“I do not care, I could not help it; you may be enraged if it pleases you; in truth, I could no longer contain myself. Any good woman would have some pity on a poor fellow.” Words were scarce with Bras de Fer, but now he was fairly started, the sound of his own eloquence delighted him, and he continued boldly, “If to-morrow I am to be scalped, or thrown into the Iroquois kettle—and either may likely happen—I shall have had the satisfaction of feeling what it would be like if you were really my own girl, who would welcome me back if I should be so lucky as to escape tomahawk and bullet, and who would mourn for me should I fall.” The light of a strong love illumined his brave, honest face as he spoke.
There was still silence. It was hard that at such a moment she should remain obdurate. His heart swelled to bursting; she must be altogether heartless. Bras de Fer at last found courage to steal an anxious, imploring glance in the direction of his sweet tormentor. Nanon stood still as a statue; the warm tears were streaming down her cheeks, but a strangely happy smile lingered about her lips.
“If you please, Master Baptiste Bras de Fer, but it is an innocent one may eat with salt, your Canadian.” The color had returned to the girl’s cheek, the sparkle to her eye. “Your wits have long been wool gathering; say, then, is it possible that you have found them at last? Did you expect the women to make love to you, my fine big fellow?”
Du Chesne had drawn Lydia apart from the crowd. The girl made no effort to control herself; sobbing convulsively, she clung to him as, taking her hands in his, his eyes went slowly over her from head to foot. He was silent, as one who, looking for the last time on a face he loves, would carry the memory of it with him to the wide world’s end.
“Stay! Give the expedition up; let the others go. What does it matter? Even if the English come here, I may find friends among them. Do not leave me; the parting will kill me,” she entreated.
The young Canadian shook his head. He scarcely understood her thought, or grasped the idea that she should dream of placing herself between him and his duty. A low, pitiful wail, like that of some helpless creature in distress, stole unawares from her quivering lips. Du Chesne shivered, and looked around fearfully. In all his life he had never endured torture like this; great drops of moisture gathered on his brow. Could courage desert him now? It was Diane who, rousing her dauntless spirit with courage that affection alone could give, came to his aid. She had reached the highest manifestation of human passion—self-sacrifice—and was learning that the soul can be taught to bear pain as the saints taught their bodies to bear the rigors of hardship and self-mortification. She was like a soldier who must fight till the last gasp, who must bear every blow like a stoic, so long as there was any excuse for the conflict.
“They call you, du Chesne; leave Lydia to my care. The Blessed Virgin protect you.”
An expression of sharp anguish for a moment marred the composure of his countenance. A quick breath escaped him, half groan, half sob; one long, lingering look, and he was gone.