RETRIBUTION
It was Menotah.
Calmly she looked again upon her betrayer, the man who had won her
heart, he who had lightly stolen her happiness. No shadow of doubt
crossed her brow, nor was there; any sign of swerving from the path of
duty in her passionless face. She had completed a dreadful journey to
avenge, as her religion directed. Now that the moment had arrived, she
would not be the one to display lack of resolution.
And again he looked upon her, his former and present lawful wife. Even
then, with vision obscured, with eyes failing by heat and his fervent
fear, he marvelled at the complete change which time and his perfidy had
worked. There was something familiar in that figure, in the stern
features, in the cold voice as it delivered its mortal message. Could
this hard-featured woman have owned at any time some connection with the
laughing girl he had taken to himself in the lone forests of the
Saskatchewan? Yet, if so, where were the eyes that always danced with
joy, where was the colour that had played like chequered sunshine across
her cheeks? What sickness had robbed her step of buoyancy, what hand had
deprived her of all the numerous graces that had contributed towards
making her so adorable a thing of life?
Even in that moment of selfish terror he could realise that Menotah had
vanished with all her youth and beauty; that, from the ashes of her dead
heart had sprung another being, bearing her name, though lacking all her
womanly qualities. This figure had but one object in view. The words of
the careless, beautiful Menotah of the summer forest rang forth with the
thunder, and flashed within the lightning in letters of fire, _'If
anyone should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength
to the cause of vengeance. I should never turn back!'_
Yet, outside everything remained quiet, save for the tumult of the
elements. There were no visible signs of other enemies. This woman,
though terrible perhaps to gaze upon, was devoid of strength. As he had
no feeling apart from his personal safety, he began to breathe again.
But she divined his thoughts. Deliberately she drew from the folds of
her cloak a small knife, then, with the indifference of a butcher about
to slaughter, examined the point. The brightness of the metal was dulled
at the edge by a brown stain.
Stealthily she came round the room and crept near the door. He was
fascinated by her eyes, and fell back as she approached. Then she spoke
in a dull voice, 'There is poison on the knife point.'
Then he understood the deadly nature of that brown stain. She slipped
into his late position near the door, still watching him with eyes that
never twitched or closed.
Soon Marie recovered partially and dragged herself to a sitting posture.
With large, wondering eyes she stared upon the intruder.
'I am changed since the time you last saw me,' said Menotah, in
passionless tones. 'Why am I another woman, while you remain the same
man?' She paused, as though waiting for reply. When none came she
continued, 'I will tell you.'
But she did not, for with the thought came other recollections--the aged
Antoine and his last weak words; her dying father and the oath she had
sworn over him, using words which might not be lightly set aside.
Already had she failed in the appointed course of action. She was
threatening, where she should be pleading. Still, before the final act,
she would trifle with this man, as he had played with her. She would put
his courage to the test. But first she turned to Marie, and said in her
_patois_ French,--
'Do you love this man?'
The girl was half dazed, but she directed her gaze towards the pitiless
face. Then Menotah, attracted possibly by sympathy for one who was to
suffer her pangs, drew nearer and looked closely at her features. Then
she said, 'You are his wife?'
The other moistened her dry lips. 'I was,' she muttered.
'He deserted me for you.' She hung on every syllable. 'When he said he
loved me, you were at his heart; when he caressed me, he thought of you;
when he spoke tenderly, he forgot it was not you he was addressing.'
An angry flush of shame crossed Marie's brow. 'He never cared for
me--the traitor. And I hate him.'
Menotah turned. 'So; she who was your wife before your own people has
nothing for you but hatred.' Then she picked up the key, which Lamont
had dropped in his sudden fright. 'It is time,' she said quietly, then
unlocked the door and threw it wide open. She cast aside the cloak,
while the knife glittered as she stretched forth her arm. 'You may pass
if you wish.'
He was stupefied at this new move, and wondered at her meaning. Beyond
he could see the lamp light flickering in the hall, and further, half
hidden in shadow, the dim outline of the outer door. In that direction
lay liberty. How simple it was! A quick bound forward, two or three
steps, and life would be his again.
But then the cold voice struck on his ears again,--
'First I will warn you. As you pass I shall strive to wound you. A touch
with this knife is death.'
He stood irresolutely, while a contemptuous smile broke over Marie's
white countenance.
'I am waiting for you.'
He gazed from the open door to that terrible window, where the dreaded
power of justice perhaps even then lay concealed.
'It will be over in a single moment.'
He tried to nerve himself for the act. With a single motion of his hand
he might hurl the slight girl from the door; with one blow of his
powerful fist he could paralyse that arm. But she was quick, and
fearfully determined. The risk was too great.
'Coward!' she burst forth in a first expression of passion. 'I am but a
weak woman--how weak you can hardly tell. But even for your liberty you
will not attack me, for the gift of your life you dare not pass me.'
There was silence, until the splashing of heavy raindrops on the shingle
could be distinctly heard.
'Hark! there are other sounds than the rain and the thunder.'
'I hear footsteps,' said Marie, in a barely intelligible voice.
Menotah barred the doorway with a trembling arm. 'Your chance is gone,'
she said, yet with a peculiar deliberation. 'You know why these men have
come. You do not deserve to live, for you have been false to everyone.
They will take you with them, and treat you as they did Riel. They will
hang you as they did him.'
She fell back as she spoke against the wall, while the hot breath choked
her.
Another thought occurred to him. If he could reach the next room he
might obtain his weapons. Armed, he would be not only a brave man, but a
formidable foe. But Menotah still guarded the threshold, the deadly
instrument in her hand, her eyes following his every movement.
'You cannot escape,' she murmured with low, fearful accent. There was a
new expression upon her face which Marie wondered at. 'You are captured
by a weak woman. You did not think to set eyes on me again. You thought
I should crawl away to some quiet spot, there to sob away my life as the
wounded deer. Yet I have followed your footsteps to repay you for the
wounds you have inflicted upon me. The time is here now--the hour for
vengeance.'
The last words fell from her lips in a frightened whisper. For the first
time since that fatal night of desertion, emotion awoke in her
colourless face, while a strange moisture started into her eyes.
But where was the plan for vengeance, and why did she not follow it out?
For this meeting she had waited and planned. Now it had arrived. Why did
she not make use of opportunity and act quickly? The deadly drug still
lay unused in her bosom. Why did she not make use of it? _Because she
had then forgotten its very existence._
Again came the sounds On this occasion Lamont fancied he could detect a
creaking of the storm door outside.
'They are coming,' said Marie, in a hushed tone.
Menotah looked upon her wildly. She repeated the words as though
doubtful of their full significance. Then in a tremulous half whisper,
'Perhaps they are all round the door. He might escape by the window.'
'Escape!' half shouted Marie, excitedly.
Menotah's face had broken and changed, like the sky after a storm. The
cruelty had melted and gone. A look of fear crept into her pain-filled
and lustrous eyes. Suddenly, after a short and mighty struggle with
herself, she turned and loudly cried at Lamont,--
'The window!'
The guilty man started at the change in that voice. Again he saw Menotah
in the full sunshine, flitting along by the high cliff of the
Saskatchewan, with bright song and laughter.
'There is still one chance left.'
Lamont could not move. He was divided between paralysing dread and
suspicious perplexity. But she came towards him. He shrank from the
knife with the brown stained point. Fearlessly she took him by the arm,
then compelled him across the room.
'See!' Her voice was low and fervent. 'You may yet escape, with this
knife to aid you. Make for the bush on the river's opposite bank. There
you will be safe.'
There was a trembling pity in every motion, while her limbs shook with
weakness. Upon her he turned his dazed eyes. Then he saw that her cheeks
were burning, as though with fever, that the look on her face was wild
and cunning.
'Let me go for my rifle,' he said.
'You cannot. They will see you. Go! For the love you bore me
once--escape.'
Marie passionately intervened. 'You have jested with him enough. Take
care, or he will snatch the knife from you.'
'Jesting!' cried Menotah, piteously. 'Ah, no. I am the coward now. I
loved him. I gave him my heart and wrapped my soul round his life. Now I
am called to avenge. I cannot. I cannot. The pain has returned--back to
my heart. I thought the flame dead and cold. But it has sprung up again.
It lives! It lives!'
She sprang at Lamont, and hung to him with an embrace. 'There is still
time. Go! Go!'
'Stop!' cried Marie, furiously. 'You are in league with him. He shall
not escape.'
'Do not listen to her. See! I will hold her arms.'
Marie advanced with a loud cry, but Menotah was upon her with all her
lithe strength, holding her back, stifling her screams.
'The knife!' cried Lamont, with his usual selfish thought.
She threw it at him, but in the effort Marie cast her aside. Frantically
she cried, in a piercing voice which rose above the storm, 'Help! He is
escaping. The window!'
A second of silence, then there came deep voices and sounds of hurried
footsteps.
'There is death on the point of the knife.' Again she held back the
struggling Marie.
Lamont sprang to the window. Freedom was his. Another second--one more
step forward, then the darkness would have received him, the night would
have covered his flight. But that step was not to be made.
A man rose up suddenly from the gloom, a spare man with thin, nervous
face. There could be no passing, no resisting, this new opponent. He had
not strength to raise his hand against that figure.
'Sinclair!'
The single word burst from him as he fell back in a bath of terror.
There was no hope now.
For hostile sounds uprose on every side. Like a man in a dream, he
watched an officer, followed by two soldiers, entering the room at the
door. These men were deemed sufficient to arrest one who would be
unprepared. A larger band might have excited suspicion; besides, there
might still be partisans of the White Chief hanging round the enclosures
of the fort.
But as these entered a dreadful cry rang forth. Menotah was upon her
knees, crying bitterly in this new sorrow. 'We may not turn back, if we
have sworn to hate. If we pray for vengeance, the God will force it on
us against the will.'
Sinclair advanced with an oath, and took her by the shoulder. 'What are
you doing here? Helping him to escape--eh?'
'Yes,' cried Marie, fiercely. 'And she would have killed me--the
savage!'
'You'd better get out while we give you the chance,' said the hunter,
'or you'll be taken and hung along with him.'
She raised her streaming eyes to his, until the grandeur of her romantic
beauty touched even him. 'I care not. I am woman again now. That is why
I could not harm him whom I had loved. Take me and hang me. See! I ask
it of you. It will be pleasure after my suffering.'
Trembling and hopeless, Lamont stood against the wall, though the knife
gleamed threateningly in his hand. Sinclair covered the window, one of
the soldiers was backed against the closed door, before him stood the
officer. The latter held a bright object, which glittered ominously
beneath the lamp light.
'Come, Sinclair,' said the latter, 'leave that _nitchi_ girl alone. She
can't trouble our plans, but if we fool around here for long, some may
turn up who will. We may have been watched coming here, and, mind, the
Rebellion hasn't been long over.'
'You're right,' said the hunter. 'Well, I'm ready.'
The officer pointed. 'This is our man--the White Chief, eh?' he asked,
in his strident tones.
Fiercely Menotah turned upon him. 'No! it is not. This man is innocent.
The White Chief is dead. I know he is. I myself saw him--'
'Quit your darned noise,' interrupted the man. 'What the devil have you
to do with it? I'll fire you out of the window, if you talk another
word.'
'That's the White Chief, all right,' said Sinclair, with a slow, savage
satisfaction. 'He's your man, officer.'
Menotah could not be repressed. 'You dare not touch him. That knife he
holds is poisoned.'
The men looked at each other. Close quarters with the traitor meant
certain death. But the officer was equal to the emergency.
'I've got a warrant for your arrest, and I'm going to take you alive or
dead. I allow I'd rather have you alive, so I'm going to give you two
minutes by my watch to chuck down that knife. None of us mean to be
fixed by any more of your dirty tricks.' Then he raised his hand, with
the revolver levelled against the prisoner's heart.
The last faint hope died, though he still mechanically retained his
grasp of the knife.
Sinclair chuckled. 'I reckon I shall get square for that scar on my
shoulder now,' he muttered.
Then Menotah passed before him and knelt before the officer. She lifted
her beautiful moist eyes, with a last request, 'May I speak to him
first--just for one moment? He was my husband once.'
The others burst into coarse laughter. Then the officer pushed her
aside. 'I told you not to say another word, didn't I?'
'Don't let her speak to him,' cried Marie. 'She wants to free him.'
'How can I do so?' flashed Menotah. 'There are four men here, and I am
unarmed. What can I do?'
'Better put her out of the house,' said Sinclair.
Her face was grand as she turned at him. 'Who saved your life in the
forests of the Saskatchewan?'
The hunter turned red, and muttered something awkwardly.
'Ah! let me wish him good-bye. He was my husband, and I love him.'
Her excitement, the heat of returning passion, had made her again
lovely. The hair fell in luxurious disorder, the bosom heaved, and eyes
glittered between wet lashes. The officer observed all of these things,
and did not give the order for her ejection. On the contrary, he bent
down and whispered something into her ear. The others guessed what this
was, and laughed again.
She did not flinch when the proposal was made. It was indeed what she
had expected. 'Honour is nothing to me now.'
'It may be risky all the same,' said Sinclair, addressing the man in
command.
She smiled bitterly. 'Are you still afraid of one weak girl?'
The officer bit at his moustache. Then he said, 'You can't have more
than half a minute.'
'She may give him something,' cried Marie.
'Hold my hands.' She stretched them forth proudly.
The officer nodded, and the two soldiers came forward. They placed
themselves on either side of the girl, and took each a hand. Then they
crossed the floor.
She twisted herself in front of the men, who stood well back from the
dreaded knife, and spoke a few words into Lamont's ear. Afterwards the
three stepped back, and left him standing by the side of the lamp.
The officer pulled out his watch. 'The two minutes start now,' he said
briefly.
Menotah drew near his side, falling a little behind in the deep shadow.
Perhaps her beauty had never been so remarkable as at that moment. Her
eyes were glowing with unnatural fire, the light intensified by dark
lines beneath, and brilliant scarlet of the cheeks. The lips were parted
half painfully. She was breathing fast, and fighting for each deep
breath. For this was all the last effort of nature. The whole of her
remaining life strength was being cast into one supreme endeavour to
save the man who had wronged her. That colour was but the hot passion
fever of the mind; the brightness of the eyes was closely akin to the
light of madness. During that awful day she had not tasted food; sleep
had scarcely been hers for the past month; now she was nothing but a
shell, containing a single spark of fire, which would flash once, then
die away for ever.
The officer had raised his revolver, and now covered Lamont. The traitor
stood motionless in the same spot, still clutching the death knife. The
seconds of time which made up that first minute ticked away without
action on his part.
Lamont glanced wildly at the dark window, the silent soldier guarding
it, then at the standard lamp which stood between them. Every eye was
upon him. Sinclair knew that his triumph was complete. Marie, with large
eyes of hatred, regarded the man who had won her young affections and
had so grievously dishonoured her life. None thought of Menotah, as she
stood in the shadow. She never for a second removed her gaze from the
officer within reach of her hand; she noted his slightest movement;
deliberately she counted the rapid pulsations of these two terrible
minutes.
And the last of these now drew towards its close, Lamont had not
stirred, nor did he show any sign of dropping the murderous weapon.
'Fifteen seconds more.'
'You're a fool, Lamont,' muttered the hunter. 'Chuck the thing away, and
be a man.'
'Ten.'
Menotah was quivering like an aspen in the breeze.
Grimly the watch ticked off the last few seconds.
The officer took a more deliberate aim, while every man held his breath.
'Time.'
Almost before the word had formed into sound, Menotah dashed the
revolver from his hand.
'Now!'
Lamont hurled the lamp to the floor in front of him, then bounded
forward in the darkness. The soldier moved to meet him, despite the
almost certainty of death from the poisoned knife. But, instead of the
fugitive, he caught in his arms the figure of a girl. Menotah had cast
herself against him to assist the escape. They rolled together on the
floor, and Lamont tumbled over them both. Then, with a desperate
movement, he dragged himself to the window, until he clutched the ledge
with his fingers. But the man caught him by the ankle. Menotah
deliberately threw her whole weight upon the detaining arm, and it broke
down beneath the strain.
The next second Lamont had dragged himself free. Then he clambered to
his feet, and in almost the same motion leapt from the window. All heard
the furious shaking of bushes beneath, the hurried click of a gate in
the palisade, followed by loud beating of feet upon the hard road.
'After him!' shouted the officer, swearing violently in his rage. 'Shoot
him! Club him--anything.'
'He's bound for the river,' shouted one of the men. Then he flung
himself from the window. The other followed, and after him the officer.
Sinclair stood in the dark room, biting his hands. 'If he swims across
and reaches the bush, we sha'n't see him again,' he muttered furiously.
Then he struck a match. The pale, sulphurous flame lit up the room
weirdly. Marie's nerves had given way, and she lay in a chair sobbing
with weakness.
The hunter brought in the lamp from outside. As darkness disappeared,
Menotah rose from the ground and tottered with feeble motions towards
the door. That frightful strain had been removed at last. The work for
which she had retained life and strength was done. Her vengeance had
been accomplished, so she might rest--rest in the peace of death, for
now there remained no further duty in life.
She spoke in a low voice of anguish. 'Has he escaped? They did not seize
him? Tell me.'
Sinclair turned viciously upon her. 'Damn you!' he snarled, 'I could fix
you for this. You've robbed me of my revenge, after all my planning and
waiting. But you'll have to pay the devil now. Wait till they come back.
I tell you, if they haven't got him you'll swing instead. They'll hang
you, right enough, for this.'
Madly she drank in the glad truth of his opening words. Then she moved
again nearer the door, as though she would once more seek a hiding
place.
But tension never fails to find the weakest spot.
Suddenly she flung both hands to her burning forehead, staggered on
another couple of paces, then fell crushed to the floor, with a low,
heart-breaking cry.
The kindly darkness of insensibility blotted away for a time her madness
and her pain.