Forcing their way through the dense wood for three or four hundred yards along the crest of the bank, they came at length to an opening through which they heard the sound of voices, and passing through the gap they were soon looking down upon the scene below.
There on the border of the stream stood a group of Canadian militia leaning on their muskets. Two or three Indians lay dead upon the ground, and near them lay also a female figure, by the side of which, with his hands clasped and his head bowed down, stood the Baron de Valricour. There was another prostrate figure, that of a spare old man, to whom two persons seemed to be attending. One of them was Isidore, the other Boulanger did not recognise—it was the Marquis de Beaujardin.
The story was soon told. That afternoon Jacques Duboscq, who had been captured on his return to the "Pompadour" had been considerately sent on shore by the commander of the English sloop in order that he might inform the Baron de Valricour of the circumstances under which Madame de Valricour and the marquis had been put on shore at Cape Tourment two days before. On hastening to the military offices to see if any steps could be taken on behalf of their relatives, should they have fallen into the hands of the English, the baron and Isidore found that an Indian scout or spy had just come in with the intelligence that some Algonquins with three French prisoners had been seen that day encamped on the Montmorency River. In less than an hour Isidore and his uncle had set out for the spot, accompanied by a small body of picked men, and, guided by the scouts, they took the Indians completely by surprise, killing or dispersing them with a single volley. With instinctive ferocity, however, one of the savages had struck Madame de Valricour dead, whilst another singled out the marquis, as he supposed, and grievously wounded poor Perigord.
Two rude litters were soon made by some of the Canadians, on one of which they laid the body of Madame de Valricour, on the other they placed old Perigord, and the party then set out for the lines at Montmorency. They had not gone far before the attention of Amoahmeh and the Canadian was attracted by a sound like the scream of an eagle, which was immediately echoed from afar: "Yes, our friend yonder is calling to his eaglets," said Boulanger, "and they hear him; but we can laugh at them and him too now."
On the way the marquis kept by the side of his old servant, more than once expressing his grief at what had befallen him.
"Nay, monseigneur," replied Perigord, smiling in spite of the pain he was evidently enduring, "do not mind about me. It was fortunate that those stupid savages mistook me for my betters. Besides, have I not seen my dear young master once again?"
Dear old Achille! These were the last words he spoke. When they reached the lines at Montmorency he was dead. The scheming and haughty baroness and the humble and faithful servitor had met the same fate. Death does indeed bring us all down to one level, but only in the grave—not beyond it.
