“Months since Pierre left and no news of him,” Alaine said to Gerard, as the summer waned. “I fear I shall never see my father again. You, who alone know why Pierre has gone, can give me no comfort. I have sent him into slavery, and perhaps to his death.”
“No, no, Alaine, that is a foolish way to look at it. He went of his own accord, so he told me, and, the good Pierre, he bade me try to comfort you. It may take a long time to effect his purpose. There is no reason for despair as yet. The vessels are slow in going and coming, and who knows what time and caution he must use in seeking your father? Even to-day a message may be on its way to you.”
Alaine plucked up courage, and with better heart went singing to her work. Michelle and Papa Louis were in the fields, and Gerard had just come to the pump to quench his thirst. “Even now he may be on his way to me,” Alaine repeated. “If he returns it means—what may it not mean?” The blood rushed to her face and brow. “Alas, my Lendert,” she murmured, but instantly she shook her head as if to put away too intrusive a thought and continued her spinning.
She had hardly recommenced her song when the latch of the door was lifted, and she saw before her a tall Indian. He gravely unrolled from a piece of deer-skin a small packet and handed it to her, then turned and walked out without a word. With trembling fingers Alaine undid the packet. On a bit of bark a few words were written: “Meet me at the cave at sunset. I have news for you. Tell no one, but come alone, or there may be danger for one you love.—Pierre.”
Alaine stared at the bark, turned it over, and then hid it away. It was as Gerard had said; a message was truly on its way to her; one would almost think it a prophecy. It seemed as if the moments were doubly long that day, but at last the hours of labor were over, and the girl, all impatient expectation, stole down to the well-known spot. She wondered why the secrecy. What had happened? Why did not Pierre approach boldly, there in the village where all his friends were? She was anxious, apprehensive, yet so eager that she ran all the way to the shore, hoping no one else would be there. She glanced around; all was still; the place was deserted, for the weary workers in the fields did not care to do other than rest from their labors. Upon the water a little way out rocked a large sailing-vessel, its white sails catching the evening light. Perhaps—she hardly dared think it—her father was on board; it might be that it was on his account there was need of secrecy. She looked around; no one was near; but presently from the vessel a little boat put out, and when it touched the shore a man leaped ashore.
“You await Pierre Boutillier?” he asked, in good French.
“Yes,” Alaine replied, eagerly.
“He asks if you will let me conduct you to yonder ship, where he can confer with you without observation.”
“Why did he not come himself?” Alaine asked, drawing back.
“He had the misfortune to trip over a coil of rope and sprain his ankle. He is clumsy, that Pierre.” The man looked at her with a bright, quizzical smile.