Johanna van der Deen stood looking after the men who bore François Dupont to the fort. She was a very religious woman, and one who never failed to press home her pious truths. She and Madam De Vries had never been the best of friends, for the former’s lack of seriousness was not approved by the good Johanna. Moreover, she had heard repeated a remark of Madam De Vries, a remark which ridiculed her neighbor’s pious attitude. This was quite enough to determine Madam van der Deen not to encourage Madam De Vries in her overtures in a matter of marriage for her son. “Daughter of mine shall not marry a son of Arianie De Vries,” she had told her husband.
“Lendert is a good young man,” Joachim had answered between puffs of his pipe.
“There are others quite as good whose mothers are better,” Johanna had made reply, and Joachim had agreed. Nevertheless, they had allowed Trynje to visit Madam De Vries, wisely believing that in time she would see for herself that Madam could be very disagreeable and that her daughter-in-law might expect to have a stormy time. Thinking of all this and of how it had come according to their expectations, Madam van der Deen shook her head. “I will go to her. Poor soul, I fear I cannot persuade her that she should kiss the rod. It is hard for one who has desired her own way to find that our ways are not the Lord’s ways and that we are but as the grass of the field, which to-day is and to-morrow shall be cast into the oven. Look to that poor creature they have carried in, and I will come to him later.” And she moved toward the fort, passing on to enter the blockhouse, where Madam De Vries sat, cold and tearless.
“My son is captive,” were the words that greeted Johanna van der Deen, “and I have that girl to thank for it. But for her he would have been safe at home. Therefore I owe your daughter small thanks for bringing him here. That is all I wish to say.” She dismissed Madam van der Deen with a wave of her hand, and she, without a word, went back to the fort where François Dupont lay motionless, save but for a barely perceptible flutter of his breast.
Madam van der Deen stood looking at him. Here was an end to human hopes, ambitions, and all revenge. Even resentment must fade into pity before this awful shadow which seemed to be hovering over the helpless man. She sent for a stoup of wine. “It will be of little use, yet one must try to give him time for repentance,” she murmured. She went away for bandages and returned to see Madam De Vries bending over the pallet. There were tears in her eyes. “Some one’s son,” she whispered, as if to herself; “young and handsome, yet he has the privilege of death in this way, while my boy——” she shuddered and hid her face in her hands. “Give me the wine,” she said presently. “I will nurse this man.” She did not seem to notice that it was Madam van der Deen to whom she spoke. She moistened the pale lips and stanched the wounds, and at last the dark eyes opened to look upon the pitying face of a woman.
“This is well,” whispered François. “I am glad you have come, mother. I think I am dying, and I wanted to die at home in France. I am glad you are here.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Madam De Vries, soothingly.
“I cannot remember all,” he went on, in a weak whisper, “but they fled from the British that time in Quebec. Father Bisset took Alaine and fled. They must have been taken prisoners somehow. I stayed there to fight for France, for France. You would not have had me do otherwise, mother.” He closed his eyes, but after a time opened them again. “Where is the Dutch pig?” he asked. “It was to save him she threw herself between. Once more she made a shield of her sweet body.”
“Sh!” warned Madam van der Deen, glancing at Madam De Vries, but François wandered on.
“Is she dead? I did not love her, poor little Alaine, but listen, this is my confession. I wish to confess. I am dying, you know, and you are my mother.” He was quiet again.