"Ah, Pauline! time has brought no change to thy passionate, impulsive, unreasoning heart; and what thy biting tongue may not say, the pen will utter, though lapse of years and the waves of the Atlantic roll between us. Is it not strange that a woman's letter to her betrothed, beginning with 'My own love,' and ending 'Until death,' can contain eight double-written pages of unreasonable blame, cruel innuendos, and despicable revenge on the innocent? Well, we are betrothed, and should have been married years ago, had not Fate or Providence stood in the way; and I suppose her life at home is far from pleasant, for her step-mother is not one to let a good marriage go by, without reminding poor Paulie of my general worthlessness; but I must say that my better financial and matrimonial prospects offer little hope of added happiness."
His eye lit up a moment, and an expression of keen and almost cruel intent contracted his gaze; then, with a look of disdain, he seemed to throw off some evil influence, and a look of pity softened his face.
"Yes, if I were to resent these affronts—for such they are—with one half the virulence which animates them, her pride would alienate us forever, and I should be free. There are few who would blame me, and many who would scorn to do aught else. In truth I am almost decided to answer this precious billet-doux in the same vein in which it was written. Ah, it was not all delusion that made yonder madman think that evil spirits haunt these icy wastes. It was not thus I felt when together we voyaged across that summer sea; and the vows we plighted then may not lightly be broken. I will answer patiently, and as becomes the past. As to the future, it will bring due reward or punishment here or hereafter."
From these somewhat morbid self-communings, which we introduce for a purpose hereafter to be disclosed, La Salle started, seized his glittering skates, and taking his gun, glided with long, powerful strokes across the inner bay towards the ice-houses of the other party, which lay within the embouchure of Trois-Lieue Creek. The ice was almost perfectly level, save where a heavy drift had formed a small mound around which it was better to steer, although the sleety crust had frozen so hard that the broad-runnered Belgian skates would run almost anywhere. At the first ice-house he found Risk and Davies, who had done little or nothing for some days, and talked of going home at the end of the week.
"Indian Peter gets about all the geese that go through here, and there's little show for us," said Davies.
"Where is his ice-house?" asked La Salle.
"Just up the cove—the nearest of those two," answered Risk.
"I guess I'll have a look at his outfit, and then go and meet the boys at the block-house, for they have never been here before, and the track can't be very plain now." So saying, La Salle skated up to the Indian stand, almost half a mile distant.
"One-armed Peter," as he was commonly called among his tribesmen, had neither the means nor the inclination to deviate much from the traditionary usages of his tribe, and was found kneeling, or, rather, "sitting man-fashion," as the vernacular Micmac hath it, although we call it "tailor-fashion," within a circular, fort-like enclosure, some twelve feet in circumference, and with walls about three feet high.
The latter were composed of thick slabs of ice placed on edge, and cemented together by frozen water, while tiny apertures, cut here and there, enabled the crouching hunters to note every foot of the approach of their wary game. A few of the decoys were of pine wood, rudely carved out and burnt to something like the natural coloring of the bird they were intended to represent; but a large proportion of them were "sea-weed" or "spruce" decoys; that is, bunches of the weather-bound sea-wrack, or bundles of evergreen twigs, made about the shape and size of the body of a goose.