PARTED
The sun was setting, and the rays of crimson light tinged the topmost branches
of the forest trees, but scarcely could be said to penetrate through the
closely interlaced branches. The long grass and thick undergrowth made walking
difficult, whilst the tightly entwined boughs of the trees formed a thick,
leafy canopy, perfectly impenetrable, added to which parasitic plants twined
up the huge trunks in luxuriant wildness.
After he had, so to speak, fled from his home and his people, Charles Langlade
walked straight before him through the forest. He was a handsome man, his
mouth firm set, his nose rather large, and his chin prominent, cleft in the
middle. His eyes were grey, like those of his sister Loïs, and his eyebrows
marked. He wore, what was unusual among the hunters, his hair rather long.
Altogether his appearance was remarkable; there was something about him which
reminded one of the heroes of old, knights and crusaders. Suddenly he stopped,
and passed his hand across his brow as if trying to remember.
“It has unnerved me,” he said aloud. “I shall lose my way if I don’t take
care.”
As he spoke he stretched out his hand, and, passing it lightly over the trunk
of the nearest tree, knew instantly by the feel of the bark the direction he
was in, whether north or south, east or west. Satisfied, he strode forward,
stopping from time to time to make sure he was on the right track.
This following a trail is perfectly simple to the Indian and the Canadian
hunter. They read every mark and sign in the wood as clearly as if they were
written; the moss, the lichen, tell their tale. No foot-print, however light,
can escape their notice; they know whether it be a white or red man’s foot,
whether it be of to-day or yesterday.
It was thus with Charles Langlade. He walked unhesitatingly through the
darkness, until suddenly the forest came to an end, and he found himself
standing on an elevated plain overgrown with a sort of heather, sloping
gradually down to a river which flowed at its base. The moon had risen and was
shining with a clear light over the country, making visible the long line of
distant hills and the silvery stream, running low down through the land. He
waited a few seconds considering; then he gave a long, low whistle.
Immediately he was answered in the same way, and at some little distance a
figure rose from out of a clump of bushes and advanced quickly towards him.
The individual was a man taller even than Charles, and in every way of larger
build, his clothes being of the same fashion. The two men clasped hands when
they met, and Charles said,--
“I’ve kept you waiting, old fellow.”
“You’ve had a bad time of it, I expect,” said Roger Boscowen. “Is it really
over, and for good?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Charles, “and none too soon. I nearly gave in when
Loïs put her arms round my neck and entreated me to remain. I should not care
to go through that ordeal every day,” and he heaved a sigh. Even whilst
speaking they had both unfastened the skins and blankets they carried, and,
throwing them on the ground, lay down full length and rolled themselves in
them.
“The chiefs will not be here till dawn,” said Charles; “we shall have a long
last night together, friend.”
“Not long enough for all we have to say to each other,” answered Roger sadly.
Charles Langlade turned his face towards him and stretched out his hand; Roger
laid his in it, and with only the pale light of the moon and stars shining
down upon them, they looked steadily into each other’s eyes. Two finer
specimens of early manhood it would have been difficult to find; they both
came of races who for generations had lived sober, healthy lives, fearing God,
and, as far as in them lay, keeping His commandments.
Living hard lives, and frequently sleeping out in the open air, had made these
two young men vigorous and powerful beyond even what might have been expected.
After a somewhat lengthened silence, Charles said gently,--
“We shall remain friends, Roger, for ever and for ever; my going will make no
difference between _us_?”
“How can you imagine that should be possible?” answered Roger sombrely. “You
are going where I neither can nor will follow you. When the sun rises
to-morrow morning we shall bid each other farewell; you will go your way, I
shall go mine, and in all probability we shall not meet again, except it be as
enemies in the fray.”
“Let us hope not that,” answered Charles, with a touch of sadness in his
voice; “and yet it is this pending conflict which must break out before long
which has in a great measure constrained me to take my present step. I cannot
bear arms against France; I hold they have the right of precedence in Canada.”
“What is that to you ?” said Roger harshly. “You have been born under British
rule; if need be, it is your duty to fight for England, to protect your home
against the invader. That is all we ask you to do.”
Charles Langlade shook his head.
“You know as well as I do, Roger, that before long there will be a great and
mighty struggle between France and England; it is no fault of mine, but I
honestly tell you that all my instincts, all my feelings, are with the
Canadians. I believe they will defend the colony to their very uttermost; and
if only France send them help, they will probably be successful.”
“Why then do you not join the Canadians openly, instead of allying yourself to
the Indians who are devoted to the French interests?” said Roger.
“Because I will not give up my liberty,” answered Charles. “By remaining with
the Indians, and becoming probably in time a chief amongst them, I am free. I
trust to attain great influence in their councils, and perhaps prevent much
cruelty. If I offered myself for service to the present Government of Canada,
I should have to wink at much of which I disapprove. Peculation and robbery
are the order of the day. Vaudreuil is a fool, and Bigot, his Controller of
Finance, a knave. No, thank you; I prefer my savage chiefs to such civilised
rascals. You know I went to both Quebec and Montreal to see for myself how
matters stood, and I came away disgusted. If France loses Canada, it will be
through the incapacity of the men she has placed at the helm.”
“And you will marry Ominipeg’s daughter?” said Roger.
“Yes, such is my intention,” answered Charles. “The Indian maiden is gentle
and possessed of all good instincts, and she loves me. She will become a
Christian, and I shall wed her. She knows no will but mine; surely she will
make me happier than any other girl, who might worry me with her humours. I
know all you have to say against it--the fate of the children who may be born
to me; but that is a matter for after consideration.”
“I have done,” said Roger, and he threw himself back on the ground with a
gesture of despair.
“Nay, but, Roger, we shall not be wholly parted; you will come out to my
wigwam in the hunting season, and we shall be together. You are no stranger to
the tribe I am about to join; you will be always welcome.”
“Not if war break out and we are on opposite sides,” said Roger.
“Listen,” said Charles; “I have something to tell you, which I will confide
only to you,” and drawing closer still he whispered into Roger’s ear, and for
a time they conversed in low voices together.
“Wrong can never be right,” said the latter at last. “The Indians are a
treacherous race. If you offend them, mark my word, they will be revenged. Now
let us sleep; it will soon be morning;” and side by side, with their hands
clasped in each other’s, as they were wont to lie when boys, they fell asleep.
The day was just dawning, and the soft hazy light of early morn was creeping
over the land, when suddenly and simultaneously they awoke. They cast one
questioning look at each other, and sprang to their feet.
Paddling slowly down the river which ran below were some fifty canoes, filled
with Indians in their most gorgeous array, uttering, as they moved slowly on,
loud cries of delight, and gesticulating wildly.
“They have come for me,” said Charles, his voice quivering with the multitude
of his emotions.
Do we ever take a decisive step in life without a momentary hesitation--a
backward glance of regret at the past we are leaving behind, and an
instinctive fear of the unknown future?
Roger saw it, and a wild hope flashed through his heart. “There is yet time to
hold back!” he said, in a low, eager voice, laying his hand on his friend’s
arm, as if to detain him.
“Nay,” answered Charles, throwing back his head. “I have passed my word and I
will not now draw back. Farewell.” He wrung Roger’s hand; then, drawing
himself up to his full height, he repeated the Indians’ cry, and, bounding
down the slope, stood at the river’s edge in full view of the canoes, which
stopped paddling, the Indians in them showing signs of satisfaction at the
sight of their new ally.
Two canoes came close up to the bank. In the first stood a chief, more
gorgeously arrayed than his fellows, with ceremonial paint, scalp locks, eagle
plumes, and armed with steel hatchet and stone war-club. He stretched out his
hand to Charles, who immediately entered his canoe, renewed shouts from the
Indians making him welcome.
And Roger, standing where his friend had left him, with his arms folded, saw
Charles, as he stood beside the chief, look up at him and wave his cap in
token of farewell, as his frail bark, taking the lead, was paddled down the
stream, the others following in compact order.
Roger never moved until the last of the crews had disappeared and silence had
once more fallen on the land; then he threw himself down on the spot where
they had passed the night together, and, strong, brave man though he was, wept
bitterly for the friend who had departed from him.