BEFORE MONTCALM
The Owl, with his warriors and captive, descended in time into the low
country in the northwest. They, too, had been on snowshoes, but now they
discarded them, since they were entering a region in which little snow had
fallen, the severity of the weather abating greatly. Robert was still
treated well, though guarded with the utmost care. The Indians, who seemed
to be from some tribe about the Great Lakes, did not speak any dialect he
knew, and, if they understood English, they did not use it. He was
compelled to do all his talking with the Owl who, however, was not at all
taciturn. Robert saw early that while a wonderful woodsman and a born
partisan leader, he was also a Gascon, vain, boastful and full of words. He
tried to learn from him something about his possible fate, but he could
obtain no hint, until they had been traveling more than three weeks, and
Langlade had been mellowed by an uncommonly good supper of tender game,
which the Indians had cooked for him.
"You've been trying to draw that information out of me ever since you were
captured," he said. "You were indirect and clever about it, but I noticed
it. I, Charles Langlade, have perceptions, you must understand. If I do
live in the woods I can read the minds of white men."
"I know you can," said Robert, smilingly. "I observed from the first that
you had an acute intellect."
"Your judgment does you credit, my young friend. I did not tell you what I
was going to do with you, because I did not know myself. I know more about
you than you think I do. One of my warriors was with Tandakora in several
of his battles with you and Willet, that mighty hunter whom the Indians
call the Great Bear, and Tayoga, the Onondaga, who is probably following on
our trail in the hope of rescuing you. I have also heard of you from
others. Oh, as I tell you, I, Charles Langlade, take note of all things.
You are a prisoner of importance. I would not give you to Tandakora,
because he would burn you, and a man does not burn valuable goods. I would
not send you to St. Luc, because, being a generous man, he might take some
foolish notion to exchange you, or even parole you. I would not give you to
the Marquis Duquesne at Quebec, because then I might lose my pawn in the
game, and, in any event, the Marquis Duquesne is retiring as Governor
General of New France."
"Is that true? I have met him. He seemed to me to be a great man."
"Perhaps he is, but he was too haughty and proud for the powerful men who
dwelt at Quebec, and who control New France. I have heard something of your
appearance at the capital with the Great Bear and the Onondaga, and of what
chanced at Bigot's ball, and elsewhere. Ah, you see, as I told you, I,
Charles Langlade, know all things! But to return, the Marquis Duquesne
gives way to the Marquis de Vaudreuil. Oh, that was accomplished some time
ago, and perhaps you know of it. So, I do not wish to give you to the
Marquis de Vaudreuil. I might wait and present you to the Marquis de
Montcalm when he comes, but that does not please me, either, and thus I
have about decided to present you to the Dove."
"The Dove! Who is the Dove?"
Langlade laughed with intense enjoyment.
"The Dove," he replied, "is a woman, none other than Madame de Langlade
herself, a Huron. You English do not marry Indian women often--and yet
Colonel William Johnson has taken a Mohawk to wife--but we French know them
and value them. Do not think to have an easy and careless jailer when you
are put in the hands of the Dove. She will guard you even more zealously
than I, Charles Langlade, and you will notice that I have neither given you
any opportunity to escape nor your friend, Tayoga, the slightest chance to
rescue you."
"It is true, Monsieur Langlade. I've abandoned any such hope on the march,
although I may elude you later."
"The Dove, as I told you, will attend to that. But it will be a pretty play
of wits, and I don't mind the test. I'm aware that you have intelligence
and skill, but the Dove, though a woman, possesses the wit of a great
chief, and I'll match her against you."
There was a further abatement of the weather, and they reached a region
where there was no snow at all. Warm winds blew from the direction of the
Great Lakes and the band traveled fast through a land in which the game
almost walked up to their rifles to be killed, such plenty causing the
Indians, as usual, now that they were not on the war path, to feast
prodigiously before huge fires, Langlade often joining them, and showing
that he was an adept in Indian customs.
One evening, just as they were about to light the fire, the warrior who had
been posted as sentinel at the edge of the forest gave a signal and a few
moments later a tall, spare figure in a black robe with a belt about the
waist appeared. Robert's heart gave a great leap. The wearer of the black
robe was an elderly man with a thin face, ascetic and high. The captive
recognized him at once. It was Father Philibert Drouillard, the priest,
whose life had already crossed his more than once, and it was not strange
to see him there, as the French priests roamed far through the great
wilderness of North America, seeking to save the souls of the savages.
Langlade, when he beheld Father Drouillard, sprang at once to his feet, and
Robert also arose quickly. The priest saw young Lennox, but he did not
speak to him just yet, accepting the food that the Owl offered him, and
sitting down with his weary feet to the fire that had now been lighted.
"You have traveled far, Father?" said Langlade, solicitously.
"From the shores of Lake Huron. I have converts there, and I must see that
they do not grow weak in the faith."
"All men, red and white, respect Philibert Drouillard. Why are you alone,
Father?"
"A runner from the Christian village came with me until yesterday. Then I
sent him back, because I would not keep him too long from his people. I can
go the rest of the way alone, as it will be but a few days before I meet a
French force."
Then he turned to Robert for the first time.
"And you, my son," he said, "I am sorry it has fared thus with you."
"It has not gone badly, Father," said Robert. "Monsieur de Langlade has
treated me well. I have naught to complain of save that I'm a prisoner."
"It is a good lad, Charles Langlade," said the priest to the partisan, "and
I am glad he has suffered no harm at your hands. What do you purpose to do
with him?"
"It is my present plan to take him to the village in which Madame Langlade,
otherwise the Dove, abides. He will be her prisoner until a further plan
develops, and you know how well she watches."
A faint smile passed over the thin face of the priest.
"It is true, Charles Langlade," he said. "That which escapes the eyes of
the Dove is very small, but I would take the lad with me to Montreal."
"Nay, Father, that cannot be. I am second to nobody in respect for Holy
Church, and for you, Father Drouillard, whose good deeds are known to all,
and whose bad deeds are none, but those who fight the war must use their
judgment in fighting it, and the prisoners are theirs."
Father Drouillard sighed.
"It is so, Charles Langlade," he said, "but, as I have said, the prisoner
is a good youth. I have met him before, as I told you, and I would save
him. You know not what may happen in the Indian village, if you chance to
be away."
"The Dove will have charge of him. She can be trusted."
"And yet I would take him with me to Montreal. He will give his parole that
he will not attempt to escape on the way. It is the custom for prisoners to
be ransomed. I will send to you from Montreal five golden louis for him."
Langlade shook his head.
"Ten golden louis," said Father Drouillard.
"Nay, Father, it is no use," said the partisan. "I cannot be tempted to
exchange him for money."
"Fifteen golden louis, Charles Langlade, though I may have to borrow from
the funds of the Church to send them to you."
"I respect your motive, Father, but 'tis impossible. This is a prisoner of
great value and I must use him as a pawn in the game of war. He was taken
fairly and I cannot give him up."
Again Father Drouillard sighed, and this time heavily.
"I would save you from captivity, Mr. Lennox," he said, "but, as you see, I
cannot."
Robert was much moved.
"I thank you, Father Drouillard, for your kind intentions," he said. "It
may be that some day I shall have a chance to repay them. Meanwhile, I do
not dread the coming hospitality of Madame Langlade."
The priest shook his head sadly.
"It is a great and terrible war," he said, "though I cannot doubt that
France will prevail, but I fear for you, my son, a captive in the vast
wilderness. Although you are an enemy and a heretic I have only good
feeling for you, and I know that the great Chevalier, St. Luc, also regards
you with favor."
"Know you anything of St. Luc?" asked Robert eagerly.
"Only that the expedition he was to lead against Albany has turned back and
that he has gone to Canada to fight under the banner of Montcalm, when he
comes with the great leaders, De Levis, Bourlamaque and the others."
"I thought I might meet him."
"Not here, with Charles Langlade."
The priest spent the night with them and in the morning, after giving them
his blessing, captors and captive alike, he departed on his long and
solitary journey to Montreal.
"A good man," said Robert, as he watched his tall, thin figure disappear in
the surrounding forest.
"Truly spoken," said the Owl. "I am little of a churchman myself, the
forest and the war trail please me better, but the priests are a great prop
to France in the New World. They carry with them the authority of His
Majesty, King Louis."
A week later they reached a small Indian village on Lake Ontario where the
Owl at present made his abode, and in the largest lodge of which his
patient spouse, the Dove, was awaiting him. She was young, much taller than
the average Indian woman, and, in her barbaric fashion, quite handsome. But
her face was one of the keenest and most alert Robert had ever seen. All
the trained observation of countless ancestors seemed stored in her and now
he understood why Langlade had boasted so often and so warmly of her skill
as a guard. She regarded him with a cold eye as she listened attentively to
her husband's instructions, and, for the remainder of that winter and
afterward, she obeyed them with a thoroughness beyond criticism.
The village included perhaps four hundred souls, of whom about a hundred
were warriors. Langlade was king and Madame Langlade, otherwise the Dove,
was queen, the two ruling with absolute sovereignty, their authority due to
their superior intelligence and will and to the service they rendered to
the little state, because a state it was, organized completely in all its
parts, although composed of only a few hundred human beings. In the bitter
weather that came again, Langlade directed the hunting in the adjacent
forest and the fishing conducted on the great lake. He also made presents
from time to time of gorgeous beads or of huge red or yellow blankets that
had been sent from Montreal. Robert could not keep from admiring his
diplomacy and tact, and now he understood more thoroughly than ever how the
French partisans made themselves such favorites with the wild Indians.
His own position in the village was tentative. Langlade still seemed
uncertain what to do with him, and held him meanwhile for a possible reward
of great value. He was never allowed to leave the cluster of tepees for the
forest, except with the warriors, but he took part in the fishing on the
lake, being a willing worker there, because idleness grew terribly irksome,
and, when he had nothing to do, he chafed over his long captivity. He slept
in a small tepee built against that of Monsieur and Madame Langlade, and
from which there was no egress save through theirs.
He was enclosed only within walls of skin, and he believed that he might
have broken a way through them, but he felt that the eyes of the Dove were
always on him. He even had the impression that she was watching him while
he slept, and sometimes he dreamed that she was fanged and clawed like a
tigress.
Langlade went away once, being gone a long time, and while he was absent
the Dove redoubled her watchfulness. Robert's singular impression that her
eyes were always on him was strengthened, and these eyes were increased to
the hundred of Argus and more. It became so oppressive that he was always
eager to go out with the warriors in their canoes for the fishing. On Lake
Ontario he was sure the eyes of the Dove could not reach him, but the work
was arduous and often perilous. The great lake was not to be treated
lightly. Often it took toll of the Indians who lived around its shores.
Winter storms came up suddenly, the waves rolled like those of the sea,
freezing spray dashed over them, and it required a supreme exertion of
both skill and strength to keep the light canoes from being swamped.
Yet Robert was always happier on water than on land. On shore, confined
closely and guarded zealously, his imaginative temperament suffered and he
became moody and depressed, but on the lakes, although still a captive, he
felt the winds of freedom. When the storms came and the icy blasts swept
down upon them he responded, body and soul. Relief and freedom were to be
found in the struggle with the elements and he always went back to shore
refreshed and stronger of spirit and flesh. He also had a feeling that
Tayoga might come by way of the lake, and when he was with the little
Indian fleet he invariably watched the watery horizon for a lone canoe, but
he never saw any.
The absence of news from his friends, and from the world to which they
belonged, was the most terrible burden of all. If the Indians had news they
told him none. He seemed to have vanished completely. But, however numerous
may have been his moments of despondency, he was not made of the stuff that
yields. The flexible steel always rebounded. He took thorough care of his
health and strength. In his close little tepee he flexed and tensed his
muscles and went through physical exercises every night and morning, but it
was on the lake in the fishing, where the Indians grew to recognize his
help, that he achieved most. Fighting the winds, the water and the cold, he
felt his muscles harden and his chest enlarge, and he would say to himself
that when the spring came and he escaped he would be more fit for the life
of a free forest runner than he had ever been before. Langlade, when he
returned, took notice of his increased size and strength and did not
withhold approval.
"I like any prisoner of mine to flourish," he laughed. "The more superior
you become the greater will be the reward for me when I dispose of you. You
have found the Dove all I promised you she should be, haven't you, Monsieur
Lennox?"
"All and more," replied Robert. "Although she may be out of sight I feel
that her eyes are always on me, and this is true of the night as well as
the day."
"A great woman, the Dove, and a wife to whom I give all credit. If it
should come into the king's mind to call me to Versailles and bestow upon
me some kind of an accolade perhaps Madame Langlade would not feel at home
in the great palace nor at the Grand Trianon, nor even at the Little
Trianon, and maybe I wouldn't either. But since no such idea will enter His
Majesty's mind, and I have no desire to leave the great forests, the Dove
is a perfect wife for me. She is the true wilderness helpmate, accomplished
in all the arts of the life I live and love, and with the eye and soul of a
warrior. I repeat, young Monsieur Lennox, where could I find a wife more
really sublime?"
"Nowhere, Monsieur Langlade. The more I see you two together the more
nearly I think you are perfectly matched."
The Owl seemed pleased with the recognition of his marital felicity, and
grew gracious, dropping some crumbs of information for Robert. He had been
to Montreal and the arrival of the great soldier, the Marquis de Montcalm,
with fresh generals and fresh troops from France, was expected daily at
Quebec. The English, although their fleets were larger, could not intercept
them, and it was now a certainty that the spring campaign would sweep over
Albany and almost to New York. He spoke with so much confidence, in truth
with such an absolute certainty, that Robert's heart sank and then came
back again with a quick rebound.
After a winter that had seemed to the young captive an age, spring came
with a glorious blossoming and blooming. The wilderness burst into green
and the great lake shining in the sun became peaceful and friendly. Warm
winds blew out of the west and the blood flowed more swiftly in human
veins. But spring passed and summer came. Then Langlade announced that he
would depart with the best of the warriors, and that Robert would go with
him, although he refused absolutely to say where or for what purpose.
Robert's joy was dimmed in nowise by his ignorance of his destination. He
had not found the remotest chance to escape while in the village, but it
might come on the march, and there was also a relief and pleasant
excitement in entering the wilderness again. He joyously made ready, the
Dove gave her lord and equal, not her master, a Spartan farewell, and the
formidable band, Robert in the center, plunged into the forest.
When the great mass of green enclosed them he felt a mighty surge of hope.
His imaginative temperament was on fire. A chance for him would surely
come. Tayoga might be hidden in the thickets. Action brought renewed
courage. Langlade, who was watching him, smiled.
"I read your mind, young Monsieur Lennox," he said. "Have I not told you
that I, Charles Langlade, have the perceptions? Do I not see and interpret
everything?"
"Then what do you see and interpret now?"
"A great hope in your heart that you will soon bid us farewell. You think
that when we are deep in the forest it will not be difficult to elude our
watch. And yet you could not escape when we were going through this same
forest to the village. Now why do you think it will be easier when you are
going through it again, but away?"
"The Dove is not at the end of the march. Her eyes will no longer be upon
me."
The Owl laughed deeply and heartily.
"You're a lad of sense," he said, "when you lay such a tribute at the feet
of that incomparable woman, that model wife, that true helpmate in every
sense of the word. Why should you be anxious to leave us? I could have you
adopted into the tribe, and you know the ceremony of adoption is sacred
with the Indians. And let me whisper another little fact in your ear which
will surely move you. The Dove has a younger sister, so much like her that
they are twins in character if not in years. She will soon be of
marriageable age, and she shall be reserved for you. Think! Then you will
be my brother-in-law and the brother-in-law of the incomparable Dove."
"No! No!" exclaimed Robert hastily.
Now the laughter of the Owl was uncontrollable. His face writhed and his
sides shook.
"A lad does not recognize his own good!" he exclaimed, "or is it
bashfulness? Nay, don't be afraid, young Monsieur Lennox! Perhaps I could
get the Dove to intercede for you!"
Robert was forced to smile.
"I thank you," he said, "but I am far from the marriageable age myself."
"Then the Dove and I are not to have you for a brother-in-law?" said
Langlade. "You show little appreciation, young Monsieur Lennox, when it is
so easy for you to become a member of such an interesting family."
Robert was confirmed in his belief that there was much of the wild man in
the Owl, who in many respects had become more Indian than the Indians. He
was a splendid trailer, a great hunter, and the hardships of the forest
were nothing to him. He read every sign of the wilderness and yet he
retained all that was French also, lightness of manner, gayety, quick wit
and a politeness that never failed. It is likely that the courage and
tenacity of the French leaders were never shown to better advantage than in
the long fight they made for dominion in North America. Despite the fact
that he was an enemy, and his belief that Langlade could be ruthless, on
occasion, Robert was compelled to like him.
The journey, the destination yet unknown to him, was long, but it was not
tedious to the young prisoner. He watched the summer progress and the
colors deepen and he was cheered continually by the hope of escape, a fact
that Langlade recognized and upon which he commented in a detached manner,
from time to time. Now and then the leader himself went ahead with a scout
or two and one morning he said to Robert:
"I saw something in the forest last night."
"The forest contains much," said Robert.
"But this was of especial interest to you. It was the trace of a footstep,
and I am convinced it was made by your friend Tayoga, the Onondaga.
Doubtless he is seeking to effect your escape."
Robert's heart gave a leap, and there was a new light in his eyes, of which
the shrewd Owl took notice.
"I have heard of the surpassing skill of the Onondaga," he continued, "but
I, Charles Langlade, have skill of my own. It will be some time before we
arrive at the place to which we are going, and I lay you a wager that
Tayoga does not rescue you."
"I have no money, Monsieur Langlade," said Robert, "and if I had I could
not accept a wager upon such a subject."
"Then we'll let it be mental, wholly. My skill is matched against the
combined knowledge of Tayoga and yourself. He'll never be able, no matter
how dark the night, to get near our camp and communicate with you."
Although Robert hoped and listened often in the dusk for the sound of a
signal from Tayoga, Langlade made good his boast. The two were able to
establish no communication. It was soon proved that he was in the forest
near them, one of the warriors even catching a sufficient glimpse of his
form for a shot, which, however, went wild. The Onondaga did not reply,
and, despite the impossibility of reaching him, Robert was cheered by the
knowledge that he was near. He had a faithful and powerful friend who would
help him some day, be it soon or late.
The summer was well advanced when Langlade announced that their journey was
done.
"Before night," he said triumphantly, "we will be in the camp of the
Marquis de Montcalm, and we will meet the great soldier himself. I, Charles
Langlade, told you that it would be so, and it is so."
"What, Montcalm near?" exclaimed Robert, aflame with interest.
"Look at the sky above the tops of those trees in the east and you will see
a smudge of smoke, beneath which stand the tents of the French army."
"The French army here! And what is it doing in the wilderness?"
"That, young Monsieur Lennox, rests on the knees of the gods. I have some
curiosity on the subject myself."
An hour or two later they came within sight of the French camp, and Robert
saw that it was a numerous and powerful force for time and place. The tents
stood in rows, and soldiers, both French and Canadian, were everywhere,
while many Indian warriors were on the outskirts. A large white marquee
near the center he was sure was that of the commander-in-chief, and he was
eager to see at once the famous Montcalm, of whom he was hearing so much.
But to his intense disappointment, Langlade went into camp with the
Indians.
"The Marquis de Montcalm is a great man," he said, "the commander-in-chief
of all the forces of His Majesty, King Louis, in North America, and even I,
Charles Langlade, will not approach him without ceremony. We will rest in
the edge of the forest, and when he hears that I have come he will send for
me, because he will want to know many things which none other can tell him.
And it may be, young Monsieur Lennox, that, in time, he will wish to see
you also."
So Robert waited with as much patience as he could muster, although he
slept but little that night, the noises in the great French camp and his
own curiosity keeping him awake. What was Montcalm doing so far from the
chief seats of the French power in Canada, and did the English and
Americans know that he was here?
Curiously enough he had little apprehension for himself, it was rather a
feeling of joy that he had returned to the world of great affairs. Soon he
would know what had been occurring during the long winter when he was
buried in an Indian village, and he might even hear of Willet. Toward dawn
he slept a little, and after daylight he was awakened by Langlade who was
as assured and talkative as usual.
"It may be, my gallant young prisoner," he said, ruffling and strutting,
"that I am about to lose you, but if it is so it will be for value
received. I, Charles Langlade, have seen the great Marquis de Montcalm, but
it was an equal speaking to an equal. It was last night in his grand
marquee, where he sat surrounded by his trusted lieutenants, De Levis, St.
Luc, Bourlamaque, Coulon de Villiers and the others. But I was not daunted
at all. I repeat that it was an equal speaking to an equal, and the Marquis
was pleased to commend me for the work I have already done for France."
"And St. Luc was there?"
"He was. The finest figure of them all. A brave and generous man and a
great leader. He stood at the right hand of the Marquis de Montcalm, while
I talked and he listened with attention, because the Chevalier de St. Luc
is always willing to learn from others. No false pride about him! And the
Marquis de Montcalm is like him. I gave the commander-in-chief much
excellent advice which he accepted with gratitude, and in return for you,
whom he expects to put to use, he has raised me in rank, and has extended
my authority over the western tribes. Ah, I knew that you were a prize when
I captured you, and I was wise to save you as a pawn."
"How can I be of any value to the Marquis de Montcalm?"
"That is to be seen. He knows his own plans best. You are to come with me
at once into his presence."
Robert was immediately in a great stir. He straightened out, and, with his
hands, brushed his own clothing, smoothed his hair, intending, with his
usual desire for neatness, to make the best possible appearance before the
French leader.
After breakfast Langlade took him to the great marquee in which Montcalm
sat, as the morning was cool, and when their names had been taken in a
young officer announced that they might enter, the officer, to Robert's
great surprise, being none other than De Galissonnière, who showed equal
amazement at meeting him there. The Frenchman gave him a hearty grasp of
the hand in English fashion, but they did not have time to say anything.
Robert, walking by the side of Langlade, entered the great tent with some
trepidation, and beheld a swarthy man of middle years, in the uniform of a
general of France, giving orders to two officers who stood respectfully at
attention. Neither of the officers was St. Luc, nor were they among those
whom Robert had seen at Quebec. He surmised, however, that they were De
Levis and Bourlamaque, and he learned soon that he was right. Langlade
paused until Montcalm was ready to speak to him, and Robert stood in
silence at his side. Montcalm finished what he had to say and turned his
eyes upon the young prisoner. His countenance was mild, but Robert felt
that his gaze was searching.
"And this, Captain Langlade," he said, "is the youth of whom you were
speaking?"
So the Owl had been made a captain, and the promotion had been one of his
rewards. Robert was not sorry.
"It is the one, sir," replied Langlade, "young Monsieur Robert Lennox. He
has been a prisoner in my village all the winter, and he has as friends
some of the most powerful people in the British Colonies."
Montcalm continued to gaze at Robert as if he would read his soul.
"Sit down, Mr. Lennox," he said, not unkindly, motioning him to a little
stool. Robert took the indicated seat and so quick is youth to warm to
courtesy that he felt respect and even liking for the Marquis, official and
able enemy though he knew him to be. De Levis and Bourlamaque also were
watching him with alert gaze, but they said nothing.
"I hear," continued Montcalm, with a slight smile, "that you have not
suffered in Captain Langlade's village, and that you have adapted yourself
well to wild life."
"I've had much experience with the wilderness," said Robert. "Most of my
years have been passed there, and it was easy for me to live as Captain
Langlade lived. I've no complaint to make of his treatment, though I will
say that he has guarded me well."
Montcalm laughed.
"It agrees with Captain Langlade's own account," he said. "I suppose that
one must be born, or at least pass his youth in it, to get the way of this
vast wilderness. We of old Europe, where everything has been ruled and
measured for many centuries, can have no conception of it until we see it,
and even then we do not understand it. Although with an army about me I
feel lost in so much forest. But enough of that. It is of yourself and not
of myself that I wish to speak. I have heard good reports of you from one
of my own officers, who, though he has been opposed to you many times,
nevertheless likes you."
"The Chevalier de St. Luc!"
"Aye, the Chevalier de St. Luc. I know, also, that you have been in the
councils of some of the Colonial leaders. You are a friend of Sir William
Johnson."
"Colonel William Johnson?"
"No, Sir William Johnson. In reward for the affair at Lake George, in which
our Dieskau was unfortunate, he has been made a baronet by the British
king."
"I am glad."
"And doubtless Sir William is also. You know him well, I understand, and he
was still at the lake when you left on the journey that led to your
capture."
Robert was silent.
"I have not asked you to answer," continued Montcalm, "but I assume that it
is so. His army, although it was victorious in the battle there, did not
advance. There was much disagreement among the governors of the British
Colonies. The provinces could not be induced to act together?"
Robert was still silent.
"Again I say I am not asking you to answer, but your silence confirms the
truth of our reports."
Robert flushed, and a warm reply trembled on his lips, but he restrained
the words. A swift smile passed over the dark face of Montcalm.
"You see, Mr. Lennox," he continued, "I am not asking you to say anything,
but there was great disappointment among the British Colonials because
there was no advance after the battle at the lake. It has also cooled the
enthusiasm of the Iroquois, many of whom have gone home and who perhaps
will take no further part in the war as the allies of the English."
Again Robert flushed and again he bit back the hot reply. He looked
uneasily at De Levis and Bourlamaque, but their faces expressed nothing.
Then Montcalm suddenly changed the subject.
"I am going to make you a very remarkable offer," he said, "and do not
think for a moment it is going to imply any change of colors on your part,
or the least suspicion of treason, which I could not ask of the gentleman
you obviously are. I request of you your parole, your word of honor that
you will not take any further part in this war."
"I can't do it! As I have often told Captain Langlade, I intend to escape."
"That is impossible. If you could not do so when you were in Captain
Langlade's village, you have no chance at all now that you are surrounded
by an army. But since you will not give me your parole it will become
necessary to keep you as a prisoner of war, and to send you to a safe
place."
"Many of our people in this and former wars with the French have been held
prisoners in the Province of Quebec. I know somewhat of the city of Quebec,
and it is not wholly an unpleasant place."
"I did not have Quebec, either the province or the city, in mind so far as
concerns you, Mr. Lennox. Three of our ships are to return shortly to
France, and, not wishing to give us your parole, you are to go to France."
"To France?"
"Yes, to France. Where else? And you should rejoice. It is a fair and
glorious land. And I have heard there is a spirit in you, Mr. Lennox, which
is almost French, a kindred touch, a Gallic salt and savor, so to speak."
"I'm wholly American and British."
"Perhaps there are others who know you better than you know yourself. I
repeat, there is about you a French finish. Why should you deny it? You
should be proud of it. We are the oldest of the great civilized nations,
and the first in culture. Your stay in France should be very pleasant. You
can drink there at the fountain of ancient culture and glory. The
wilderness is magnificent in its way, but high civilization is magnificent
also in its own and another way. You can see Paris, the city of light, the
center of the world, and you can behold the splendid court of His Majesty,
King Louis. That should appeal to a young man of taste and discernment."
Robert felt a thrill and his pulses leaped, but the thrill lasted only a
moment. It was clearly impossible that he should go even as a prisoner,
though a willing one, to France, and he did not see any reason why the
Marquis de Montcalm should take any personal interest in his future. But
responding invariably to the temperature about him his manner was now as
polite as that of the French general.
"You have my thanks, sir," he said, "for the kindly way in which you offer
to treat a prisoner, but it is impossible for me to go to France, unless
you should choose to send me there by sheer force."
The slight smile passed again over the face of the Marquis de Montcalm.
"I fancied, young sir," he said, "that this would be your answer, and,
being what it is, I cannot say that it has lowered you aught in my esteem.
For the present, you abide with us."
Robert bowed. Montcalm inspired in him a certain liking, and a decided
respect. Then, still under the escort of Langlade, he withdrew.