“But they are monsters! One hears only of shedding of blood.” In her agitation Lydia had seized hold of du Chesne’s hand, at which a thrill went through the young man’s veins.
“All this is far removed from you; it is not fit that you should hear such tales. You should be surrounded by scenes of peace and tenderness. Cannot you trust yourself to my care, my sweet Lydia?” he urged tenderly.
The young Canadian felt himself completely fascinated by this fair childish beauty. There was something in the girl’s guileless expression, the sight of her hair flowing in waves of gold over the shapely shoulders, that ensnared his heart. Then his efforts at consolation were so very successful, and were so gratefully received, that he could not fail to be thoroughly satisfied. Diane de Monesthrol might accept tribute of general admiration if it pleased her to do so; for his part, he preferred the sweetly feminine creature who was pleased to receive rather than confer distinction.
Frontenac, himself a brave man, had always shown cordial sympathy for the reckless courage of the voyageurs and bushrangers. He now readily gave utterance to his commendations.
“Ta, ta, ta! bravely done, my fine fellow. These are the sort of defenders that Canada requires; would that we had many more of them. Eight enemies killed at a stroke! He is a Canadian hero; we owe him the thanks of the colony.”
“Et par le corbeau,” grumbled Jean Ameron, who made desperate but futile attempts to imitate the soldiers in the jaunty swagger of their manner. “Heroes, like saints, are cheap in this country. To kill eight Iroquois, that were easily enough done—just one sharp blow skilfully directed, and all is over. Little more effort is required than for killing a mouse. Thirty livres, no less, is the price paid for each scalp; two hundred and forty livres will this bird of prey receive from the Government. It was but chance that placed the occasion in Dubocq’s way. Some are favored by luck; I could myself do as much as that.”
“Jean, my friend, thou art not of those whose light is suffered to hide under bushels,” protested the soldier.
“Maître Bourdon, hast thou good wine at thy tavern?” demanded Frontenac.
“But yes, plenty, and of the most excellent, M. le Comte; of many kinds also, to suit all tastes—Vin de Grève, both the white and the red, wine of Xeres, Muscat—” the little fat man was delighted to seize the opportunity of proclaiming the prime quality of his wares.