Therefore, before the last snows had melted or the first bluebird had come, Alaine set free her pets: the squirrel which had become so tame that he would hide his nuts in her hair; the rabbit which hopped after her everywhere she went, and which now scurried off into the nearest brush; the cunning fox-cub with his bright, sharp eyes, which had been wont to curl himself up into a sleepy ball in her lap, but which now pricked up his ears and set out jauntily to seek adventures. “Adieu, my little friends,” sighed Alaine; “you go into the woods where are enemies you know not of, and I go my way into like dangers. We shall never see each other again.” She watched them disappear. Into what perils were they going who seemed to be so glad of freedom? The talons of an eagle, the fangs of a wolf, the bullet from a hunter’s rifle, might end the existence of any or all of them before night.
She turned sadly away to join Petit Marc and Jeanne, who, standing side by side, seemed as if they might be the children of a giant race. As they passed by the two graves under a sombre pine they all paused; Jeanne knelt, the other two walked on. A few moments later Jeanne joined them; she did not look back, nor did she have jest or word for either of her companions until they reached the water’s edge, where Marc made ready to launch his canoe.
CHAPTER XIV
PIERRE, THE ENGAGÉ
During all these months it had not fared well with Pierre Boutillier. A baleful star seemed to control his life. Of a poetic, morbidly religious temperament, he was of the stuff of which martyrs are made. His love for Alaine represented the poetry of his nature; his voluntary sacrifice the depth of his religious fervor. Had he remained in the Roman Church he would probably have entered some austere order of monks, and, by repeated scourgings and penances, would have become a saintly father; as it was, he was resolved that his love demanded a consecration of his life, and he sailed away in search of a battle to fight or a martyrdom to endure.
The martyrdom was in sight when he approached the shores of Guadaloupa. It had been but two or three years since he had escaped from that place, a slave running away from a cruel master. It was the policy of those who led the persecution of the Huguenots to make the life of the engagé as hard as possible, as a warning to those uncertainly arrayed upon the side of the Protestants and as a means of compelling any to conform. Therefore, half-starved, beaten, hard worked, the poor engagé lived till his strength failed under the burning suns and he died, less considered than the beasts of the field.
It was with a momentary feeling of weakness, of heart-sickness, and desire to retreat that Pierre set foot on shore. He could feel the lash of the whip, he could hear the coarse jeers, the taunts, the curses. He could see the face of his master, insolently cruel. He stood a moment irresolutely looking about him, and then slowly proceeded toward a building the use of which he seemed to know. Here were various offices, and here he would find the ship’s lists. Was there one Theodore Hervieu upon them? If so, where could he be found? A man with keen eyes rapidly examined the lists. No, there was no one of that name. Still, one could not tell; there were those who were sent out as convicts under assumed names. It might not be impossible to find such a one. Yet, it took time and money. A good ransom offered, and there would probably be a response if the man were still alive. Was there anything in it for one who knew the methods? if so—— Pierre shook his head. No, not much; the man was an engagé, Huguenot, he had promised friends to make inquiry.
“Pouf!” A wave of the hand dismissed all interest in the subject. “Let him go. He is dead, in all probability, and a good riddance. It would take weeks to follow it up, unless one had a certain clue?” And the official settled himself back, while Pierre went out and gazed up the long road. He stood for a moment thinking, and then slowly advanced up the dusty way leading to the plantation he best knew.
He had no need to travel far. His was not a face to forget; he had not walked far when he came face to face with the man who called himself his master, and from whom he had escaped three years before. The recognition was mutual; the red-faced, testy man who confronted the pale young Huguenot raised his heavy stick. “Dog of a Huguenot! Knave! Vile renegade! You dare to return and face me!” The stick descended upon Pierre’s head and shoulders, blow after blow fell until, bruised and unconscious, he lay at his master’s feet, to remain there till some one could be sent to take him up and bear him to the slave’s quarters on the plantation, there to lie, bereft of reason, for days. “He shall have the full benefit of the lash when he is able to stand up!” roared the planter. “Did he think to fool me? I do not forget faces, and he shall serve his time and then double it, the impudent whelp. Let me know when he is on his feet.” And to this prospect Pierre was to awaken.
Meanwhile, from the port of New York had set out a vessel laden with merchandise for the Carriby Islands. The cargo, carefully selected, was looked after by one of the owners of the vessel, who, sailing southward, would carry his goods to be exchanged for sugar, molasses, and rum, with such articles as could readily find a sale in the burgh of New York. He was a tall, well-formed young fellow, this trader, who talked little, thought much, and saw a great deal. He had made his journey into the wilds of the country, and had proved himself a good man in the matter of bringing home pelts, and this being his first venture in foreign fields, he was more than usually concerned. Beyond this, another matter lay very near his heart, for, with practical forethought, along with this expedition, which he hoped would benefit him financially, he was bent upon carrying out a plan over which he had spent many hours of thought. This was nothing more nor less than the release of one Theodore Hervieu, who, he had heard, was bondman in Guadaloupa, for Lendert Verplanck was setting about his errand in a very different way from that which suggested itself to the less practical Pierre. He would hunt up Pierre, and the two would proceed to discover M. Hervieu. They would return and let Alaine’s father decide which was the better man of the two.
Lendert measured Pierre by his own standards, and had not much faith in the young Huguenot’s efforts at liberating M. Hervieu. In his quiet way Lendert had observed a great deal, and he felt sure that, ardent and zealous as Pierre might be, his plans would lack system, and so fall short of their object. The matter had been given careful thought by the young Dutchman. He knew the laws of the colony forbade a marriage without the consent of parents, and the thing, therefore, was to obtain M. Hervieu’s consent, and then his own mother’s approval. Lendert realized that he had set himself something of a task, but his slow persistence in overcoming difficulties would avail him much, and he would take time. Yes, he would not go about it with a rush, as Pierre did; he would take time.