"Because of the storm there is no sleeping. Is there not the
watcher aloft? Shall the sparrow fall unheeded? The wicked
shall be confounded."
It was Alixe's writing. She had hazarded this in the hands of my
jailer as her only hope, and, knowing that he might not serve her,
had put her message in vague sentences which I readily interpreted.
I read the words aloud to him, and he laughed, and remarked, "'Tis
a foolish thing that--The Scarlet Woman, mast like."
"Most like," I answered quietly; "yet what should she be doing
there at the Chateau?"
"The mad go everywhere," he answered, "even to the intendance!"
With that he left me, going, as he said, "to fetch crumbs and
wine." Exhausted with the day's business, I threw myself upon
my couch, drew my cloak over me, composed myself, and in a few
minutes was sound asleep. I waked to find Gabord in the dungeon,
setting out food upon a board supported by two stools.
"'Tis custom to feed your dickey-bird ere you fetch him to the
pot." he said, and drew the cork from a bottle of wine.
He watched me as I ate and talked, but he spoke little. When I
had finished, he fetched a packet of tobacco from his pocket. I
offered him money, but he refused it, and I did not press him, for
he said the food and wine were not of his buying. Presently he
left, and came back with pens, ink, paper, and candles, which be
laid out on my couch without words.
After a little he came again, and laid a book on the improvised
table before me. It was an English Bible. Opening it, I found
inscribed on the fly-leaf, Charles Wainfleet, Chaplain to the
British Army. Gabord explained that this chaplain had been in
the citadel for some weeks; that he had often inquired about me;
that he had been brought from the Ohio; and had known of me, having
tended the lieutenant of my Virginian infantry in his last hours.
Gabord thought I should now begin to make my peace with Heaven,
and so had asked for the chaplain's Bible, which was freely given.
I bade him thank the chaplain for me, and opening the book, I found
a leaf turned down at the words,
"In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these
calamities be overpast."
When I was left alone, I sat down to write diligently that history
of myself which I had composed and fixed in my memory during the
year of my housing in this dungeon. The words came from my pen
freely, and hour after hour through many days, while no single word
reached me from the outside world, I wrote on; carefully revising,
but changing little from that which I had taken so long to record
in my mind. I would not even yet think that they would hang me; and
if they did, what good could brooding do? When the last word of the
memoirs (I may call them so), addressed to Alixe, had been written,
I turned my thoughts to other friends.
The day preceding that fixed for my execution came, yet there
was no sign from friend or enemy without. At ten o'clock of that
day Chaplain Wainfleet was admitted to me in the presence of Gabord
and a soldier. I found great pleasure in his company, brief as his
visit was; and after I had given him messages to bear for me to old
friends, if we never met again and he were set free, he left me,
benignly commending me to Heaven. There was the question of my
other letters. I had but one desire--Voban again, unless at my
request the Seigneur Duvarney would come, and they would let him
come. If it were certain that I was to go to the scaffold, then I
should not hesitate to tell him my relations with his daughter,
that he might comfort her when, being gone from the world myself,
my love could do her no harm. I could not think that he would hold
against me the duel with his son, and I felt sure he would come to
me if he could.
But why should I not try for both Voban and the Seigneur? So I
spoke to Gabord.
"Voban! Voban!" said he. "Does dickey-bird play at peacock still?
Well, thou shalt see Voban. Thou shalt go trimmed to heaven--aho!"
Presently I asked him if he would bear a message to the Governor,
asking permission for the Seigneur Duvarney to visit me, if he were
so inclined. At his request I wrote my petition out, and he carried
it away with him, saying that I should have Voban that evening.
I waited hour after hour, but no one came. As near as I could
judge it was now evening. It seemed strange to think that, twenty
feet above me, the world was all white with snow; the sound of
sleigh-bells and church-bells, and the cries of snowshoers ringing
on the clear, sharp air. I pictured the streets of Quebec alive
with people: the young seigneur set off with furs and silken sash
and sword or pistols; the long-haired, black-eyed woodsman in his
embroidered moccasins and leggings with flying thrums; the peasant
farmer slapping his hands cheerfully in the lighted market-place;
the petty noble, with his demoiselle, hovering in the precincts of
the Chateau St. Louis and the intendance. Up there were light,
freedom, and the inspiriting frost; down here in my dungeon, the
blades of corn, which, dying, yet never died, told the story of a
choking air, wherein the body and soul of a man droop and take long
to die. This was the night before Christmas Eve, when in England
and Virginia they would be preparing for feasting and thanksgiving.
The memories of past years crowded on me. I thought of feastings
and spendthrift rejoicings in Glasgow and Virginia. All at once
the carnal man in me rose up and damned these lying foes of mine.
Resignation went whistling down the wind. Hang me! Hang me! No, by
the God that gave me breath! I sat back and laughed--laughed at
my own insipid virtue, by which, to keep faith with the fanatical
follower of Prince Charlie, I had refused my liberty; cut myself off
from the useful services of my King; wasted good years of my life,
trusting to pressure and help to come from England, which never
came; twisted the rope for my own neck to keep honour with the
dishonourable Doltaire, who himself had set the noose swinging; and,
inexpressible misery! involved in my shame and peril a young blithe
spirit, breathing a miasma upon the health of a tender life. Every
rebellious atom in my blood sprang to indignant action. I swore
that if they fetched me to the gallows to celebrate their Noel,
other lives than mine should go to keep me company on the dark trail.
To die like a rat in a trap, oiled for the burning, and lighted by
the torch of hatred! No, I would die fighting, if I must die.
I drew from its hiding-place the knife I had secreted the day I
was brought into that dungeon--a little weapon, but it would serve
for the first blow. At whom? Gabord? It all flashed through my mind
how I might do it when he came in again: bury this blade in his neck
or heart--it was long enough for the work; then, when he was dead,
change my clothes for his, take his weapons, and run my chances to
get free of the citadel. Free? Where should I go in the dead of
winter? Who would hide me, shelter me? I could not make my way to
an English settlement. Ill clad, exposed to the merciless climate,
and the end death. But that was freedom--freedom! I could feel my
body dilating with the thought, as I paced my dungeon like an
ill-tempered beast. But kill Gabord, who had put himself in danger
to serve me, who himself had kept the chains from off my ankles and
body, whose own life depended upon my security--"Come, come, Robert
Moray," said I, "what relish have you for that? That's an ill game
for a gentleman. Alixe Duvarney would rather see you dead than get
your freedom over the body of this man."
That was an hour of storm. I am glad that I conquered the baser
part of me; for, almost before I had grown calm again, the bolts of
the dungeon doors shot back, and presently Gabord stepped inside,
followed by a muffled figure.
"Voban the barber," said Gabord in a strange voice, and stepping
again outside, he closed the door, but did not shoot the bolts.
I stood as one in a dream. Voban the barber? In spite of cap and
great fur coat, I saw the outline of a figure that no barber ever
had in this world. I saw two eyes shining like lights set in a rosy
sky. A moment of doubt, of impossible speculation, of delicious
suspense, and then the coat of Voban the barber opened, dropped
away from the lithe, graceful figure of a young officer of marines,
the cap flew off, and in an instant the dear head, the blushing,
shining face of Alixe was on my breast.
In that moment, stolen from the calendar of hate, I ran into the
haven where true hearts cast anchor and bless God that they have
seen upon the heights, to guide them, the lights of home. The
moment flashed by and was gone, but the light it made went not
with it.
When I drew her blushing face up, and stood her off from me that
I might look at her again, the colour flew back and forth on her
cheek, as you may see the fire flutter in an uncut ruby when you
turn it in the sun. Modestly drawing the cloak she wore more
closely about her, she hastened to tell me how it was she came in
such a guise; but I made her pause for a moment while I gave her a
seat and sat down beside her. Then by the light of the flickering
torch and flaring candles I watched her feelings play upon her
face as the warm light of autumn shifts upon the glories of ripe
fruits. Her happiness was tempered by the sadness of our position,
and my heart smote me that I had made her suffer, had brought care
to her young life. I could see that in the year she had grown
older, yet her beauty seemed enhanced by that and by the trouble
she had endured. I shall let her tell her story here unbroken by
my questions and those interruptions which Gabord made, bidding
her to make haste. She spoke without faltering, save here and
there; but even then I could see her brave spirit quelling the riot
of her emotions, shutting down the sluice-gate of tears.
"I knew," she said, her hand clasped in mine, "that Gabord was
the only person like to be admitted to you, and so for days, living
in fear lest the worst should happen, I have prepared for this
chance. I have grown so in height that I knew an old uniform of my
brothers would fit me, and I had it ready--small sword and all,"
she added, with a sad sort of humour, touching the weapon at her
side. "You must know that we have for the winter a house here upon
the ramparts near the Chateau. It was my mother's doings, that my
sister Georgette and I might have no great journeyings in the cold
to the festivities hereabouts. So I, being a favourite with the
Governor, ran in and out of the Chateau at my will; of which my
mother was proud, and she allowed me much liberty, for to be a
favourite of the Governor is an honour. I knew how things were
going, and what the chances were of the sentence being carried out
on you. Sometimes I thought my heart would burst with the anxiety of
it all, but I would not let that show to the world. If you could but
have seen me smile at the Governor and Monsieur Doltaire--nay, do
not press my hand so, Robert; you know well you have no need to
fear monsieur--while I learned secrets of state, among them news of
you. Three nights ago Monsieur Doltaire was talking with me at a
ball--ah, those feastings while you were lying in a dungeon, and I
shutting up my love and your danger close in my heart, even from
those who loved me best! Well, suddenly he said, 'I think I will
not have our English captain shifted to a better world.'
"My heart stood still; I felt an ache across my breast so that I
could hardly breathe. 'Why will you not?' said I; 'was not the
sentence just?' He paused a minute, and then replied, 'All
sentences are just when an enemy is dangerous.' Then said I as in
surprise, 'Why, was he no spy, after all?' He sat back, and laughed
a little. 'A spy according to the letter of the law, but you have
heard of secret history--eh?' I tried to seem puzzled, for I had a
thought there was something private between you and him which has
to do with your fate. So I said, as if bewildered, 'You mean there
is evidence which was not shown at the trial?' He answered slowly,
'Evidence that would bear upon the morals, not the law of the
case.' Then said I, 'Has it to do with you, monsieur?' 'It has to
do with France,' he replied. 'And so you will not have his death?'
I asked. 'Bigot wishes it,' he replied, 'for no other reason than
that Madame Cournal has spoken nice words for the good-looking
captain, and because that unsuccessful duel gave Vaudreuil an
advantage over himself. Vaudreuil wishes it because he thinks it
will sound well in France, and also because he really believes the
man a spy. The Council do not care much; they follow the Governor
and Bigot, and both being agreed, their verdict is unanimous.'
He paused, then added, 'And the Seigneur Duvarney--and his
daughter--wish it because of a notable injury to one of their
name.' At that I cautiously replied, 'No, my father does not wish
it, for my brother gave the offense, and Captain Moray saved his
life, as you know. I do not wish it, Monsieur Doltaire, because
hanging is a shameful death, and he is a gentle man, not a ruffian.
Let him be shot like a gentleman. How will it sound at the Court of
France that, on insufficient evidence, as you admit, an English
gentleman was hanged for a spy? Would not the King say (for he is a
gentleman), Why was not this shown me before the man's death? Is it
not a matter upon which a country would feel as gentlemen feel?'
"I knew it the right thing to say at the moment, and it seemed
the only way to aid you, though I intended, if the worst came to
the worst, to go myself to the Governor at the last and plead for
your life, at least for a reprieve. But it had suddenly flashed
upon me that a reference to France was the thing, since the
Articles of War which you are accused of dishonouring were signed
by officers from France and England.
"Presently he turned to me with a look of curiosity, and another
sort of look also that made me tremble, and said, 'Now, there you
have put your finger on the point--my point, the choice weapon I
had reserved to prick the little bubble of Bigot's hate and the
Governor's conceit, if I so chose, even at the last. And here is a
girl, a young girl just freed from pinafores, who teaches them the
law of nations! If it pleased me I should not speak, for Vaudreuil's
and Bigot's affairs are none of mine; but, in truth, why should you
kill your enemy? It is the sport to keep him living; you can get no
change for your money from a dead man. He has had one cheerful year;
why not another, and another, and another? And so watch him fretting
to the slow-coming end, while now and again you give him a taste of
hope, to drop him back again into the pit which has no sides for
climbing.' He paused a minute, and then added, 'A year ago I thought
he had touched you, this Britisher, with his raw humour and manners;
but, my faith, how swiftly does a woman's fancy veer!' At that I
said calmly to him, 'You must remember that then he was not thought
so base.' 'Yes, yes,' he replied; 'and a woman loves to pity the
captive, whatever his fault, if he be presentable and of some notice
or talent. And Moray has gifts,' he went on. I appeared all at once
to be offended. 'Veering, indeed! a woman's fancy! I think you might
judge women better. You come from high places, Monsieur Doltaire,
and they say this and that of your great talents and of your power
at Versailles, but what proof have we had of it? You set a girl
down with a fine patronage, and you hint at weapons to cut off my
cousin the Governor and the Intendant from their purposes; but how
do we know you can use them, that you have power with either the
unnoticeable woman or the great men?' I knew very well it was a bold
move. He suddenly turned to me, in his cruel eyes a glittering kind
of light, and said, 'I suggest no more than I can do with those
"great men"; and as for the woman, the slave can not be patron--I am
the slave. I thought not of power before; but now that I do, I will
live up to my thinking. I seem idle, I am not; purposeless, I am
not; a gamester, I am none. I am a sportsman, and I will not leave
the field till all the hunt be over. I seem a trifler, yet I have
persistency. I am no romanticist, I have no great admiration for
myself, and yet when I set out to hunt a woman honestly, be sure
I shall never back to kennel till she is mine or I am done for
utterly. Not by worth nor by deserving, but by unending patience and
diligence--that shall be my motto. I shall devote to the chase every
art that I have learned or known by nature. So there you have me,
mademoiselle. Since you have brought me to the point, I will unfurl
my flag.... I am--your--hunter,' he went on, speaking with slow,
painful emphasis, 'and I shall make you mine. You fight against me,
but it is no use.' I got to my feet, and said with coolness, though
I was sick at heart and trembling, 'You are frank. You have made two
resolves. I shall give weight to one as you fulfill the other'; and,
smiling at him, I moved away towards my mother.
"Masterful as he is, I felt that this would touch his vanity.
There lay my great chance with him. If he had guessed the truth
of what's between us, be sure, Robert, your life were not worth
one hour beyond to-morrow's sunrise. You must know how I loathe
deceitfulness, but when one weak girl is matched against powerful
and evil men, what can she do? My conscience does not chide me, for
I know my cause is just. Robert, look me in the eyes.... There,
like that.... Now tell me. You are innocent of the dishonourable
thing, are you not? I believe with all my soul, but that I may say
from your own lips that you are no spy, tell me so."
When I had said as she had wished, assuring her she should know
all, carrying proofs away with her, and that hidden evidence of
which Doltaire had spoken, she went on:
"'You put me to the test,' said monsieur. 'Doing one, it will be
proof that I shall do the other.' He fixed his eyes upon me with
such a look that my whole nature shrank from him, as if the next
instant his hateful hands were to be placed on me. Oh, Robert, I
know how perilous was the part I played, but I dared it for your
sake. For a whole year I have dissembled to every one save to that
poor mad soul Mathilde, who reads my heart in her wild way, to
Voban, and to the rough soldier outside your dungeon. But they will
not betray me. God has given us these rough but honest friends.
"Well, monsieur left me that night, and I have not seen him since,
nor can I tell where he is, for no one knows, and I dare not ask
too much. I did believe he would achieve his boast as to saving
your life, and so, all yesterday and to-day, I have waited with most
anxious heart; but not one word! Yet there was that in all he said
which made me sure he meant to save you, and I believe he will. Yet
think: if anything happened to him! You know what wild doings go on
at Bigot's chateau out at Charlesbourg; or, again, in the storm of
yesterday he may have been lost. You see, there are the hundred
chances; so I determined not to trust wholly to him. There was
one other way--to seek the Governor myself, open my heart to him,
and beg for a reprieve. To-night at nine o'clock--it is now six,
Robert--we go to the Chateau St. Louis, my mother and my father and
I, to sup with the Governor. Oh, think what I must endure, to face
them with this awful shadow on me! If no word come of the reprieve
before that hour, I shall make my own appeal to the Governor. It may
ruin me, but it may save you; and that done, what should I care for
the rest? Your life is more to me than all the world beside." Here
she put both hands upon my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.
I did not answer yet, but took her hands in mine, and she
continued: "An hour past, I told my mother I should go to see
my dear friend Lucie Lotbiniere. Then I stole up to my room,
put on my brother's uniform, and came down to meet Voban near the
citadel, as we had arranged. I knew he was to have an order from
the Governor to visit you. He was waiting, and to my great joy he
put the order in my hands. I took his coat and wig and cap, a poor
disguise, and came straight to the citadel, handing the order to
the soldiers at the gate. They gave it back without a word, and
passed me on. I thought this strange, and looked at the paper by
the light of the torches. What was my surprise to see that Voban's
name had been left out! It but gave permission to the bearer. That
would serve with the common soldier, but I knew well it would not
with Gabord or with the commandant of the citadel. All at once I saw
the great risk I was running, the danger to us both. Still I would
not turn back. But how good fortune serves us when we least look for
it! At the commandant's very door was Gabord. I did not think to
deceive him. It was my purpose from the first to throw myself upon
his mercy. So there, that moment, I thrust the order into his hand.
He read it, looked a moment, half fiercely and half kindly, at me,
then turned and took the order to the commandant. Presently he came
out, and said to me, 'Come, m'sieu', and see you clip the gentleman
dainty fine for his sunrise travel. He'll get no care 'twixt
posting-house and end of journey, m'sieu'.' This he said before two
soldiers, speaking with harshness and a brutal humour. But inside
the citadel he changed at once, and, taking from my head this cap
and wig, he said quite gently, yet I could see he was angry, too,
'This is a mad doing, young lady.' He said no more, and led me
straight to you. If I had told him I was coming, I know he would
have stayed me. But at the dangerous moment he had not heart to
drive me back.... And that is all my story, Robert."
As I have said, this tale was broken often by little questionings
and exclamations, and was not told in one long narrative as I have
written it here. When she had done I sat silent and overcome for a
moment. There was one thing now troubling me sorely, even in the
painful joy of having her here close by me. She had risked all to
save my life--reputation, friends, even myself, the one solace in
her possible misery. Was it not my duty to agree to Doltaire's
terms, for her sake, if there was yet a chance to do so? I had made
a solemn promise to Sir John Godric that those letters, if they ever
left my hands, should go to the lady who had written them; and to
save my own life I would not have broken faith with my benefactor.
But had I the right to add to the misery of this sweet, brave
spirit? Suppose it was but for a year or two: had I the right to
give her sorrow for that time, if I could prevent it, even at the
cost of honour with the dead? Was it not my duty to act, and at
once? Time was short.
While in a swift moment I was debating, Gabord opened the door,
and said, "Come, end it, end it. Gabord has a head to save!" I
begged him for one minute more, and then giving Alixe the packet
which held my story, I told her hastily the matter between Doltaire
and myself, and said that now, rather than give her sorrow, I was
prepared to break my word with Sir John Godric. She heard me through
with flashing eyes, and I could see her bosom heave. When I had
done, she looked me straight in the eyes.
"Is all that here?" she said, holding up the packet.
"All," I answered.
"And you would not break your word to save your own life?"