ESCAPE.
Claude remained alone once more, with his brain in a whirl from the
tumult of thought which had arisen. This interview with the priest
had been the most eventful hour of his life. He had learned the
secret of his parentage, the wrongs and sufferings of his father and
mother, the villany of Cazeneau, the true reason for the bitter
enmity which in him had triumphed over gratitude, and made him seek
so pertinaciously the life of the man who had once saved his own.
It seemed like a dream. But a short time before, not one ray of hope
appeared to illuminate the midnight gloom which reigned around him
and within him. Now all was dazzling brightness. It seemed too
bright; it was unnatural; it was too much to hope for. That he should
escape was of itself happiness enough; but that he should also join
Mimi once more, and that he should be joined to her, no more to part
till death, was an incredible thing. Mimi herself must also know
this, and was even now waiting for him, as he was waiting for her.
Claude waited in a fever of impatience. The monotonous step of the
sentry sounded out as he paced to and fro. At times Claude thought he
heard the approach of footsteps, and listened eagerly; but over and
over again he was compelled to desist, on finding that his senses
deceived him. Thus the time passed, and as it passed, his impatience
grew the more uncontrollable. Had it been possible, he would have
burst open the door, and ventured forth so as to shorten his
suspense.
At length a sound of approaching footsteps did in reality arise. This
time there was no mistake. He heard voices outside, the challenge and
reply of the changing guard. Then footsteps departed, and the tramp
died away, leaving only the pacing of the sentinel for Claude to
hear. What now? Was this the sentinel who was to be his friend? He
thought so. He believed so. The time passed--too long a time, he
thought, for the sentinel gave no sign: still he kept up his
monotonous tramp. Claude repressed his impatience, and waited till,
to his astonishment, what seemed an immense time had passed away; and
the sentinel came not to his aid.
Still the time passed. Claude did not know what to think. Gradually a
sickening fear arose--the fear that the whole plan had been
discovered, and that the priest had failed. Perhaps the commandant
had played him false, and had pretended to sympathize with him so as
to draw out his purpose, which he would reveal to Cazeneau, in order
to gain his gratitude, and lay him under obligation. The priest, he
thought, was too guileless to deal with men of the world like these.
He had been caught in a trap, and had involved himself with all the
rest. His own fate could be no worse than it was before, but it was
doubly bitter to fall back into his despair, after having been for a
brief interval raised up to so bright a hope.
Such were the thoughts that finally took possession of Claude, and,
with every passing moment, deepened into conviction. Midnight had
passed; the sentry had come, and there he paced mechanically, with no
thought of him. Either the ex-commandant or the sentinel had betrayed
them. Too many had been in the secret. Better never to have heard of
this plan than, having heard of it, to find it thus dashed away on
the very eve of its accomplishment. Time passed, and every moment
only added to Claude's bitterness; time passed, and every moment only
served to show him that all was over. A vague thought came of
speaking to the sentinel; but that was dismissed. Then another
thought came, of trying to tear away the iron grating; but the
impossibility of that soon showed itself. He sank down upon his
litter of straw in one corner, and bade adieu to hope. Then he
started up, and paced up and down wildly, unable to yield so calmly
to despair. Then once more he sank down upon the straw.
Thus he was lying, crouched down, his head in his hands, overwhelmed
utterly, when suddenly a deep sound came to his ears, which in an
instant made him start to his feet, and drove away every despairing
thought, bringing in place of these a new wave of hope, and joy, and
amazement. It was the single toll of the great bell, which, as he
knew, always sounded at midnight.
Midnight! Was it possible? Midnight had not passed, then. The change
of sentry had been at nine o'clock, which he, deceived by the slow
progress of the hours, had supposed to be midnight. He had been
mistaken. There was yet hope. He rushed to the grating, and listened.
There were footsteps approaching--the tramp of the relieving guard.
He listened till the guard was relieved, and the departing footsteps
died away. Then began the pace of the new sentry.
What now? Was there to be a repetition of his former experience? Was
he again to be dashed down from this fresh hope into a fresh despair?
He nerved himself for this new ordeal, and waited with a painfully
throbbing heart. At the grating he stood, motionless, listening, with
all his soul wrapped and absorbed in his single sense of hearing.
There were an inner grating and an outer one, and between the two a
sash with two panes of glass. He could hear the sentry as he paced up
and down; he could also hear, far away, the long, shrill note of
innumerable frogs; and the one seemed as monotonous, as unchangeable,
and as interminable as the other.
But at length the pacing of the sentry ceased. Claude listened; the
sentinel stopped; there was no longer any sound. Claude listened
still. This was the supreme hour of his fate. On this moment depended
all his future. What did this mean? Would the sentry begin his tramp?
He would; he did. In despair Claude fled from the grating, and fell
back upon the straw. For a time he seemed unconscious of everything;
but at length he was roused by a rattle at the door of his cell. In a
moment he was on his feet, listening. It was the sound of a key as it
slowly turned in the lock. Claude moved not, spoke not; he waited. If
this was his deliverer, all well; if not, he was resolved to have a
struggle for freedom. Then he stole cautiously to the door.
It opened. Claude thrust his hand through, and seized a human arm. A
man's voice whispered back,--
"H-s-s-t! _Suivez moi_."
A thrill of rapture unutterable passed through every nerve and fibre
of Claude. At once all the past was forgotten; forgotten, also, were
all the dangers that still lay before him. It was enough that this
hope had not been frustrated, that the sentinel had come to deliver
him from the cell at the midnight hour. The cool breeze of night was
wafted in through the open door, and fanned the fevered brow of the
prisoner, bearing on its wings a soothing influence, a healing balm,
and life, and hope. His presence of mind all came back: he was
self-poised, vigilant, cool: all this in one instant. All his powers
would be needed to carry him through the remainder of the night; and
these all were summoned forth, and came at his bidding. And so Claude
followed his guide.
The sentinel led the way, under the shadow of the wall, towards the
Residency. At one end of this was the chapel. Towards this the
sentinel guided Claude, and, on reaching it, opened the door. A hand
seized his arm, a voice whispered in his ear,--
"Welcome, my son. Here is your bride."
And then a soft hand was placed in his. Claude knew whose hand it
was. He flung his arms around the slender figure of Mimi, and pressed
her to his heart.
"Come," said the priest.
He drew them up towards the altar. Others were present. Claude could
not see them; one, however, he could see, was a female, whom he
supposed to be Margot. The moonlight shone in through the great
window over the altar. Here the priest stood, and placed Claude and
Mimi before him.
Then he went through the marriage service. It was a strange wedding
there at midnight, in the moonlit chapel, with the forms of the
spectators so faintly discerned, and the ghostly outline of priest,
altar, and window before them as they knelt. But they were married;
and Claude once more, in a rapture of feeling, pressed his wife to
his heart.
They now left the chapel by another door in the rear. The priest led
the way, together with the sentinel. Here was the wall. A flight of
steps led to the top. On reaching this they came to a place where
there was a ladder. Down this they all descended in silence, and
found themselves in the ditch. The ladder was once more made use of
to climb out of this, and then Claude saw a figure crouched on the
ground and creeping towards them. It was an Indian, with whom the
priest conversed in his own language for a moment.
"All is well," he whispered to Claude. "The captain is waiting for us
many miles from this. And now, forward!"
The Indian led the way; then went the priest; then Claude with Mimi;
then Margot; last of all came the sentinel, who had deserted his
post, and was now seeking safety in flight under the protection of
Pere Michel. Such was the little party of fugitives that now sought
to escape from Louisbourg into the wild forest around. After walking
for about a mile, they reached a place where five horses were bound.
Here they proceeded to mount.
"I sent these out after sundown," said the priest to Claude. "There
are not many horses in Louisbourg. These will assist us to escape,
and will be lost to those who pursue. Here, my son, arm yourself, so
as to defend your wife, in case of need."
With these words the priest handed Claude a sword, pointing also to
pistols which were in the holster. The Indian alone remained on foot.
He held the bridle of the priest's horse, and led the way, sometimes
on what is called an "Indian trot," at other times on a walk. The
others all followed at the same pace.
The road was the same one which had been traversed by Claude and Mimi
when they first came to Louisbourg--a wide trail, rough, yet
serviceable, over which many pack-horses and droves of cattle had
passed, but one which was not fitted for wheels, and was rather a
trail than a road. On each side the trees arose, which threw a deep
shade, so that, in spite of the moon which shone overhead, it was too
dark to go at any very rapid pace.
"We must make all the haste we can," said the priest. "In three hours
they will probably discover all. The alarm will be given, and we shall
be pursued. In these three hours, then, we must get so far ahead that
they may not be able to come up with us."
At first the pathway was wide enough for them all to move at a rapid
pace; but soon it began to grow narrower. As they advanced, the trees
grew taller, and the shadows which they threw were darker. The path
became more winding, for, like all trails, it avoided the larger
trees or stones, and wound around them, where a road would have led
to their removal. The path also became rougher, from stones which
protruded in many places, or from long roots stretching across, which
in the darkness made the horses stumble incessantly. These it was
impossible to avoid. In addition to these, there were miry places,
where the horses sank deep, and could only extricate themselves with
difficulty.
Thus their progress grew less and less, till at length it dwindled to
a walk, and a slow one at that. Nothing else could be done. They all
saw the impossibility of more rapid progress, in the darkness, over
such a path. Of them all, Claude was the most impatient, as was
natural. His sense of danger was most keen. The terror of the night
had not yet passed away. Already, more than once, he had gone from
despair to hope, and back once more to despair; and it seemed to him
as though his soul must still vibrate between these two extremes. The
hope which was born out of new-found freedom was now rapidly yielding
to the fear of pursuit and re-capture.
In the midst of these thoughts, he came forth suddenly upon a broad,
open plain, filled with stout underbrush. Through this the trail ran.
Reaching this, the whole party urged their horses at full speed, and
for at least three miles they were able to maintain this rapid
progress. At the end of that distance, the trail once more entered
the woods, and the pace dwindled to a walk. But that three-mile run
cheered the spirits of all.
"How many miles have we come, I wonder?" asked Claude.
"About six," said the priest.
"How many miles is it to the schooner?"
"About forty."
Claude drew a long breath.
"It must be nearly three o'clock in the morning now," said he. "I
dare say they are finding it out now."
"Well, we needn't stop to listen," said the priest.
"No; we'll hear them soon enough."
"At any rate, the dawn is coming," said the priest. "The day will
soon be here, and then we can go on as fast as we wish."