, Monsieur Tête Gris, one

jot in courage back of any man upon the trail."

"Of course not, save in time of storm," grinned Tête Gris. "Then, it is

'Holy Mary, witness my vow of a bale of beaver!' It is--"

"Well, so be it," said Jean Breboeuf, stoutly. "'Tis sure a bale of

beaver will come easily enough in these new lands; and--though I insist

again that I have naught of superstition in my soul--when a raven sits

on a tree near camp and croaks of a morning before breakfast--as upon my

word of honor was the case this morning--there must be some ill fate in

store for us, as doth but stand to reason."

"But say you so?" said Tête Gris, pausing at his task, with his face

assuming a certain seriousness.

"Assuredly," said Jean Breboeuf. "'Tis as I told you. Moreover, I insist

to you, my brothers, that the signs have not been right for this trip at

any time. For myself, I look for nothing but disaster."

The humor of Jean Breboeuf's very gravity appealed so strongly to his

older comrades that they broke out into laughter, and so all fell again

to their tasks, in sheer light-heartedness forgetting the superstitions

of their class.

Thus at length the party took ship again, and in time made the head of

the great bay within whose arms they had been for some time encamped.

They won up over the sullen rapids of the river which came into the bay,

toiling sometimes waist-deep at the _cordelle_, yet complaining not at

all. So in time they came out on the wide expanse of the shallow lake of

the Winnebagoes, which body of water they crossed directly, coming into

the quiet channel of the stream which fell in upon its western shore. Up

this stream in turn steadily they passed, amid a panorama filled with

constant change. Sometimes the gentle river bent away in long curves,

with hardly a ripple upon its placid surface, save where now and again

some startled fish sprang into the air in fright or sport, or in the

rush upon its prey. Then the stream would lead away into vast seas of

marsh lands, waving in illimitable reaches of rushes, or fringed with

the unspeakably beautiful green of the graceful wild rice plant.

In these wide levels now and again the channel divided, or lost itself

in little _cul de sacs_, from which the paddlers were obliged to retrace

their way. All about them rose myriads of birds and wild fowl, which

made their nests among these marshes, and the babbling chatter of the

rail, the high-keyed calling of the coot, or the clamoring of the

home-building mallard assailed their ears hour after hour as they passed

on between the leafy shores. Then, again, the channel would sweep to one

side of the marsh, and give view to wide vistas of high and rolling

lands, dotted with groves of hardwood, with here and there a swamp of

cedar or of tamarack. Little herds of elk and droves of deer fed on the

grass-covered slopes, as fat, as sleek and fearless of mankind as though

they dwelt domesticated in some noble park.

It was a land obviously but little known, even to the most adventurous,

and as chance would have it, they met not even a wandering party of the

native tribes. Clearly now the little boat was climbing, climbing slowly

and gently, yet surely, upward from the level of the great Lake

Michiganon. In time the little river broadened and flattened out into

wide, shallow expanses, the waters known as the Lakes of the Foxes; and

beyond that it became yet more shallow and uncertain, winding among

quaking bogs and unknown marshes; yet still, whether by patience, or by

cheerfulness, or by determination, the craft stood on and on, and so

reached that end of the waterway which, in the opinion of the more

experienced Du Mesne, must surely be the place known among the Indian

tribes as the "Place for the carrying of boats."

Here they paused for a few days, at that mild summit of land which marks

the portage between the east bound and the west bound waters; yet,

impelled ever by the eager spirit of the adventurer, they made their

pause but short. In time they launched their craft on the bright, smooth

flood of the river of the Ouisconsins, stained coppery-red by its

far-off, unknown course in the north, where it had bathed leagues of the

roots of pine and tamarack and cedar. They passed on steadily westward,

hour after hour, with the current of this great stream, among little

islands covered with timber; passed along bars of white sand and flats

of hardwood; beyond forest-covered knolls, in the openings of which one

might now and again see great vistas of a scenery now peaceful and now

bold, with turreted knolls and sweeping swards of green, as though some

noble house of old England were set back secluded within these wide and

well-kept grounds. The country now rapidly lost its marshy character,

and as they approached the mouth of the great stream, it being now well

toward the middle of the summer, they reached, suddenly and without

forewarning, that which they long had sought.

The sturdy paddlers were bending to their tasks, each broad back

swinging in unison forward and back over the thwart, each brown throat

bared to the air, each swart head uncovered to the glare of the midday

sun, each narrow-bladed paddle keeping unison with those before and

behind, the hand of the paddler never reaching higher than his chin,

since each had learned the labor-saving fashion of the Indian canoeman.

The day was bright and cheery, the air not too ardent, and across the

coppery waters there stretched slants of shadow from the embowering

forest trees. They were alone, these travelers; yet for the time at

least part of them seemed care-free and quite abandoned to the sheer

zest of life. There arose again, after the fashion of the _voyageurs_,

the measure of the paddling song, without which indeed the paddler had

not been able to perform his labor at the thwart.

"_Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontré_--"

chanted the leader; and voices behind him responded lustily with the

next line:

"_Trois cavaliers bien montés_--"

"_Trois cavaliers bien montés_--"

chanted the leader again.

"_L'un à cheval et l'autre à pied_--"

came the response; and then the chorus:

"_Lon, lon laridon daine--

Lon, lon laridon dai!_"

The great boat began to move ahead steadily and more swiftly, and bend

after bend of the river was rounded by the rushing prow. None knew this

country, nor wist how far the journey might carry him. None knew as of

certainty that he would ever in this way reach the great Messasebe; or

even if he thought that such would be the case, did any one know how far

that Messasebe still might be. Yet there came a time in the afternoon of

that day, even as the chant of the _voyageurs_ still echoed on the

wooded bluffs, and even as the great birch-bark ship still responded

swiftly to their gaiety, when, on a sudden turn in the arm of the river,

there appeared wide before them a scene for which they had not been

prepared. There, rippling and rolling under the breeze, as though itself

the arm of some great sea, they saw a majestic flood, whose real nature

and whose name each man there knew on the instant and instinctively.

"Messasebe! Messasebe!" broke out the voices of the paddlers.

"Stop the paddles!" cried Du Mesne. "_Voilà_!"

John Law rose in the bow of the boat and uncovered his head. It was a

noble prospect which lay before him. His was the soul of the adventurer,

quick to respond to challenge. There was a fluttering in his throat as

he stood and gazed out upon this solemn, mysterious and tremendous

flood, coming whence, going whither, none might say. He gazed and gazed,

and it was long before the shadow crossed his face and before he drew a

sigh.

"Madam," said he, at length, turning until he faced Mary Connynge, "this

is the West. We have chosen, and we have arrived!"

CHAPTER V

MESSASEBE

The boat, now lacking its propelling power, drifted on and out into the

clear tide of the mighty stream. The paddlers were idle, and silence had

fallen upon all. The rush of this majestic flood, steady, mysterious,

secret-keeping, created a feeling of awe and wonder. They gazed and

gazed again, up the great waterway, across to its farther shore, along

its rolling course below, and still each man forgot his paddle, and

still the little ship of New France drifted on, just rocking gently in

the mimic waves which ruffled the face of the mighty Father of the

Waters.

"By our Lady!" cried Du Mesne, at length, and tears stood in his

tan-framed eyes as he turned, "'tis true, all that has been said! Here

it is, Messasebe, more mighty than any story could have told! Monsieur

L'as, 'tis big enough to carry ships."

"'Twill carry fleets of them one day, Du Mesne," replied John Law. "'Tis

a roadway fit for a nation. Ah, Du Mesne! our St. Lawrence, our New

France--they dwindle when compared to this new land."

"Aye! and 'tis all our own!" cried Du Mesne. "Look; for the last ten

days we have scarce seen even the smoke of a wigwam, and, so far as I

can tell, there is not in all this valley now the home of a single white

man. My friend Du L'hut--he may be far north of the Superior to-day for

aught we know, or somewhere among the Sauteur people. If there he any

man below us, let some one else tell who that may be. Sir, I promise

you, when I see this big water going on so fast and heading so far away

from home--well, I admit it causes me to shiver!"

"'Tis much the same," said Law, "where home may be for me."

"Ah, but 'tis different on the Lakes," said Du Mesne, "for there we

always knew the way back, and knew that 'twas down stream."

"He says well," broke in Mary Connynge. "There is something in this big

river that chills me. I am afraid."

"And what say you, Tête Gris, and you, Pierre Noir?" asked Law.

"Why, myself," replied the former, "I am with the captain. It matters

not. There must always be one trail from which one does not return."

"_Oui_," said Pierre Noir. "To be sure, we have passed as good beaver

country as heart of man could ask; but never was land so good but there

was better just beyond."

"They say well, Du Mesne," spoke John Law, presently; "'tis better on

beyond. Suppose we never do return? Did I not say to you that I would

leave this other world as far behind me as might be?"

"_Eh bien_, Monsieur L'as, you reply with spirit, as ever," replied Du

Mesne, "and it is not for me to stand in the way. My own fortune and

family are also with me, and home is where my fire is lit."

"Very well," replied Law. "Let us run the river to its mouth, if need

be. 'Tis all one to me. And whether we get back or not, 'tis another

tale."

"Oh, I make no doubt we shall win back if need be," replied Du Mesne.

"'Tis said the savages know the ways by the Divine River of the Illini

to the foot of Michiganon; and that, perhaps, might be our best way back

to the Lakes and to the Mountain with our beaver. We shall, provided we

reach the Divine River, as I should guess by the stories I have heard,

be then below the Illini, the Ottawas and the Miamis, with I know not

what tribes from west of the Messasebe. 'Tis for you to say, Monsieur

L'as, but for my own part--and 'tis but a hazard at best--I would say

remain here, or press on to the river of the Illini."

"'Tis easy of decision, then," replied Law, after a moment of

reflection. "We take that course which leads us farther on at least.

Again the paddles, my friends! To-night we sup in our own kingdom.

Strike up the song, Du Mesne!"

A shout of approval broke from the hardy men along the boat side, and

even Jean Breboeuf tossed up his cap upon his paddle shaft.

"Forward, then, _mes amis_!" cried Du Mesne, setting his own

paddle-blade deep into the flood. "_En roulant ma boule, roulant_--"

Again the chorus rose, and again the hardy craft leaped onward into the

unexplored.

Day after day following this the journey was resumed, and day after day

the travelers with eager eyes witnessed a prospect of continual change.

The bluffs, bolder and more gigantic, towered more precipitous than the

banks of the gentler streams which they had left behind. Forests ranged

down to the shores, and wide, green-decked islands crept into view, and

little timbered valleys of lesser streams came marching down to the

imposing flood of Messasebe. Again the serrated bluffs broke back and

showed vast vistas of green savannas, covered with tall, waving grasses,

broken by little rolling hills, over which crossed herds of elk, and

buffalo, and deer.

"'Tis a land of plenty," said Du Mesne one day, breaking the habitual

silence into which the party had fallen. "'Tis a great land, and a

mighty. And now, Monsieur, I know why the Indians say 'tis guarded by

spirits. Sure, I can myself feel something in the air which makes my

shoulder-blades to creep."

"'Tis a mighty land, and full of wonders," assented Law, who, in

different fashion, had felt the same mysterious spell of this great

stream. For himself, he was nearer to reverence than ever yet he had

been in all his wild young life.

Now so it happened that at length, after a long though rapid journey

down the great river, they came to that stream which they took to be the

river of the Illini. This they ascended, and so finally, early in one

evening, at the bank of a wide and placid bayou, shaded by willows and

birch trees, and by great elms that bore aloft a canopy of clinging

vines, they made a landing for the bivouac which was to prove their

final tarrying place. The great _canot du Nord_ came to rest at the foot

of a timbered hill, back of which stretched high, rolling prairies,

dotted with little groves and broken with wide swales and winding

sloughs. The leaders of the party, with Tête Gris and Pierre Noir,

ascended the bluffs and made brief exploration; not more, as was tacitly

understood, with view to choosing the spot for the evening encampment

than with the purpose of selecting a permanent stopping place. Du Mesne

at length turned to Law with questioning gaze. John Law struck the earth

with his heel.

"Here!" said he. "Here let us stop. 'Tis as well as any place. There are

flowers and trees, and meadows and hedges, like to those of England.

Here let us stay!"

"Ah, you say well indeed!" cried Du Mesne, "and may fortune send us

happy enterprises."

"But then, for the houses," continued Law. "I presume we must keep close

to this little stream which flows from the bluff. And yet we must have a

place whence we can obtain good view. Then, with stout walls to protect

us, we might--but see! What is that beyond? Look! There is, if I mistake

not, a house already builded!"

"'Tis true, as I live!" cried Du Mesne, lowering his voice

instinctively, as his quick eye caught the spot where Law was pointing.

"But, good God! what can it mean?"

They advanced cautiously into the little open space beyond them, a glade

but a few hundred yards across and lined by encircling trees. They saw

indeed a habitation erected by human hands, apparently not altogether

without skill. There were rude walls of logs, reinforced by stakes

planted in the ground. From the four corners of the inclosure projected

overhanging beams. There was an opening in the inclosure, as they

discovered upon closer approach, and entering at this rude door, the

party looked about them curiously.

Du Mesne shut his lips tight together. This was no house built by the

hands of white men. There were here no quarters, no shops, no chapel

with its little bell. Instead there stood a few dried and twisted poles,

and all around lay the litter of an abandoned camp.

"Iroquois, by the living Mother of God!" cried Pierre Noir.

"Look!" cried Tête Gris, calling them again outside the inclosure. He

stood kicking in the ashes of what had been a fire-place. He disclosed,

half buried in the charred embers, an iron kettle into which he gazed

curiously. He turned away as John Law stepped up beside him.

"There must have been game here in plenty," said Law. "There are bones

scattered all about."

Du Mesne and Tête Gris looked at each other in silence, and the former

at length replied:

"This is an Iroquois war house, Monsieur L'as," said he. "They lived

here for more than a month, and, as you say, they fed well. But these

bones you see are not the bones of elk or deer. They are the bones of

men, and women, and children."

Law stood taking in each detail of the scene about him.

"Now you have seen what is before us," resumed Du Mesne. "The Iroquois

have gone, 'tis true. They have wiped out the villages which were here.

There are the little cornfields, but I warrant you they have not seen a

tomahawk hoe for a month or more. The Iroquois have gone, yet the fact

that they have been here proves they may come again. What say you, Tête

Gris; and what is your belief, Pierre?"

Tête Gris remained silent for some moments. "'Tis as Monsieur says,"

replied he at length. "'Tis all one to me. I go or stay, as it shall

please the others. There is always the one trail over which one does not

return."

"And you, Pierre?"

"I stay by my friends," replied Pierre Noir, briefly.

"And you, Monsieur L'as?" asked Du Mesne.

Law raised his head with the old-time determination. "My friends," said

he, "we have elected to come into this country and take its conditions

as we find them. If we falter, we lose; of that we may rest assured.

Let us not turn back because a few savages have been here and have

slaughtered a few other savages. For me, there seems but one opinion

possible. The lightning has struck, yet it may not strike again at the

same tree. The Iroquois have been here, but they have departed, and they

have left nothing to invite their return. Now, it is necessary that we

make a pause and build some place for our abode. Here is a post already

half builded to our hands."

"But if the savages return?" said Du Mesne.

"Then we will fight," said John Law.

"And right you are," replied Du Mesne. "Your reasoning is correct. I

vote that we build here our station."

"Myself also," said Tête Gris. And Pierre Noir nodded his assent in

silence.

CHAPTER VI

MAIZE

"Ola! Jean Breboeuf," called out Du Mesne to that worthy, who presently

appeared, breathing hard from his climb up the river bluff. "Know you

what has been concluded?"

"No; how should I guess?" replied Jean Breboeuf. "Or, at least, if I

should guess, what else should I guess save that we are to take boat at

once and set back to Montréal as fast as we may? But that--what is this?

Whose house is that yonder?"

"'Tis our own, _mon enfant_," replied Du Mesne, dryly. "'Twas perhaps

the property of the Iroquois a moon ago. A moon before that time the

soil it stands on belonged to the Illini. To-day both house and soil

belong to us. See; here stood the village. There are the cornfields, cut

and trampled by the Iroquois. Here are the kettles of the natives--"

"But, but--why--what is all this? Why do we not hasten away?" broke in

Jean Breboeuf.

"Pish! We do not go away. We remain where we are."

"Remain? Stay here, and be eaten by the Iroquois? Nay! not Jean

Breboeuf."

Du Mesne smiled broadly at his terrors, and a dry grin even broke over

the features of the impassive old trapper, Tête Gris.

"Not so fast with your going away, Jean, my brother," said Du Mesne.

"Thou'rt ever hinting of corn and the bean; now see what can be done in

this garden-place of the Iroquois and the Illini. You are appointed head

gardener for the post!"

"Messieurs, _me voilà_," said Jean Breboeuf, dropping his hands in

despair. "Were I not the bravest man in all New France I should leave

you at this moment. It is mad, quite mad you are, every one of you! I,

Jean Breboeuf, will remain, and, if necessary, will protect. Corn, and

perhaps the bean, ye shall have; perhaps even some of those little roots

that the savages dig and eat; but, look you, this is but because you are

with one who is brave. _Enfin_, I go. I bend me to the hoe, here in this

place, like any peasant."

"An excellent hoe can be made from the blade bone of an elk, as the

woman Wabana will perhaps show you if you like," said Pierre Noir,

derisively, to his comrade of the paddle.

"Even so," said Jean Breboeuf. "I make me the hoe. Could I have but

thee, old Pierre, to sit on a stump and fright the crows away, I make no

doubt that all would go well with our husbandry. I had as lief go

_censitaire_ for Monsieur L'as as for any seignieur on the Richelieu; of

that be sure, old Pierre."

"Faith," replied the latter, "when it comes to frightening crows, I'll

even agree to sit on a stump with my musket across my knees and watch

you work. 'Tis a good place for a sentinel--to keep the crows from

picking yet more bones than these which will embarrass you in your

hoeing, Jean Breboeuf."

"He says the Richelieu, Du Mesne," broke in John Law, musingly. "Very

far away it sounds. I wonder if we shall ever see it again, with its

little narrow farms. But here we have our own trails and our own lands,

and let us hope that Monsieur Jean shall prosper in his belated farming.

And now, for the rest of us, we must look presently to the building of

our houses."

Thus began, slowly and in primitive fashion, the building of one of the

first cities of the vast valley of the Messasebe; the seeds of

civilization taking hold upon the ground of barbarism, the one

supplanting the other, yet availing itself of that other. As the white

men took over the crude fields of the departed savages, so also they

appropriated the imperfect edifice which the conquerors of those savages

had left for them. It was in little the story of old England herself,

builded upon the races and the ruins of Briton, and Roman, and Saxon, of

Dane and Norman.

Under the direction of Law, the walls of the old war house were

strengthened with an inner row of palisades, supporting an embankment of

earth and stone. The overlap of the gate was extended into a re-entrant

angle, and rude battlements were erected at the four corners of the

inclosure. The little stream of unfailing water was led through a corner

of the fortress. In the center of the inclosure they built the houses; a

cabin for Law, one for the men, and a larger one to serve as store room

and as trading place, should there be opportunity for trade.

It was in these rude quarters that Law and his companion established

that which was the nearest approach to a home that either for the time

might claim; and it was thus that both undertook once more that old and

bootless human experiment of seeking to escape from one's own self.

Silent now, and dutifully obedient enough was this erstwhile English

beauty, Mary Connynge; yet often and often Law caught the question of

her gaze. And often enough, too, he found his own questioning running

back up the water trails, and down the lakes and across the wide ocean,

in a demand which, fiercer and fiercer as it grew, he yet remained too

bitter and too proud to put to the proof by any means now within his

power. Strange enough, savage enough, hopeless enough, was this wild

home of his in the wilderness of the Messasebe.

The smoke of the new settlement rose steadily day by day, but it gave

signal for no watching enemy. All about stretched the pale green ocean

of the grasses, dotted by many wild flowers, nodding and bowing like

bits of fragile flotsam on the surface of a continually rolling sea. The

little groves of timber, scattered here and there, sheltered from the

summer sun the wild cattle of the plains. The shorter grasses hid the

coveys of the prairie hens, and on the marsh-grown bayou banks the wild

duck led her brood. A great land, a rich, a fruitful one, was this that

lay about these adventurers.

A soberness had come over the habit of the master mind of this little

colony. His hand took up the ax, and forgot the sword and gun. Day after

day he stood looking about him, examining and studying in little all the

strange things which he saw; seeking to learn as much as might be of

the timorous savages, who in time began to straggle back to their ruined

villages; talking, as best he might, through such interpreting as was

possible, with savages who came from the west of the Messasebe, and from

the South and from the far Southwest; hearing, and learning and

wondering of a land which seemed as large as all the earth, and various

as all the lands that lay beneath the sun--that West, so glorious, so

new, so boundless, which was yet to be the home of countless

hearth-fires and the sites of myriad fields of corn. Let others hunt,

and fish, and rob the Indians of their furs, after the accepted fashion

of the time; as for John Law, he must look about him, and think, and

watch this growing of the corn.

He saw it fairly from its beginning, this growth of the maize, this

plant which never yet had grown on Scotch or English soil; this tall,

beautiful, broad-bladed, tender tree, the very emblem of all

fruitfulness. He saw here and there, dropped by the careless hand of

some departed Indian woman, the little germinating seeds, just thrusting

their pale-green heads up through the soil, half broken by the tomahawk.

He saw the clustering green shoots--numerous, in the sign of plenty--all

crowding together and clamoring for light, and life, and air, and room.

He saw the prevailing of the tall and strong upthrusting stalks, after

the way of life; saw the others dwarf and whiten, and yet cling on at

the base of the bolder stem, parasites, worthless, yet existing, after

the way of life.

He saw the great central stalks spring boldly up, so swiftly that it

almost seemed possible to count the successive leaps of progress. He saw

the strong-ribbed leaves thrown out, waving a thousand hands of cheerful

welcome and assurance--these blades of the corn, so much mightier than

any blades of steel. He saw the broad beckoning banners of the pale

tassels bursting out atop of the stalk, token of fecundity and of the

future. He caught the wide-driven pollen as it whitened upon the earth,

borne by the parent West Wind, mother of increase. He saw the thickening

of the green leaf at the base, its swelling, its growth and expansion,

till the indefinite enlargement showed at length the incipient ear.

He noted the faint brown of the ends of the sweetly-enveloping silk of

the ear, pale-green and soft underneath the sheltering and protecting

husk. He found the sweet and milk-white tender kernels, row upon row,

forming rapidly beneath the husk, and saw at length the hardening and

darkening of the husk at its free end, which told that man might pluck

and eat.

And then he saw the fading of the tassels, the darkening of the silk

and the crinkling of the blades; and there, borne on the strong parent

stem, he noted now the many full-rowed ears, protected by their husks

and heralded by the tassels and the blades. "Come, come ye, all ye

people! Enter in, for I will feed ye all!" This was the song of the

maize, its invitation, its counsel, its promise.

Under the warped lodge frames which the fires of the Iroquois had

spared, there were yet visible clusters of the ears of last year's corn.

Here, under his own eye, were growing yet other ears, ripe for the

harvesting and ripe for the coming growth. A strange spell fell upon the

soul of Law. Visions crossed his mind, born in the soft warm air of

these fecundating winds, of this strange yet peaceful scene.

At times he stood and looked out from the door of the palisade, when the

prairie mists were rising in the morning at the mandate of the sun, and

to his eyes these waving seas of grasses all seemed beckoning fields of

corn. These smokes, coming from the broken tepees of the timid

tribesmen, surely they arose from the roofs of happy and contented

homes! These wreaths and wraiths of the twisting and wide-stalking

mists, surely these were the captains of a general husbandry! Ah, John

Law, John Law! Had God given thee the right feeling and contented

heart, happy indeed had been these days in this new land of thine own,

far from ignoble strivings and from fevered dreams, far from aimless

struggles and unregulated avarice, far from oppression and from misery,

far from bickerings, heart-burnings and envyings! Ah, John Law! Had God

but given thee the pure and well-contented heart! For here in the

Messasebe, that Mind which made the universe and set man to be one of

its little inhabitants--surely that Mind had planned that man should

come and grow in this place, tall and strong, and fruitful, useful to

all the world, even as this swift, strong growing of the maize.

CHAPTER VII

THE BRINK OF CHANGE

The breath of autumn came into the air. The little flowers which had

dotted the grassy robe of the rolling hills had long since faded away

under the ardent sun, and now there appeared only the denuded stalks of

the mulleins and the flaunting banners of the goldenrod. The wild grouse

shrank from the edges of the little fields and joined their numbers into

general bands, which night and morn crossed the country on sustained and

strong-winged flight. The plumage of the young wild turkeys, stalking in

droves among the open groves, began to emulate the iridescent splendors

of their elders. The marshes above the village became the home of yet

more numerous thousands of clamoring wild fowl, and high up against the

blue there passed, on the south-bound journey, the harrow of the wild

geese, wending their way from North to South across an unknown empire.

A chill came into the waters of the river, so that the bass and pike

sought out the deeper pools. The squirrels busily hoarded up supplies

of the nuts now ripening. The antlers of the deer and the elk which

emerged from the concealing thickets now showed no longer ragged strips

of velvet, and their tips were polished in the preliminary fitting for

the fall season of love and combat. There came nights when the white

frost hung heavy upon all the bending grasses and the broad-leafed

plants, a frost which seared the maize leaves and set aflame the foliage

of the maples all along the streams, and decked in a hundred flamboyant

tones the leaves of the sumach and all the climbing vines.

As all things now presaged the coming winter, so there approached also

the time when the little party, so long companions upon the Western

trails, must for the first time know division. Du Mesne, making ready

for the return trip over the unknown waterways back to the Lakes, as had

been determined to be necessary, spoke of it as though the journey were

but an affair of every day.

"Make no doubt, Monsieur L'as," said he, "that I shall ascend this river

of the Illini and reach Michiganon well before the snows. Once at the

mission of the Miamis, or the village at the river Chicaqua, I shall be

quite safe for the winter, if I decide not to go farther on. Then, in

the spring, I make no doubt, I shall be able to trade our furs at the

Straits, if I like not the long run down to the Mountain. Thus, you see,

I may be with you again sometime within the following spring."

"I hope it may be so, my friend," replied Law, "for I shall miss you

sadly enough."

"'Tis nothing, Monsieur; you will be well occupied. Suppose I take with

me Kataikini and Kabayan, perhaps also Tête Gris. That will give us four

paddlers for the big canoe, and you will still have left Pierre Noir and

Jean, to say nothing of our friends the Illini hereabout, who will be

glad enough to make cause with you in case of need. I will leave Wabana

for madame, and trust she may prove of service. See to it, pray you,

that she observes the offices of the church; for methinks, unless

watched, Wabana is disposed to become careless and un-Christianized."

"This I will look to," said Law, smiling.

"Then all is well," resumed Du Mesne, "and my absence will be but a

little thing, as we measure it on the trails. You may find a winter

alone in the wilderness a bit dull for you, mayhap duller than were it

in London, or even in Quebec. Yet 'twill pass, and in time we shall meet

again. Perhaps some good father will be wishing to come back with me to

set up a mission among the Illini. These good fathers, they so delight

in losing fingers, and ears, and noses for the good of the

Church--though where the Church be glorified therein I sometimes can not

say. Perhaps some leech--mayhap some artisan--"

"Nay, 'tis too far a spot, Du Mesne, to tempt others than ourselves."

"Upon the contrary rather, Monsieur L'as. It is matter for laughter to

see the efforts of Louis and his ministers to keep New France chained to

the St. Lawrence! Yet my good lord governor might as well puff out his

cheeks against the north wind as to try to keep New France from pouring

west into the Messasebe; and as much might be said for those good rulers

of the English colonies, who are seeking ever to keep their people east

of the Alleghanies."

"'Tis the Old World over again, there in the St. Lawrence," said Law.

"Right you are, Monsieur L'as," exclaimed Du Mesne. "New France is but

an extension of the family of Louis. The intendant reports everything to

the king. Monsieur So-and-so is married. Very well, the king must know

it! Monsieur's eldest daughter is making sheep's eyes at such and such a

soldier of the regiment of the king. Very well, this is weighty matter,

of which the king must be advised! Monsieur's wife becomes expectant of

a son and heir. 'Tis meet that Louis the Great should be advised of

this! Mother of God! 'Tis a pretty mess enough back there on the St.

Lawrence, where not a hen may cackle over its new-laid egg but the king

must know it, and where not a family has meat enough for its children to

eat nor clothes enough to cover them. My faith, in that poor medley of

little lords and lazy vassals, how can you wonder that the best of us

have risen and taken to the woods! Yet 'tis we who catch their beaver

for them; and if God and the king be willing, sometime we shall get a

certain price for our beaver--provided God and the king furnish currency

to pay us; and that the governor, the priest and the intendant ratify

the acts of God and the king!"

Law smiled at the sturdy vehemence of the other's speech, yet there was

something of soberness in his own reply.

"Sir," said he, "you see here my little crooked rows of maize. Look you,

the beaver will pass away, but the roots of the corn will never be torn

out. Here is your wealth, Du Mesne."

The sturdy captain scratched his head. "I only know, for my part," said

he, "that I do not care for the settlements. Not that I would not be

glad to see the king extend his arm farther to the West, for these

sullen English are crowding us more and more along our borders. Surely

the land belongs to him who finds it."

"Perhaps better to him who can both find and hold it. But this soil will

one day raise up a people of its own."

"Yet as to that," rejoined Du Mesne, as the two turned and walked back

to the stockade, "we are not here to handle the affairs of either Louis

or William. Let us e'en leave that to monsieur the intendant, and

monsieur the governor, and our friends, the gray owls and the black

crows, the Recollets and the Jesuits. I mind to call this spot home with

you, if you like. I shall be back as soon as may be with the things we

need, and we shall plant here no starving colony, but one good enough

for the home of any man. Monsieur, I wish you very well, and I may

congratulate you on your daughter. A heartier infant never was born

anywhere on the water trail between the Mountain and the Messasebe. What

name have you chosen for the young lady, Monsieur?"

"I have decided," said John Law, "to call her Catharine."

CHAPTER VIII

TOUS SAUVAGES

Had nature indeed intended Law for the wild life of the trail, and had

he indeed spent years rather than months among these unusual scenes, he

could hardly have been better fitted for the part. Hardy of limb, keen

of eye, tireless of foot, with a hand which any weapon fitted, his

success as hunter made his companions willing enough to assign to him

the chase of the bison or the stag; so that he became not only patron

but provider for the camp.

Some weeks after the departure of Du Mesne, Law was returning from the

hunt some miles below the station. His tall and powerful figure,

hardened by continued outdoor exercise, was scarce bowed by the weight

of the wild buck which he bore across his shoulders. His eye, accustomed

to the instant readiness demanded in the _voyageur's_ life, glanced

keenly about, taking in each item of the scene, each movement of the

little bird on the tree, the rustling of the grass where a rabbit

started from its form, the whisk of the gray squirrel's tail on the

limb far overhead.

The touch of autumn was now in the air. The leaves of the wild grapevine

were falling. The oaks had donned garments of somber brown, the

hickories had lost their leaves, while here and there along the river

shores the flaming sentinels of the maples had changed their scarlet

uniform for one of duller hue. The wild rice in the marshes had shed its

grain upon the mud banks. The acorns were loosening in their cups. Fall

in the West, gorgeous, beautiful, had now set in, of all the seasons of

the year, that most loved by the huntsman.

This tall, lean man, clad in buckskin like a savage, brown almost as a

savage, as active and as alert, seemed to fit not ill with these

environments, nor to lack either confidence or contentment. He walked on

steadily, following the path along the bayou bank, and at length paused

for a moment, throwing down his burden and stooping to drink at the tiny

pool made by the little rivulet which trickled down the face of the

bluff. Here he bathed his face and hands in the cool stream, for the

moment abandoning himself to that rest which the hunter earns. It was

when at length he raised his head and turned to resume his burden that

his suspicious eye caught a glimpse of something which sent him in a

flash below the level of the grasses, and thence to the cover of a tree

trunk.

As he gazed from his hiding-place he saw the tawny waters of the bayou

broken into a long series of advancing ripples. Passing the fringe of

wild rice, swimming down beneath the heavy cordage of the wild

grapevines, there came on two canoes, roughly made of elm bark, in

fashion which would have shown an older frontiersman full proof of their

Western origin.

In the bow of the foremost boat, as Law could now clearly see, sat a

slender young man, clad in the uniform, now soiled and faded, of a

captain in the British army. His boat was propelled by four dusky

paddlers, Indians of the East. Stalwart, powerful, silent, they sent the

craft on down stream, their keen eyes glancing swiftly from one point to

the other of the ever-changing panorama, yet finding nothing that would

seem to warrant pause. Back of the first boat by a short distance came a

kindred craft, its crew comprising two white men and two Indian

paddlers. Of the white men, one might have been a petty officer, the

other perhaps a private soldier.

It was, then, as Du Mesne had said. Every party bound into the West must

pass this very point upon the river of the Illini. But why should these

be present here? Were they friends or foes? So queried the watcher,

tense and eager as a waiting panther, now crouched with straining eye

behind the sheltering tree.

[Illustration]

As the leading boat swung clear of the shadows, the man in the prow

turned his face, scanning closely the shore of the stream. As he did so,

Law half started to his feet, and a moment later stepped from his

concealment. He gazed again and again, doubting what he saw. Surely

those clean-cut, handsome features could belong to no man but his former

friend, Sir Arthur Pembroke!

Yet how could Sir Arthur be here? What could be his errand, and how had

he been guided hither? These sudden questions might, upon the instant,

have confused a brain ready as that of this observer, who paused not to

reflect that this meeting, seemingly so impossible, was in fact the most

natural thing in the world; indeed, could scarce have been avoided by

any one traveling with Indian guides down the waterway to the Messasebe.

The keen eyes of the red paddlers caught sight of the crushed grasses at

the little landing on the bayou bank, even as Law rose from his

hiding-place. A swift, concerted sweep of the paddles sent the boat

circling out into midstream, and before Law knew it he was covered by

half a dozen guns. He hardly noticed this. His own gun he left leaning

against a tree, and his hand was thrown out high, in front of him as he

came on, calling out to those in the stream. He heard the command of the

leader in the boat, and a moment later both canoes swung inshore.

"Have down your guns, Sir Arthur," cried Law, loudly and gaily. "We are

none but friends here. Come in, and tell me that it is yourself, and not

some miracle of mine eyes."

The young man so surprisingly addressed half started from the thwart in

his amazement. His face bent into an incredulous frown, scarce carrying

comprehension, even as he approached the shore. As he left the boat, for

an instant Pembroke's hand was half extended in greeting, yet a swift

change came over his countenance, and his body stiffened.

"Is it indeed you, Mr. Law?" he said. "I could not have believed myself

so fortunate."

"'Tis myself and no one else," replied Law. "But why this melodrama, Sir

Arthur? Why reject my hand?"

"I have sworn to extend to you no hand but that bearing a weapon, Mr.

Law!" said Pembroke. "This may be accident, but it seems to me the

justice of God. Oh, you have run far, Mr. Law--"

"What mean you, Sir Arthur?" exclaimed Law, his face assuming the dull

red of anger. "I have gone where I pleased, and asked no man's leave for

it, and I shall live as I please and ask no man's leave for that. I

admit that it seems almost a miracle to meet you here, but come you one

way or the other, you come best without riddles, and still better

without threats."

"You are not armed," said Sir Arthur. He gazed at the bronzed figure

before him, clad in fringed tunic and leggings of deer hide; at the belt

with little knife and ax, at the gun which now rested in the hollow of

his arm. Law himself laughed keenly.

"Why, as to that," said he, "I had thought myself well enough equipped.

But as for a sword, 'tis true my hand is more familiar, these days, with

the ax and gun."

"The late Jessamy Law shows change in his capacity of renegade," said

Pembroke, raspingly. His face displayed a scorn which jumped ill with

the nature of the man before him.

"I am what I am, Sir Arthur," said Law, "and what I was. And always I am

at any man's service who is in search of what you call God's justice, or

what I may call personal satisfaction. I doubt not we shall find my

other trinkets in good order not far away. But meantime, before you

turn my hospitality into shame, bring on your men and follow me."

His face working with emotion, Law turned away. He caught up the body of

the dead buck, and tossing it across his shoulders, strode up the

winding pathway.

"Come, Gray, and Ellsworth," said Pembroke. "Get your men together. We

shall see what there is to this."

At the summit of the river-bluff Law awaited their arrival. He noted in

silence the look of surprise which crossed Pembroke's face as at length

they came into view of the little panorama of the stockade and its

surroundings.

"This is my home, Sir Arthur," said he simply. "These are my fields. And

see, if I mistake not, yonder is some proof of the ability of my people

to care for themselves."

He pointed to the gateway, from the loop-holes guarding which there

might now be seen protruding two long dark barrels, leveled in the

direction of the approaching party. There came a call from within the

palisade, and the sound of men running to take their places along the

wall. Law raised his hand, and the barrels of the guns were lowered.

"This, then, is your hiding-place!" said Pembroke.

"I call it not such. 'Tis public to the world."

"Tush! You lack not in the least of your old conceit and assurance, Mr.

Law!" said Pembroke.

"Nay, I lack not so much in assurance of myself," said Law, "as in my

patience, which I find, Sir Arthur, now begins to grow a bit short about

its breath. But since the courtesy of the trail demands somewhat, I say

to you, there is my home. Enter it as friend if you like, but if not,

come as you please. Did you indeed come bearing war, I should be obliged

to signify to you, Sir Arthur, that you are my prisoner. You see my

people."

"Sir," replied Sir Arthur, blindly, "I have vowed to find you no matter

where you should go."

"It would seem that your vow is well fulfilled. But now, since you deal

in mysteries, I shall even ask you definitely, Sir Arthur, who and what

are you? Why do you come hither, and how shall we regard you?"

"I am, in the first place," said Sir Arthur, "messenger of my Lord

Bellomont, governor at Albany of our English colonies. I add my chief

errand, which has been to find Mr. Law, whom I would hold to an

accounting."

"Oh, granted," replied Law, flicking lightly at the cuff of his tunic,

"yet your errand still carries mystery."

"You have at least heard of the Peace of Ryswick, I presume?"

"No; how should I? And why should I care?"

"None the less, the king of England and the king of France are no longer

at war, nor are their colonies this side of the water. There are to be

no more raids between the colonies of New England and New France. The

Hurons are to give back their English prisoners, and the Iroquois are to

return all their captives to the French. The Western tribes are to

render up their prisoners also, be they French, English, Huron or

Iroquois. The errand of carrying this news was offered to me. It agreed

well enough with my own private purposes. I had tracked you, Mr. Law, to

Montréal, lost you on the Richelieu, and was glad enough to take up this

chance of finding you farther to the West. And now, by the justice of

heaven, as I have said, I have found you easily."

"And has Sir Arthur gone to sheriffing? Has my friend become constable?

Is Sir Arthur a spy? Because, look you, this is not London, nor yet New

France, nor Albany. This is Messasebe! This is my valley. I rule here.

Now, if kings, or constables, or even spies, wish to find John

Law--why, here is John Law. Now watch your people, and go you carefully

here, else that may follow which will be ill extinguished."

Pembroke flung down his sword upon the ground in front of him.

"You are lucky, Mr. Law," said he, "lucky as ever. But surely, never was

man so eminently deserving of death as yourself."

"You do me very much honor, Sir Arthur," replied Law. "Here is your

sword, sir." Stooping, he picked it up and handed it to the other. "I

did but ill if I refused to accord satisfaction to one bringing me such

speech as that. 'Tis well you wear your weapons, Sir Arthur, since you

come thus as emissary of the Great Peace! I know you for a gentleman,

and I shall ask no parole of you to-night; but meantime, let us wait

until to-morrow, when I promise you I shall be eager as yourself. Come!

We can stand here guessing and talking no longer. I am weary of it."

They came now to the gate of the stockade, and there Pembroke stood for

a moment in surprise and perplexity. He was not prepared to meet this

dark-haired, wide-eyed girl, clad in native dress of skin, with tinkling

metals at wrist and ankle, and on her feet the tiny, beaded shoes. For

her part, Mary Connynge, filled with woman's curiosity, was yet less

prepared for that which appeared before her--an apparition, as ran her

first thought, come to threaten and affright.

"Sir Arthur!" she began, her trembling tongue but half forming the

words. Her eyes stared in terror, and beneath her dark skin the blood

shrank away and left her pale. She recoiled from him, her left hand

carrying behind her instinctively the babe that lay on her arm.

Sir Arthur bowed, but found no word. He could only look questioningly at

Law.

"Madam," said the latter, "Sir Arthur Pembroke journeys through as the

messenger of Lord Bellomont, governor at Albany, to spread peace among

the Western tribes. He has by mere chance blundered upon our valley, and

will delay over night. It seemed well you should be advised."

Mary Connynge, gray and pale, haggard and horrified, dreading all things

and knowing nothing, found no manner of reply. Without a word she turned

and fled back into the cabin.

Sir Arthur once more looked about him. Motioning to the others of the

party to remain outside the gate, Law led him within the stockade. On

one hand stood Pierre Noir, tall, silent, impassive as a savage, leaning

upon his gun and fixing on the red coat of the English uniform an eye

none too friendly. Jean Breboeuf, his piece half ready and his voluble

tongue half on the point of breaking over restraint, Law quieted with a

gesture. Back of these, ranged in a silent yet watchful group, their

weapons well in hand, stood numbers of the savage allies of this new

war-lord. Pembroke turned to Law again.

"You are strongly stationed, sir; but I do not understand."

"It is my home."

"But yet--why?"

"As well this as any, where one leaves an old life and begins a new,"

said Law. "'Tis as good a place as any if one would leave all behind,

and if he would forget."

"And this--that is to say--madam?"

Sir Arthur stumbled in his speech. John Law looked him straight in the

eye, a slow, sad smile upon his face.

"Had we here the plank of poor La Salle his ship," said he, "we might

nail the message of that other renegade above our door--'_Nous sommes

tous sauvages_!'"

CHAPTER IX

THE DREAM

That night John Law dreamed as he slept, and it was in some form the

same haunting and familiar dream. In his vision he saw not the low roof

nor the rude walls about him. To his mind there appeared a little dingy

room, smaller than this in which he lay, with walls of stone, with door

of iron grating and not of rough-hewn slabs. He saw the door of the

prison cell swing open; saw near it the figure of a noble young girl,

with large and frightened eyes and lips half tremulous. To this vision

he outstretched his hands. He was almost conscious of uttering some word

supplicatingly, almost conscious of uttering a name.

Perhaps he slept on. We little know the ways of the land of dreams. It

might have been half an instant or half an hour later that he suddenly

awoke, finding his hand clapped close against his side, where suddenly

there had come a sharp and burning pain. His own hand struck another. He

saw something gleaming in the light of the flickering fire which still

survived upon the hearth. The dim rays lit up two green, glowing,

venomous balls, the eyes of the woman whom he found bending above him.

He reached out his hand in the instinct of safety. This which glittered

in the firelight was the blade of a knife, and it was in the hand of

Mary Connynge!

In a moment Law was master of himself. "Give it to me, Madam, if you

please," he said, quietly, and took the knife from fingers which

loosened under his grasp. There was no further word spoken. He tossed

the knife into a crack of the bunk beyond him. He lay with his right arm

doubled under his head, looking up steadily into the low ceiling, upon

which the fire made ragged masses of shadows. His left arm, round, full

and muscular, lay across the figure of the woman whom he had forced down

upon the couch beside him. He could feel her bosom rise and pant in

sheer sobs of anger. Once he felt the writhing of the body beneath his

arm, but he simply tightened his grasp and spoke no word.

It was not far from morning. In time the gray dawn came creeping in at

the window, until at length the chinks between the logs in the little

square-cut window and the ill-fitting door were flooded with a sea of

sunlight. As this light grew stronger, Law slowly turned and looked at

the face beside him. Out of the tangle of dark hair there blazed still

two eyes, eyes which looked steadily up at the ceiling, refusing to turn

either to the right or to the left. He calmly pulled closer to him, so

that it might not stain the garments of the woman beside him, the

blood-soaked shirt whose looseness and lack of definition had perhaps

saved him from a fatal blow. He paid no attention to his wound, which he

knew was nothing serious. So he lay and looked at Mary Connynge, and

finally removed his arm.

"Get up," said he, simply, and the woman obeyed him.

"The fire, Madam, if you please, and breakfast."

These had been the duties of the Indian woman, but Mary Connynge obeyed.

"Madam," said Law, calmly, after the morning meal was at last finished

in silence, "I shall be very glad to have your company for a few

moments, if you please."

Mary Connynge rose and followed him into the open air, her eyes still

fixed upon the dark-crusted stain which had spread upon his tunic. They

walked in silence to a point beyond the cabin.

"You would call her Catharine!" burst out Mary Connynge. "Oh! I heard

you in your very sleep. You believe every lying word Sir Arthur tells

you. You believe--"

John Law looked at her with the simple and direct gaze which the tamer

of the wild beast employs when he goes among them, the look of a man not

afraid of any living thing.

"Madam," said he, at length, calmly and evenly, as before, "what I have

said, sleeping or waking, will not matter. You have tried to kill me.

You did not succeed. You will never try again. Now, Madam, I give you

the privilege of kneeling here on the ground before me, and asking of

me, not my pardon, but the pardon of the woman you have foully stabbed,

even as you have me."

The figure before him straightened up, the blazing yellow eyes sought

his once, twice, thrice, behind them all the fury of a savage soul. It

was of no avail. The cool blue eyes looked straight into her heart. The

tall figure stood before her, unyielding. She sought to raise her eyes

once more, failed, and so would have sunk down as he had said, actually

on her knees before him.

John Law extended a hand and stopped her. "There," said he. "It will

suffice. I can not demean you. There is the child."

"You called her Catharine!" broke out the woman once more in her

ungovernable rage. "You would name my child--"

"Madam, get up!" said John Law, sharply and sternly. "Get up on your

feet and look me in the face. The child shall be called for her who

should have been its mother. Let those forgive who can. That you have

ruined my life for me is but perhaps a fair exchange; yet you shall say

no word against that woman whose life we have both of us despoiled."

CHAPTER X

BY THE HILT OF THE SWORD

Law passed on out at the gate of the stockade and down to the bivouac,

where Pembroke and his men had spent the night.

"Now, Sir Arthur," said he to the latter, when he had found him, "come.

I am ready to talk with you. Let us go apart."

Pembroke joined him, and the two walked slowly away toward the

encircling wood which swept back of the stockade. Law turned upon him at

length squarely.

"Sir Arthur," said he, "I think you would tell me something concerned

with the Lady Catharine Knollys. Do you bring any message from her?"

The face of Pembroke flamed scarlet with sudden wrath. "Message!" said

he. "Message from Lady Catharine Knollys to you? By God! sir, her only

message could be her hope that she might never hear your name again."

"You have still your temper, Sir Arthur, and you speak harsh enough."

"Harsh or not," rejoined Pembroke, "I scarce can endure her name upon

your lips. You, who scouted her, who left her, who took up with the

lewdest woman in all Great Britain, as it now appears--you who would

consort with this creature--"

"In this matter," said John Law, simply, "you are not my prisoner, and I

beg you to speak frankly. It shall be man and man between us."

"How you could have stooped to such baseness is what mortal man can

never understand," resumed Sir Arthur, bitterly. "Good God! to abandon a

woman like that so heartlessly--"

"Sir Arthur," said John Law, his voice trembling, "I do myself the very

great pleasure of telling you that you lie!"

For a moment the two stood silent, facing each other, the face of each

stony, gone gray with the emotions back of it.

"There is light," said Pembroke, "and abundant space."

They turned and paced back farther toward the open forest glade. Yet now

and again their steps faltered and half paused, and neither man cared to

go forward or to return. Pembroke's face, stern as it had been, again

took on the imprint of a growing hesitation.

"Mr. Law," said he, "there is something in your attitude which I admit

puzzles me. I ask you in all honor, I ask you on the hilt of that sword

which I know you will never disgrace, why did you thus flout the Lady

Catharine Knollys? Why did you scorn her and take up with this woman

yonder in her stead?"

"Sir Arthur," said John Law, with trembling lips, "I must be very low

indeed in reputation, since you can ask me question such as this."

"But you must answer!" cried Sir Arthur, "and you must swear!"

"If you would have my answer and my oath, then I give you both. I did

not do what you suggest, nor can I conceive how any man should think me

guilty of it. I loved Lady Catharine Knollys with all my heart. 'Twas my

chief bitterness, keener than even the thought of the gallows itself,

that she forsook me in my trouble. Then, bitter as any man would be, I

persuaded myself that I cared naught. Then came this other woman. Then

I--well, I was a man and a fool--a fool, Sir Arthur, a most miserable

fool! Every moment of my life since first I saw her, I have loved the

Lady Catharine; and, God help me, I do now!"

Sir Arthur struck his hand upon the hilt of his sword. "You were more

lucky than myself, as I know," said he, and from his lips broke half a

groan.

"Good God!" broke out Law. "Let us not talk of it. I give you my word of

honor, there has been no happiness to this. But come! We waste time. Let

us cross swords!"

"Wait. Let me explain, since we are in the way of it. You must know that

'twas within the plans of Montague that Lady Catharine Knollys should be

the agent of your freedom. I was pledged to the Lady Catharine to assist

her, though, as you may perhaps see, sir," and Pembroke gulped in his

throat as he spoke, "'twas difficult enough, this part that was assigned

to me. It was I, Mr. Law, who drove the coach to the gate, the coach

which brought the Lady Catharine. 'Twas she who opened the door of

Newgate jail for you. My God! sir, how could you walk past that woman,

coming there as she did, with such a purpose!"

At hearing these words, the tall figure of the man opposed to him

drooped and sank, as though under some fearful blow. He staggered to a

near-by support and sank weakly to a seat, his head falling between his

hands, his whole face convulsed.

"Ah!" said he, "you did right to cross seas in search of me! God hath

indeed found me out and given me my punishment. Yet I ask God to bear

me witness that I knew not the truth. Come, Sir Arthur! Come, I beseech

you! Let us fall to!"

"I shall be no man's executioner for his sentence on himself. I could

not fight you now." His eye fell by chance upon the blotch in Law's

bloodstained tunic. "And here," he said; "see! You are already wounded."

"'Twas but one woman's way of showing her regard," said Law. "'Twas Mary

Connynge stabbed me."

"But why?"

"Nay, I am glad of it; since it proves the truth of all you say, even as

it proves me to be the most unworthy man in all the world. Oh, what had

it meant to me to know a real love! God! How could I have been so

blind?"

"'Tis the ancient puzzle."

"Yes!" cried Law. "And let us make an end of puzzles! Your quarrel, sir,

I admit is just. Let us go on."

"And again I tell you, Mr. Law," replied Sir Arthur, "that I will not

fight you."

"Then, sir," said Law, dropping his own sword upon the grass and

extending his hand with a broken smile, "'tis I who am your prisoner!"

CHAPTER XI

THE IROQUOIS

Even as Sir Arthur and John Law clasped hands, there came a sudden

interruption. A half-score yards deeper in the wood there arose a

sudden, half-choked cry, followed by a shrill whoop. There was a

crashing as of one running, and immediately there pressed into the open

space the figure of an Indian, an old man from the village of the

Illini. Even as his staggering footsteps brought him within gaze, the

two startled observers saw the shaft which had sunk deep within his

breast. He had been shot through by an Indian arrow, and upon the

instant it was all too plain whose hand had sped the shaft. Following

close upon his heels there came a stalwart savage, whose face, hideously

painted, appeared fairly demoniacal as he came bounding on with uplifted

hatchet, seeking to strike down the victim already impaled by the silent

arrow.

"Quick!" cried Law, in a flash catching the meaning of this sudden

spectacle. "Into the fort, Sir Arthur, and call the men together!"

Not stopping to relieve the struggles of the victim, who had now fallen

forward gasping, Law sprang on with drawn blade to meet the advancing

savage. The latter paused for an uncertain moment, and then with a

shrill yell of defiance, hurled the keen steel hatchet full at Law's

head. It shore away a piece of his hat brim, and sank with edge deep

buried in the trunk of a tree beyond. The savage turned, but turned too

late. The blade of the swordsman passed through from rib to rib under

his arm, and he fell choking, even as he sought again to give vent to

his war-cry.

And now there arose in the woods beyond, and in the fields below the

hill, and from the villages of the neighboring Indians, a series of

sharp, ululating yells. Shots came from within the fortress, where the

loop-holes were already manned. There were borne from the nearest

wigwams of the Illini the screams of wounded men, the shrieks of

terrified women. In an instant the peaceful spot had become the scene of

a horrible confusion. Once more the wolves of the woods, the Iroquois,

had fallen on their prey!

Swift as had been Law's movements, Pembroke was but a pace behind him as

he wrenched free his blade. The two turned back together and started at

speed for the palisade. At the gate they met others hurrying in,

Pembroke's men joining in the rush of the frightened villagers. Among

these the Iroquois pressed with shrill yells, plying knife and bow and

hatchet as they ran, and the horrified eyes of those within the palisade

saw many a tragedy enacted.

"Watch the gate!" cried Pierre Noir, from his station in the corner

tower. As he spoke there came a rush of screaming Iroquois, who sought

to gain the entrance.

"Now!" cried Pierre Noir, discharging his piece into the crowded ranks

below him; and shot after shot followed his own. The packed brown mass

gave back and resolved itself into scattered units, who broke and ran

for the nearest cover.

"They will not come on again until dark," said Pierre Noir, calmly

leaning his piece against the wall. "Therefore I may attend to certain

little matters."

He passed out into the entry-way, where lay the bodies of three

Iroquois, abandoned, under the close and deadly fire, by their

companions where they had fallen. When Pierre Noir returned and calmly

propped up again the door of slabs which he had removed, he carried in

his hand three tufts of long black hair, from which dripped heavy gouts

of blood.

"Good God, man!" said Pembroke. "You must not be savage as these

Indians!"

"Speak for yourself, Monsieur Anglais," replied Pierre, stoutly. "You

need not save these head pieces if you do not care for them. For myself,

'tis part of the trade."

"Assuredly," broke in Jean Breboeuf. "We keep these trinkets, we

_voyageurs_ of the French. Make no doubt that Jean Breboeuf will take

back with him full tale of the Indians he has killed. Presently I go

out. Zip! goes my knife, and off comes the topknot of Monsieur Indian,

him I killed but now as he ran. Then I shall dry the scalp here by the

fire, and mount it on a bit of willow, and take it back for a present to

my sweetheart, Susanne Duchéne, on the seignieury at home."

"Bravo, Jean!" cried out the old Indian fighter, Pierre Noir, the old

baresark rage of the fighting man now rising hot in his blood. "And

look! Here come more chances for our little ornaments."

Pierre Noir for once had been mistaken and underestimated the courage of

the warriors of the Onondagos. Lashing themselves to fury at the thought

of their losses, they came on again, now banding and charging in the

open close up to the walls of the palisade. Again the little party of

whites maintained a steady fire, and again the Iroquois, baffled and

enraged, fell back into the wood, whence they poured volley after volley

rattling against the walls of the sturdy fortress.

"I am sorry, sir," said Sergeant Gray to Pembroke, "but 'tis all up with

me." The poor fellow staggered against the wall, and in a few moments

all was indeed over with him. A chance shot had pierced his chest.

"_Peste_! If this keeps up," said Pierre Noir, "there will not be many

of us left by morning. I never saw them fight so well. 'Tis a good watch

we'll need this night."

In fact, all through the night the Iroquois tried every stratagem of

their savage warfare. With ear-splitting yells they came close up to the

stockade, and in one such charge two or three of their young men even

managed to climb to the tops of the pointed stakes, though but to meet

their death at the muzzles of the muskets within. Then there arose

curving lines of fire from without the walls, half circles which

terminated at last in little jarring thuds, where blazing arrows fell

and stood in log, or earth, or unprotected roof. These projectiles,

wrapped with lighted birch bark, served as fire brands, and danger

enough they carried. Yet, after some fashion, the little garrison kept

down these incipient blazes, held together the terrified Illini,

repulsed each repeated charge of the Iroquois, and so at last wore

through the long and fearful night.

The sun was just rising across the tops of the distant groves when the

Iroquois made their next advance. It came not in the form of a concerted

attack, but of an appeal for peace. A party of the savages left their

cover and approached the fortress, waving their hands above their heads.

One of them presently advanced alone.

"What is it, Pierre?" asked Law. "What does the fellow want?"

"I care not what he wants," said Pierre Noir, carefully adjusting the

lock of his piece and steadily regarding the savage as he approached;

"but I'll wager you a year's pay he never gets alive past yonder stump."

"Stay!" cried Pembroke, catching at the barrel of the leveled gun. "I

believe he would talk with us."

"What does he say, Pierre?" asked Law. "Speak to him, if you can."

"He wants to know," said Pierre, as the messenger at length stopped and

began a harangue, "whether we are English or French. He says something

about there being a big peace between Corlaer and Onontio; by which he

means, gentlemen, the governor at New York and the governor at Quebec."

"Tell him," cried Pembroke, with a sudden thought, "that I am an

officer of Corlaer, and that Corlaer bids the Iroquois to bring in all

the prisoners they have taken. Tell him that the French are going to

give up all their prisoners to us, and that the Iroquois must leave the

war path, or my Lord Bellomont will take the war trail and wipe their

villages off the earth."

Something in this speech as conveyed to the savage seemed to give him a

certain concern. He retired, and presently his place was taken by a tall

and stately figure, dressed in the full habiliments of an Iroquois

chieftain. He came on calmly and proudly, his head erect, and in his

extended hand the long-stemmed pipe of peace. Pierre Noir heaved a deep

sigh of relief.

"Unless my eyes deceive me," said he, "'tis old Teganisoris himself, one

of the head men of the Onondagos. If so, there is some hope, for

Teganisoris is wise enough to know when peace is best."

It was, indeed, that noted chieftain of the Iroquois who now advanced

close up to the wall. Law and Pembroke stepped out to meet him beyond

the palisade, the old _voyageur_ still serving as interpreter from the

platform at their back.

"He says--listen, Messieurs!--he says he knows there is going to be a

big peace; that the Iroquois are tired of fighting and that their

hearts are sore. He says--a most manifest lie, I beg you to observe,

Messieurs--that he loves the English, and that, although he ought to

kill the Frenchmen of our garrison, he will, since some of us are

English, and hence his friends, spare us all if we will cease to fight."

Pembroke turned to Law with question in his eye.

"There must be something done," said the latter in a low tone. "We were

short enough of ammunition here even before Du Mesne left for the

settlements, and your own men have none too much left."

"'Reflect! Bethink yourselves, Englishmen!' he says to us," continued

Pierre Noir. "'We came to make war upon the Illini. Our work here is

done. 'Tis time now that we went back to our villages. If there is to be

a big peace, the Iroquois must be there; for unless the Iroquois demand

it, there can be no peace at all.' And, gentlemen, I beg you to remember

it is an Iroquois who is talking, and that the truth is not in the

tongue of an Iroquois."

"'Tis a desperate chance, Mr. Law," said Pembroke. "Yet if we keep up

the fight here, there can be but one end."

"'Tis true," said Law; "and there are others to be considered."

It was hurriedly thus concluded. Law finally advanced toward the tall

figure of the Iroquois headman, and looked him straight in the face.

"Tell him," said he to Pierre Noir, "that we are all English, and that

we are not afraid; and that if we are harmed, the armies of Corlaer will

destroy the Iroquois, even as the Iroquois have the Illini. Tell him

that we will go back with him to the settlements because we are willing

to go that way upon a journey which we had already planned. We could

fight forever if we chose, and he can see for himself by the bodies of

his young men how well we are able to make war."

"It is well," replied Teganisoris. "You have the word of an Iroquois

that this shall be done, as I have said."

"The word of an Iroquois!" cried Pierre Noir, slamming down the butt of

his musket. "The word of a snake, say rather! Jean Breboeuf, harken you

to what our leaders have agreed! We are to go as prisoners of the

Iroquois! Mary, Mother of God, what folly! And there is madame, and _la

pauvre petite_, that infant so young. By God! Were it left to me, Pierre

Berthier would stand here, and fight to the end. I know these Iroquois!"

CHAPTER XII

PRISONERS OF THE IROQUOIS

The faith of the Iroquois was worse than Punic, nor was there lacking

swift proof of its real nature. Law and Pembroke, the moment they had

led their little garrison beyond the gate, found themselves surrounded

by a ring of tomahawks and drawn bows. Their weapons were snatched away

from them, and on the instant they found themselves beyond all

possibility of that resistance whose giving over they now bitterly

repented. Teganisoris regarded them with a sardonic smile.

"I see you are all English," said he, "though some of you wear blue

coats. These we may perhaps adopt into our tribe, for our boys grow up

but slowly, and some of the blue coats are good fighters. These dogs of

Illini we shall of course burn. As for your war house, you will no

longer need it, since you are now friends of the Iroquois, and are going

to their villages. You may say to Corlaer that you well know the

Iroquois have no prisoners."

The horrid significance of this threat was all too soon made plain. In

an hour the little stockade was but a mass of embers and ashes. In

another hour the little valley had become a Gehenna of anguish and

lamentations, with whose riot of grief and woe there mingled the savage

exultations of a foe whose treachery was but surpassed by his cruelty.

Again the planting-ground of the Illini was utterly laid waste, to mark

it naught remaining but trampled grain, and heaps of ashes, and remnants

of blackened and incinerated bones. By nightfall the party of prisoners

had begun a wild journey through the wilderness, whose horrors surpassed

any they had supposed to be humanly endurable.

Day after day, week after week, for more than a month, and much of the

time in winter weather, they toiled on, part of the way by boat, the

remainder of the journey on foot, crossing snow-clogged forest, and

tangled thicket and frozen morass, yet daring not to drop out for rest,

since to lag might mean to die. It was as though after some frightful

nightmare of suffering and despair that at length they reached the

villages of the Five Nations, located far to the east, at the foot of

the great waterway which Law and his family had ascended more than a

year before.

Yet if that which had gone before seemed like some bitter dream, surely

the day of awakening promised but little better hope. From village to

village, footsore and ill, they were hurried without rest, at each new

stopping place the central figures of a barbarous triumph; and nowhere

did they meet the representatives of either the French or the English

government, whose expected presence had constituted their one ground of

hope.

"Where is your big peace?" asked Teganisoris of Pembroke. "Where are the

head men of Corlaer? Who brings presents to the Iroquois, and who is to

tell us that Onontio has carried the pipe of peace to Corlaer? Here are

our villages as when we left them, and here again are we, save for the

absent ones who have been killed by your young men. It is no wonder that

my people are displeased."

Indeed those of the Iroquois who had remained at home clamored

continually that some of the prisoners should be given over to them.

Thus, in doubt, uncertainty and terror the party passed through the

villages, moving always eastward, until at length they arrived at the

fortified town where Teganisoris made his home, a spot toward the foot

of Lake Ontario, and not widely removed from that stupendous cataract

which, from the beginning of earth, had uplifted its thunderous

diapason here in the savage wilderness--Ontoneagrea, object of

superstitious awe among all the tribes.

Time hung heavy on the hands of the savages. It was winter, and the

parties had all returned from the war trails. The mutterings arose yet

more loudly among families who had lost most heavily in these Western

expeditions. The shrewd mind of Teganisoris knew that some new thing

must be planned. He announced his decision at his own village, after the

triumphal progress among the tribes had at length been concluded.

"Since they have sent us no presents," said he, with that daring

diplomacy which made him a leader in red statesmanship, "let those who

stayed at home be given some prisoner in pay for those of their people

who have been killed. Moreover, let us offer to the Great Spirit some

sacrifice in propitiation; since surely the Great Spirit is offended."

Such was the conclusion of this head man of the Onondagos, and fateful

enough it was to the prisoners.

The great gorge through which poured the vast waters of the Northern

seas was a spot not always visited by those passing up the Great Lakes

for the Western stations, nor down the Lakes to the settlements of the

St. Lawrence. Yet there was a trail which led around the great cataract,

and the occasional _coureurs de bois_, or the passing friars, or the

adventurous merchants of the lower settlements now and again left that

trail, and came to look upon the tremendous scene of the great falling

of the waters. Here where the tumult ascended up to heaven, and where

the white-blown wreaths of mist might indeed, even in an imagination

better than that of a savage, have been construed into actual forms of

spirits, the Indians had, from time immemorial, made their offerings to

the genius of the cataract--strips of rude cloth, the skin of the beaver

and the otter, baskets woven of sweet grasses, and, after the advent of

the white man, pieces of metal or strings of precious beads. Such valued

things as these were in rude adoration placed upon rocks or uplifted

scaffolds near to the brink of the abyss. This was the spot most

commonly chosen by the medicine man in the pursuit of his incantations.

It was the church, the wild and savage cathedral of the red men.

Following now the command of their chieftain, the Iroquois left their

stationary lodges and moved in a body, pitching a temporary camp at a

spot not far from the Falls. Here, in a great council lodge, the older

men sat in deliberation for a full day and night. The dull drum sounded

continually, the council pipe went round, and the warriors besought the

spirits to give them knowledge. The savage hysteria, little by little,

yet steadily, arose higher and higher, until at length it reached that

point of frenzy where naught could suffice save some terrible, some

tremendous thing.

Enforced spectators of these curious and ominous ceremonies, the

prisoners looked on, wondering, imagining, hesitating and fearing.

"Monsieur," said Pierre Noir, turning at last to Law, "it grieves me to

speak, yet 'tis best for you to know the truth. It is to be you or

Monsieur Pembroke. They will not have me. They say that it must be one

of you two great chiefs, for that you were brave, your hearts were

strong, and that hence you would find favor as the adopted child of the

Great Spirit who has been offended."

Law looked at Pembroke, and they both regarded Mary Connynge and the

babe. "At least," said Law, "they spare the woman and the child. So far

very well. Sir Arthur, we are at the last hazard."

"I have asked them to take me," said Pierre Noir, "for I am an old man

and have no family. But they will not listen to me."

Pembroke passed his hand wearily across his face. "I have behind me so

long a memory of suffering," said he, "and before me so small an amount

of promise, that for myself I am content to let it end. It comes to all

sooner or later, according to our fate."

"You speak," said Law, "as though it were determined. Yet Pierre says it

will not be both of us, but one."

Pembroke smiled sadly. "Why, sir," said he, "do you think me so sorry a

fellow as that? Look!" and he pointed to Mary Connynge and the child.

"There is your duty."