THE WORDS OF LOVE
His eyes brightened, and his hand sought mine.
“The spirit of the old days; the words of a soldier’s daughter, hey, Barbeau?”
“A La Chesnayne could make no other choice,” he answered loyally. “But we have no time to waste here in compliment. You know a safe passage, you say?”
“Not a safe one, yet a trail which may still remain open, for it is known to but few. Let us aboard, and cross to the opposite shore, where we will hide the canoe, and make our way through the forest. Once safely afoot yonder I will make my purpose clear.”
A dozen strokes landed us on the other bank, where the canoe was drawn up, and concealed among the bushes, while we descended a slight declivity, and found ourselves in the silence of a great wood. Here De Artigny paused to make certain his sense of direction.
“I will go forward slightly in advance,” he said, at last, evidently having determined upon his course.
“And we will move slowly, and as noiselessly as 268 possible. No one ever knows where the enemy are to be met with in Indian campaign, and we are without arms, except for Barbeau’s gun.”
“I retain my pistol,” I interrupted.
“Of small value since its immersion in the lake; as to myself I must trust to my knife. Madame you will follow me, but merely close enough to make sure of your course through the woods, while Barbeau will guard the rear. Are both ready?”
“Perhaps it might be well to explain more clearly what you propose,” said the soldier. “Then if we become separated we could figure out the proper direction to follow.”
“Not a bad thought that. It is a rough road ahead, heavily wooded, and across broken land. My route is almost directly west, except that we bear slightly south to keep well away from the river. Three leagues will bring us to a small stream which empties into the Illinois. There is a faint trail along its eastern bank which leads to the rear of the Rock, where it is possible for one knowing the way to attain the palisades of the fort. If we can attain this trail before dark we can make the remaining distance by night. Here, let me show you,” and he drew with a sharp stick a hasty map on the ground. “Now you understand; if we become separated, keep steadily westward until you reach a stream flowing north.”
In this order we took up the march, and as I had nothing to bear except a blanket, which I twisted about my shoulders, I found little difficulty in following my leader. At first the underbrush was heavy, and the ground very broken, so that oftentimes I lost sight entirely of De Artigny, but as he constantly broke branches to mark his passage, and the sun served as guidance, I had small difficulty in keeping the proper direction. To our right along the river appeared masses of isolated rock, and these we skirted closely, always in the shadow and silence of great trees. Within half an hour we had emerged from the retarding underbrush, and came out into an open wood, where the walking was much easier.
I could look down the aisles of the trees for long distances, and no longer experienced any difficulty in keeping within sight of my leader. All sense of fear had passed away, we seemed so alone in the silent forest, although once I thought I heard the report of a distant gun, which brought back to mind a vision of that camp of death we had left behind. It was a wearisome tramp over the rough ground, for while De Artigny found passage through the hollows wherever possible, yet we were obliged to climb many hills, and once to pick our way cautiously through a sickly swamp, springing from hummock to hummock to keep from sinking deep in slimy ooze.
De Artigny came back and aided me here, speaking words of encouragement, and assuring me that the trail we sought was only a short distance beyond. I laughed at his solicitude, claiming to be good for many a mile yet, and he left me, never realizing that I already staggered from weariness.
However we must have made excellent progress, for the sun had not entirely disappeared when we emerged from the dark wood shadows into a narrow, grassy valley, through which flowed a silvery stream, not broad, but deep. Assured that this must be the water we sought, I sank to the ground, eager for a moment’s rest, but De Artigny, tireless still, moved back and forward along the edge of the forest to assure himself of the safety of our surroundings. Barbeau joined him, and questioned.
“We have reached the trail?”
“Ay, beside the shore yonder; see you anything of Indian tepees across the stream to the left?”
“Below, there are wigwams there just in the edge of the grove. You can see the outlines from here; but I make out no moving figures.”
“Deserted then; the cowards have run away. They could not have been attacked, or the tepees would have been burned.”
“An Algonquin village?”
“Miamis. I had hoped we might gain assistance 271 there, but they have either joined the whites in the fort, or are hiding in the woods. ’Tis evident we must save ourselves.”
“And how far is it?”
“To the fort? A league or two, and a rough climb at the farther end through the dark. We will wait here until after dusk, eat such food as we have without fire, and rest up for a bit of venture. The next trip will test us all, and Madame is weary enough already.”
“An hour will put me right,” I said, smiling at him, yet making no attempt to rise. “I have been in a boat so long I have lost all strength in my limbs.”
“We feel that, all of us,” cheerily, “but come Barbeau, unpack, and let us have what cheer we can.”
I know not when food was ever more welcome, although it was simple enough to be sure––a bit of hard cracker, and some jerked deer meat, washed down by water from the stream––yet hunger served to make these welcome. We were at the edge of the wood, already growing dark and dreary with the shadows of approaching night. The wind, what there was, was from the south, and, if there was any firing at the fort, no sound of it reached us. Once we imagined we saw a skulking figure on the opposite bank––an Indian Barbeau insisted––but it disappeared so suddenly as to make us doubt our own eyes.
The loneliness and peril of our situation had tendency to keep us silent, although De Artigny endeavored to cheer me with kindly speech, and gave Barbeau careful description of the trail leading to the fort gate. If aught happened to him, we were to press on until we attained shelter. The way in which the words were said brought a lump into my throat, and before I knew the significance of the action, my hand clasped his. I felt the grip of his fingers, and saw his face turn toward me in the dusk. Barbeau got to his feet, gun in hand, and stood shading his eyes.
“I would like a closer view of that village yonder,” he said, “and will go down the bank a hundred yards or so.”
“’Twill do no harm,” returned De Artigny, still clasping my hand. “There is time yet before we make our venture.”
He disappeared in the shadows, leaving us alone, and I glanced aside at De Artigny’s face, my heart beating fiercely.
“You did not like to hear me speak as I did?” he questioned quietly.
“No,” I answered honestly, “the thought startled me. If––if anything happened to you, I––I should be all alone.”
He bent lower, still grasping my fingers, and seeking to compel my eyes to meet his.
“Adele,” he whispered, “why is it necessary for us to keep up this masquerade?”
“What masquerade, Monsieur?”
“This pretense at mere friendship,” he insisted, “when we could serve each other better by a frank confession of the truth. You love me––”
“Monsieur,” and I tried to draw my hand away. “I am the wife of Francois Cassion.”
“I care nothing for that unholy alliance. You are his only by form. Do you know what that marriage has cost me? Insults, ever since we left Quebec. The coward knew I dare not lay hand upon him, because he was your husband. We would have crossed steel a hundred times, but for my memory of you. I could not kill the cur, for to do so would separate us forever. So I bore his taunts, his reviling, his curses, his orders that were insults. You think it was easy? I am a woodsman, a lieutenant of La Salle’s, and it has never before been my way to receive insult without a blow. We are not of that breed. Yet I bore it for your sake––why? Because I loved you.”
“Oh, Monsieur!”
“’Tis naught to the shame of either of us,” he continued, now speaking with a calmness which held me silent. “And I wish you to know the truth, so far as I can make it clear. This has been in my mind for weeks, and I say it to you now as solemnly as though 274 I knelt before a father confessor. You have been to me a memory of inspiration ever since we first met years ago at that convent in Quebec. I dreamed of you in the wilderness, in the canoe on the great river, and here at St. Louis. Never did voyageur go eastward but I asked him to bring me word from you, and each one, bore from me a message of greeting.”
“I received none, Monsieur.”
“I know that; even Sieur de la Salle failed to learn your dwelling place. Yet when he finally chose me as his comrade on this last journey, while I would have followed him gladly even to death, the one hope which held me to the hardships of the trail, was the chance thus given of seeking you myself.”
“It was I you sought then at the home of Hugo Chevet? not service under Francois Cassion? Yet, when we met, you knew me not.”
“Nay; I had no thought that you were there. ’Twas told me in Quebec––for what cause I cannot decide––that you had returned to France. I had given up all hope, and that very fact made me blind to your identity. Indeed, I scarce comprehended that you were really Adele la Chesnayne, until we were alone together in the palace of the Intendant. After I left you there, left you facing La Barre; left you knowing of your forced engagement to his commissaire, I reached a decision––I meant to accompany his party to Montreal, 275 find some excuse on the way for quarrel, and return to Quebec––and you.”
He paused, but I uttered no word, conscious that my cheeks were burning hotly, and afraid to lift my eyes to his face.
“You know the rest. I have made the whole journey; I have borne insult, the charge of crime, merely that I might remain, and serve you. Why do I say this? Because tonight––if we succeed in getting through the Indian lines––I shall be again among my old comrades, and shall be no longer a servant to Francois Cassion. I shall stand before him a man, an equal, ready to prove myself with the steel––”
“No, Monsieur,” I burst forth, “that must not be; for my sake you will not quarrel!”
“For your sake? You would have me spare him?”
“Oh, why do you put it thus, Monsieur! It is so hard for me to explain. You say you love me, and––and the words bring me joy. Ay, I confess that. But do you not see that a blow from your hand struck at Francois Cassion would separate us forever? Surely that is not the end you seek. I would not have you bear affront longer, yet no open quarrel will serve to better our affairs. Certainly no clash of swords. Perhaps it cannot be avoided, for Cassion may so insult you when he sees us together, as to let his insolence go beyond restraint. But I beg of you, Monsieur, to 276 hold your hand, to restrain your temper––for my sake.”
“You make it a trial, a test?”
“Yes––it is a test. But, Monsieur, there is more involved here than mere happiness. You must be cleared of the charge of crime, and I must learn the truth of what caused my marriage. Without these facts the future can hold out no hope for either of us. And there is only one way in which this end can be accomplished––a confession by Cassion. He alone knows the entire story of the conspiracy, and there is but one way in which he can be induced to talk.”
“You mean the same method you proposed to me back on the Ottawa?”
I faced him frankly, my eyes meeting his, no shade of hesitation in my voice.
“Yes, Monsieur, I mean that. You refused me before, but I see no harm, no wrong in the suggestion. If the men we fought were honorable I might hesitate––but they have shown no sense of honor. They have made me their victim, and I am fully justified in turning their own weapons against them. I have never hesitated in my purpose, and I shall not now. I shall use the weapons which God has put into my hands to wring from him the bitter truth––the weapons of a woman, love, and jealousy. Monsieur, am I to fight this fight alone?”
At first I thought he would not answer me, although his hand grip tightened, and his eyes looked down into mine, as though he would read the very secret of my heart.
“Perhaps I did not understand before,” he said at last, “all that was involved in your decision. I must know now the truth from your own lips before I pledge myself.”
“Ask me what you please; I am not too proud to answer.”
“I think there must be back of this choice of yours something more vital than hate, more impelling than revenge.”
“There is, Monsieur.”
“May I ask you what?”
“Yes, Monsieur, and I feel no shame in answering; I love you! Is that enough?”
“Enough! my sweetheart––”
“Hush!” I interrupted, “not now––Barbeau returns yonder.”