The Governor visited me. His attitude was marked by nothing so much as a
supercilious courtesy, a manner which said, You must see I am not to be
trifled with; and though I have you here in my chateau, it is that I may
make a fine scorching of you in the end. He would make of me an example
to amaze and instruct the nations--when I was robust enough to die.
I might easily have flattered myself on being an object of interest to
the eyes of nations. I almost pitied him; for he appeared so lost in
self-admiration and the importance of his office that he would never see
disaster when it came.
“There is but one master here in Canada,” he said, “and I am he. If
things go wrong it is because my orders are not obeyed. Your people have
taken Louisburg; had I been there, it should never have been given up.
Drucour was hasty--he listened to the women. I should allow no woman to
move me. I should be inflexible. They might send two Amhersts and two
Wolfes against me, I would hold my fortress.”
“They will never send two, your Excellency,” said I.
He did not see the irony, and he prattled on: “That Wolfe, they tell me,
is bandy-legged; is no better than a girl at sea, and never well ashore.
I am always in raw health--the strong mind in the potent body. Had I
been at Louisburg, I should have held it, as I held Ticonderoga last
July, and drove the English back with monstrous slaughter.”
Here was news. I had had no information in many months, and all at once
two great facts were brought to me.
“Your Excellency, then, was at Ticonderoga?” said I.
“I sent Montcalm to defend it,” he replied pompously. “I told him how
he must act; I was explicit, and it came out as I had said: we
were victorious. Yet he would have done better had he obeyed me in
everything. If I had been at Louisburg--”
I could not at first bring myself to flatter the vice-regal peacock;
for it had been my mind to fight these Frenchmen always; to yield
in nothing; to defeat them like a soldier, not like a juggler. But I
brought myself to say half ironically, “If all great men had capable
instruments, they would seldom fail.”
“You have touched the heart of the matter,” he said credulously. “It
is a pity,” he added, with complacent severity, “that you have been
so misguided and criminal; you have, in some things, more sense than
folly.”
I bowed as to a compliment from a great man. Then, all at once, I spoke
to him with an air of apparent frankness, and said that if I must die, I
cared to do so like a gentleman, with some sort of health, and not like
an invalid. He must admit that at least I was no coward. He might fence
me about with what guards he chose, but I prayed him to let me walk
upon the ramparts, when I was strong enough to be abroad, under all due
espionage. I had already suffered many deaths, I said, and I would go to
the final one looking like a man, and not like an outcast of humanity.
“Ah, I have heard this before,” said he. “Monsieur Doltaire, who is in
prison here, and is to fare on to the Bastile, was insolent enough to
send me message yesterday that I should keep you close in your dungeon.
But I had had enough of Monsieur Doltaire; and indeed it was through
me that the Grande Marquise had him called to durance. He was a muddler
here. They must not interfere with me; I am not to be cajoled or
crossed in my plans. We shall see, we shall see about the ramparts,” he
continued. “Meanwhile prepare to die.” This he said with such importance
that I almost laughed in his face. But I bowed with a sort of awed
submission, and he turned and left the room.
I grew stronger slowly day by day, but it was quite a month before Alixe
came again. Sometimes I saw her walking on the banks of the river, and
I was sure she was there that I might see her, though she made no sign
towards me, nor ever seemed to look towards my window.
Spring was now fully come. The snow had gone from the ground, the tender
grass was springing, the air was so soft and kind. One fine day, at the
beginning of May, I heard the booming of cannons and a great shouting,
and, looking out, I could see crowds of people upon the banks, and many
boats in the river, where yet the ice had not entirely broken up. By
stretching from my window, through the bars of which I could get my
head, but not my body, I noted a squadron sailing round the point of
the Island of Orleans. I took it to be a fleet from France bearing
re-enforcements and supplies--as indeed afterwards I found was so; but
the re-enforcements were so small and the supplies so limited that it
is said Montcalm, when he knew, cried out, “Now is all lost! Nothing
remains but to fight and die. I shall see my beloved Candiac no more.”
For the first time all the English colonies had combined against Canada.
Vaudreuil and Montcalm were at variance, and Vaudreuil had, through his
personal hatred and envy of Montcalm, signed the death-warrant of the
colony by writing to the colonial minister that Montcalm’s agents, going
for succour, were not to be trusted. Yet at that moment I did not know
these things, and the sight made me grave, though it made me sure also
that this year would find the British battering this same Chateau.
Presently there came word from the Governor that I might walk upon the
ramparts, and I was taken forth for several hours each day; always,
however, under strict surveillance, my guards, well armed, attending,
while the ramparts were, as usual, patrolled by soldiers. I could see
that ample preparations were being made against a siege, and every day
the excitement increased. I got to know more definitely of what was
going on, when, under vigilance, I was allowed to speak to Lieutenant
Stevens, who also was permitted some such freedom as I had enjoyed when
I first came to Quebec. He had private information that General Wolfe or
General Amherst was likely to proceed against Quebec from Louisburg, and
he was determined to join the expedition.
For months he had been maturing plans for escape. There was one Clark,
a ship-carpenter (of whom I have before written), and two other bold
spirits, who were sick of captivity, and it was intended to fare forth
one night and make a run for freedom. Clark had had a notable plan.
A wreck of several transports had occurred at Belle Isle, and it was
thought to send him down the river with a sloop to bring back the
crew, and break up the wreck. It was his purpose to arm his sloop with
Lieutenant Stevens and some English prisoners the night before she was
to sail, and steal away with her down the river. But whether or not the
authorities suspected him, the command was given to another.
It was proposed, however, on a dark night, to get away to some point on
the river, where a boat should be stationed--though that was a difficult
matter, for the river was well patrolled and boats were scarce--and
drift quietly down the stream, till a good distance below the city. Mr.
Stevens said he had delayed the attempt on the faint hope of fetching me
along. Money, he said, was needed, for Clark and all were very poor, and
common necessaries were now at exorbitant prices in the country. Tyranny
and robbery had made corn and clothing luxuries. All the old tricks of
Bigot and his La Friponne, which, after the outbreak the night of my
arrest at the Seigneur Duvarney’s, had been somewhat repressed, were in
full swing again, and robbery in the name of providing for defense was
the only habit.
I managed to convey to Mr. Stevens a good sum of money, and begged him
to meet me every day upon the ramparts, until I also should see my way
to making a dart for freedom. I advised him in many ways, for he was
more bold than shrewd, and I made him promise that he would not tell
Clark or the others that I was to make trial to go with them. I feared
the accident of disclosure, and any new failure on my part to get away
would, I knew, mean my instant death, consent of King or no consent.
One evening, a soldier entered my room, whom in the half-darkness I did
not recognize, till a voice said, “There’s orders new! Not dungeon now,
but this room Governor bespeaks for gentlemen from France.”
“And where am I to go, Gabord?”
“Where you will have fighting,” he answered.
“With whom?”
“Yourself, aho!” A queer smile crossed his lips, and was followed by a
sort of sternness. There was something graver in his manner than I had
ever seen. I could not guess his meaning. At last he added, pulling
roughly at his mustache, “And when that’s done, if not well done, to
answer to Gabord the soldier; for, God take my soul without bed-going,
but I will call you to account! That Seigneur’s home is no place for
you.”
“You speak in riddles,” said I. Then all at once the matter burst upon
me. “The Governor quarters me at the Seigneur Duvarney’s?” I asked.
“No other,” answered he. “In three days to go.”
I understood him now. He had had a struggle, knowing of the relations
between Alixe and myself, to avoid telling the Governor all. And now,
if I involved her, used her to effect my escape from her father’s house!
Even his peasant brain saw my difficulty, the danger to my honour--and
hers. In spite of the joy I felt at being near her, seeing her, I shrank
from the situation. If I escaped from the Seigneur Duvarney’s, it would
throw suspicion upon him, upon Alixe, and that made me stand abashed.
Inside the Seigneur Duvarney’s house I should now feel unhappy, bound
to certain calls of honour concerning his daughter and himself. I stood
long, thinking, Gabord watching me.
Finally, “Gabord,” said I, “I give you my word of honour that I will not
put Mademoiselle or Monsieur Duvarney in peril.”
“You will not try to escape?”
“Not to use them for escape. To elude my guards, to fight my way to
liberty--yes--yes--yes!”
“But that mends not. Who’s to know the lady did not help you?”
“You. You are to be my jailer again there?”
He nodded, and fell to pulling his mustache. “‘Tis not enough,” he said
decisively.
“Come, then,” said I, “I will strike a bargain with you. If you will
grant me one thing, I will give my word of honour not to escape from the
seigneur’s house.”
“Say on.”
“You tell me I am not to go to the seigneur’s for three days yet.
Arrange that mademoiselle may come to me to-morrow at dusk--at six
o’clock, when all the world dines--and I will give my word. No more do I
ask you--only that.”
“Done,” said he. “It shall be so.”
“You will fetch her yourself?” I asked.
“On the stroke of six. Guard changes then.”
Here our talk ended. He went, and I plunged deep into my great plan;
for all at once, as we had talked, came a thing to me which I shall
make clear ere long. I set my wits to work. Once since my coming to
the chateau I had been visited by the English chaplain who had been a
prisoner at the citadel the year before. He was now on parole, and had
freedom to come and go in the town. The Governor had said he might visit
me on a certain day every week, at a fixed hour, and the next day at
five o’clock was the time appointed for his second visit. Gabord had
promised to bring Alixe to me at six.
The following morning I met Mr. Stevens on the ramparts. I told him it
was my purpose to escape the next night, if possible. If not, I must go
to the Seigneur Duvarney’s, where I should be on parole--to Gabord. I
bade him fulfill my wishes to the letter, for on his boldness and my
own, and the courage of his men, I depended for escape. He declared
himself ready to risk all, and die in the attempt, if need be, for he
was sick of idleness. He could, he said, mature his plans that day, if
he had more money. I gave him secretly a small bag of gold, and then I
made explicit note of what I required of him: that he should tie up in
a loose but safe bundle a sheet, a woman’s skirt, some river grasses
and reeds, some phosphorus, a pistol and a knife, and some saltpetre and
other chemicals. That evening, about nine o’clock, which was the hour
the guard changed, he was to tie this bundle to a string which I let
down from my window, and I would draw it up. Then, the night following,
the others must steal away to that place near Sillery--the west side of
the town was always ill guarded--and wait there with a boat. He should
see me at a certain point on the ramparts, and, well armed, we also
would make our way to Sillery, and from the spot called the Anse du
Foulon drift down the river in the dead of night.
He promised to do all as I wished.
The rest of the day I spent in my room fashioning strange toys out of
willow rods. I had got these rods from my guards, to make whistles for
their children, and they had carried away many of them. But now, with
pieces of a silk handkerchief tied to the whistle and filled with air,
I made a toy which, when squeezed, sent out a weird lament. Once when my
guard came in, I pressed one of these things in my pocket, and it gave
forth a sort of smothered cry, like a sick child. At this he started,
and looked round the room in trepidation; for, of all peoples, these
Canadian Frenchmen are the most superstitious, and may be worked on
without limit. The cry had seemed to come from a distance. I looked
around, also, and appeared serious, and he asked me if I had heard the
thing before.
“Once or twice,” said I.
“Then you are a dead man,” said he; “‘tis a warning, that!”
“Maybe it is not I, but one of you,” I answered. Then, with a sort of
hush, “Is’t like the cry of La Jongleuse?” I added. (La Jongleuse is
their fabled witch, or spirit, of disaster.)
He nodded his head, crossed himself, mumbled a prayer, and turned to go,
but came back. “I’ll fetch a crucifix,” he said. “You are a heathen, and
you bring her here. She is the devil’s dam.”
He left with a scared face, and I laughed to myself quietly, for I saw
success ahead of me. True to his word, he brought a crucifix and put it
up--not where he wished, but, at my request, opposite the door, upon the
wall. He crossed himself before it, and was most devout.
It looked singular to see this big, rough soldier, who was in most
things a swaggerer, so childlike in all that touched his religion. With
this you could fetch him to his knees; with it I would cow him that I
might myself escape.
At half past five the chaplain came, having been delayed by the guard to
have his order indorsed by Captain Lancy of the Governor’s household. To
him I told my plans so far as I thought he should know them, and then I
explained what I wished him to do. He was grave and thoughtful for some
minutes, but at last consented. He was a pious man, and of as honest a
heart as I have known, albeit narrow and confined, which sprang perhaps
from his provincial practice and his theological cutting and trimming.
We were in the midst of a serious talk, wherein I urged him upon matters
which shall presently be set forth, when there came a noise outside.
I begged him to retire to the alcove where my bed was, and draw the
curtain for a few moments, nor come forth until I called. He did so, yet
I thought it hurt his sense of dignity to be shifted to a bedroom.
As he disappeared the door opened, and Gabord and Alixe entered. “One
half hour,” said Gabord, and went out again.
Presently Alixe told me her story.
“I have not been idle, Robert, but I could not act, for my father and
mother suspect my love for you. I have come but little to the chateau
without them, and I was closely watched. I knew not how the thing would
end, but I kept up my workings with the Governor, which is easier now
Monsieur Doltaire is gone, and I got you the freedom to walk upon the
ramparts. Well, once before my father suspected me, I said that if his
Excellency disliked your being in the Chateau, you could be as well
guarded in my father’s house, with sentinels always there, until you
could, in better health, be taken to the common jail again. What was my
surprise when yesterday came word to my father that he should make
ready to receive you as a prisoner; being sure that he, his Excellency’s
cousin, the father of the man you had injured, and the most loyal of
Frenchmen, would guard you diligently; he now needed all extra room in
the Chateau for the entertainment of gentlemen and officers lately come
from France.
“When my father got the news, he was thrown into dismay. He knew not
what to do. On what ground could he refuse the Governor? Yet when he
thought of me he felt it his duty to do so. Again, on what ground could
he refuse this boon to you, to whom we all owe the blessing of his
life? On my brother’s account? But my brother has written to my father
justifying you, and magnanimously praising you as a man, while hating
you as an English soldier. On my account? But he could not give this
reason to the Governor. As for me, I was silent, I waited--and I wait;
I know not what will be the end. Meanwhile preparations go on to receive
you.”
I could see that Alixe’s mood was more tranquil since Doltaire was gone.
A certain restlessness had vanished. Her manner had much dignity, and
every movement a peculiar grace and elegance. She was dressed in a soft
cloth of a gray tone, touched off with red and slashed with gold, and
a cloak of gray, trimmed with fur, with bright silver buckles, hung
loosely on her, thrown off at one shoulder. There was a sweet disorder
in the hair, which indeed was prettiest when freest.
When she had finished speaking, she looked at me, as I thought, with a
little anxiety.
“Alixe,” I said, “we have come to the cross-roads, and the way we choose
now is for all time.”
She looked up, startled, yet governing herself, and her hand sought
mine and nestled there. “I feel that, too,” she replied. “What is it,
Robert?”
“I can not in honour escape from your father’s house. I can not steal
his daughter and his safety too--”
“You must escape,” she interrupted firmly.
“From here, from the citadel, from anywhere but your house; and so I
will not go to it.”
“You will not go to it?” she repeated slowly and strangely. “How may
you not? You are a prisoner. If they make my father your jailer--” She
laughed.
“I owe that jailer and that jailer’s daughter--”
“You owe them your safety and your freedom. Oh, Robert, I know, I know
what you mean. But what care I what the world may think by-and-bye, or
to-morrow, or to-day? My conscience is clear.”
“Your father--” I persisted.
She nodded. “Yes, yes, you speak truth, alas! And yet you must be freed.
And”--here she got to her feet, and with flashing eyes spoke out--“and
you shall be set free. Let come what will, I owe my first duty to you,
though all the world chatter; and I will not stir from that. As soon as
I can make it possible, you shall escape.”
“You shall have the right to set me free,” said I, “if I must go to
your father’s house. And if I do not go there, but out to my own good
country, you shall still have the right before all the world to follow,
or to wait till I come to fetch you.”
“I do not understand you, Robert,” said she. “I do not--” Here she broke
off, looking, looking at me, and trembling a little.
Then I stooped and whispered softly in her ear. She gave a little cry,
and drew back from me; yet instantly her hand came out and caught my
arm.
“Robert, Robert! I can not, I dare not!” she cried softly. “No, no, it
may not be,” she added in a whisper of fear.
I went to the alcove, drew back the curtain, and asked Mr. Wainfleet to
step forth.
“Sir,” said I, picking up my Prayer Book and putting it in his hands, “I
beg you to marry this lady and myself.”
He paused, dazed. “Marry you--here--now?” he asked shakingly.
“Before ten minutes go round, this lady must be my wife,” said I.
“Mademoiselle Duvarney, you--” he began.
“Be pleased, dear sir, to open the book at ‘Wilt thou have,’” said I.
“The lady is a Catholic; she has not the consent of her people; but when
she is my wife, made so by you, whose consent need we ask? Can you not
tie us fast enough, a man and woman of sense sufficient, but you must
pause here? Is the knot you tie safe against picking and stealing?”
I had touched his vanity and his ecclesiasticism. “Married by me,” he
replied, “once chaplain to the Bishop of London, you have a knot that no
sword can cut. I am in full orders. My parish is in Boston itself.”
“You will hand a certificate to my wife to-morrow, and you will uphold
this marriage against all gossip?” asked I.
“Against all France and all England,” he answered, roused now.
“Then come,” I urged.
“But I must have a witness,” he interposed, opening the book.
“You shall have one in due time,” said I. “Go on. When the marriage is
performed, and at the point where you shall proclaim us man and wife, I
will have a witness.”
I turned to Alixe, and found her pale and troubled. “Oh, Robert,
Robert!” she cried, “it can not be. Now, now I am afraid, for the first
time in my life, clear, the first time!”
“Dearest lass in the world,” I said, “it must be. I shall not go to your
father’s. To-morrow night, I make my great stroke for freedom, and when
I am free I shall return to fetch my wife.”
“You will try to escape from here to-morrow?” she asked, her face
flushing finely.
“I will escape or die,” I answered; “but I shall not think of death.
Come--come and say with me that we shall part no more--in spirit no
more; that, whatever comes, you and I have fulfilled our great hope,
though under the shadow of the sword.”
At that she put her hand in mine with pride and sweetness, and said,
“I am ready, Robert. I give my heart, my life, and my honour to
you--forever.”
Then, with great sweetness and solemnity she turned to the clergyman:
“Sir, my honour is also in your hands. If you have mother or sister,
or any care of souls upon you, I pray you, in the future act as becomes
good men.”
“Mademoiselle,” he said earnestly, “I am risking my freedom, maybe my
life, in this; do you think--”
Here she took his hand and pressed it. “Ah, I ask your pardon. I am of
a different faith from you, and I have known how men forget when they
should remember.” She smiled at him so perfectly that he drew himself up
with pride.
“Make haste, sir,” said I. “Jailers are curious folk.”
The room was not yet lighted, the evening shadows were creeping in, and
up out of the town came the ringing of the vesper bell from the church
of the Recollets. For a moment there was stillness in the room and all
around us, and then the chaplain began in a low voice: “I require and
charge you both--” and so on. In a few moments I had made the great vow,
and had put on Alixe’s finger a ring which the clergyman drew from his
own hand. Then we knelt down, and I know we both prayed most fervently
with the good man that we might “ever remain in perfect love and perfect
peace together.”
Rising, he paused, and I went to the door and knocked upon it. It was
opened by Gabord. “Come in, Gabord,” said I. “There is a thing that you
must hear.”
He stepped back and got a light, and then entered, holding it up, and
shutting the door. A strange look came upon his face when he saw the
chaplain, and a stranger when, stepping beside Alixe, I took her
hand, and Mr. Wainfleet declared us man and wife. He stood like one
dumfounded, and he did not stir as Alixe, turning to me, let me kiss her
on the lips, and then went to the crucifix on the wall and embraced the
feet of it, and stood for a moment, praying. Nor did he move or make a
sign till she came back and stood beside me.
“A pretty scene!” he burst forth then with anger. “But, by God! no
marriage is it!”
Alixe’s hand tightened on my arm, and she drew close to me.
“A marriage that will stand at Judgment Day, Gabord,” said I.
“But not in France or here. ‘Tis mating wild, with end of doom.”
“It is a marriage our great Archbishop at Lambeth Palace will uphold
against a hundred popes and kings,” said the chaplain with importance.
“You are no priest, but holy peddler!” cried Gabord roughly. “This is
not mating as Christians, and fires of hell shall burn--aho! I will see
you all go down, and hand of mine shall not be lifted for you!”
He puffed out his cheeks, and his great eyes rolled so like fire-wheels.
“You are a witness to this ceremony,” said the chaplain. “And you shall
answer to your God, but you must speak the truth for this man and wife.”
“Man and wife?” laughed Gabord wildly. “May I die and be damned to--”
Like a flash Alixe was beside him, and put to his lips most swiftly the
little wooden cross that Mathilde had given her.
“Gabord, Gabord,” she said in a sweet, sad voice, “when you may come to
die, a girl’s prayers will be waiting at God’s feet for you.”
He stopped, and stared at her. Her hand lay on his arm, and she
continued: “No night gives me sleep, Gabord, but I pray for the jailer
who has been kind to an ill-treated gentleman.”
“A juggling gentleman, that cheats Gabord before his eyes, and smuggles
in a mongrel priest!” he blustered.
I waved my hand at the chaplain, or I think he would have put his Prayer
Book to rougher use than was its wont, and I was about to answer, but
Alixe spoke instead, and to greater purpose than I could have done.
Her whole mood changed, her face grew still and proud, her eyes flashed
bravely.
“Gabord,” she said, “vanity speaks in you there, not honesty. No
gentleman here is a juggler. No kindness you may have done warrants
insolence. You have the power to bring great misery on us, and you may
have the will, but, by God’s help, both my husband and myself shall
be delivered from cruel hands. At any moment I may stand alone in the
world, friends, people, the Church, and all the land against me: if you
desire to haste that time, to bring me to disaster, because you would
injure my husband,”--how sweet the name sounded on her lips!--“then act,
but do not insult us. But no, no,” she broke off softly, “you spoke in
temper, you meant it not, you were but vexed with us for the moment.
Dear Gabord,” she added, “did we not know that if we had asked you
first, you would have refused us? You care so much for me, you would
have feared my linking my life and fate with one--”
“With one the death-man has in hand, to pay price for wicked deed,” he
interrupted.
“With one innocent of all dishonour, a gentleman wronged every way.
Gabord, you know it so, for you have guarded him and fought with him,
and you are an honourable gentleman,” she added gently.
“No gentleman I,” he burst forth, “but jailer base, and soldier born
upon a truss of hay. But honour is an apple any man may eat since Adam
walked in garden.... ‘Tis honest foe, here,” he continued magnanimously,
and nodded towards me.
“We would have told you all,” she said, “but how dare we involve you, or
how dare we tempt you, or how dare we risk your refusal? It was love
and truth drove us to this; and God will bless this mating as the birds
mate, even as He gives honour to Gabord who was born upon a truss of
hay.”
“Poom!” said Gabord, puffing out his cheeks, and smiling on her with a
look half sour, and yet with a doglike fondness, “Gabord’s mouth is shut
till ‘s head is off, and then to tell the tale to Twelve Apostles!”
Through his wayward, illusive speech we found his meaning. He would keep
faith with us, and be best proof of this marriage, at risk of his head
even.
As we spoke, the chaplain was writing in the blank fore-pages of the
Prayer Book. Presently he said to me, handing me the pen, which he had
picked from a table, “Inscribe your names here. It is a rough record of
the ceremony, but it will suffice before all men, when to-morrow I have
given Mistress Moray another record.”
We wrote our names, and then the pen was handed to Gabord. He took it,
and at last, with many flourishes and ahos, and by dint of puffings and
rolling eyes, he wrote his name so large that it filled as much space
as the other names and all the writing, and was indeed like a huge
indorsement across the record.
When this was done, Alixe held out her hand to him. “Will you kiss me,
Gabord?” she said.
The great soldier was all taken back. He flushed like a schoolboy, yet a
big humour and pride looked out of his eyes.
“I owe you for the sables, too,” she said. “But kiss me--not on my ears,
as the Russian count kissed Gabord, but on both cheek.”
This won him to our cause utterly, and I never think of Gabord, as I saw
him last in the sway and carnage of battle, fighting with wild uproar
and covered with wounds, but the memory of that moment, when he kissed
my young wife, comes back to me.
At that he turned to leave. “I’ll hold the door for ten minutes,” he
added; and bowed to the chaplain, who blessed us then with tears in his
eyes, and smiled a little to my thanks and praises and purse of
gold, and to Alixe’s sweet gratitude. With lifting chin--good honest
gentleman, who afterwards proved his fidelity and truth--he said that
he would die to uphold this sacred ceremony. And so he made a little
speech, as if he had a pulpit round him, and he wound up with a
benediction which sent my dear girl to tears and soft trembling:
“The Lord bless you and keep you: the Lord make his face to shine upon
you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace now
and for evermore.”
A moment afterwards the door closed, and for ten minutes I looked into
my wife’s face, and told her my plans for escape. When Gabord opened the
door upon us, we had passed through years of understanding and resolve.
Our parting was brave--a bravery on her side that I do not think any
other woman could match. She was quivering with the new life come upon
her, yet she was self-controlled; she moved as in a dream, yet I knew
her mind was alert, vigilant, and strong; she was aching with thought
of this separation, with the peril that faced us both, yet she carried a
quiet joy in her face, a tranquil gravity of bearing.
“Whom God hath joined--” said I gravely at the last.
“Let no man put asunder,” she answered softly and solemnly.
“Aho!” said Gabord, and turned his head away.
Then the door shut upon me, and though I am no Catholic, I have no shame
in saying that I kissed the feet on the crucifix which her lips had
blessed.