“I will remain with you. I have done harm enough already. It is no longer with me a question of right, but what is least wrong. I have studied my own inclinations all my life; now I am going against them.”
“And you do well, believe me,” said Montcalm. “No one can hate the Indians more than I do; my whole soul recoils from them. How you ever came to join them has been a wonder to me; but having done so, it is but fair that you should remain at your post until the war is over. I should never know an hour’s tranquillity if you were not their leader. Thank you for your decision; some day I may perhaps find means of proving my gratitude.”
“You could render me a service now at once, if you would,” said Charles.
“Name it,” answered the General.
“I told you I had a son,” said Charles quickly; “his mother died trying to save the Marshes. She had carried the child with her in her long journeyings, and when the Indians attacked the village, she hid him in the trunk of a tree while she went to the rescue. When the fray was over she told my sister Loïs where to find the child, but when she sent to look for it, it had disappeared. I have been a long time tracing it, but at last discovered that a half-brother of Nadjii’s, the lad who had warned Roger of the meditated attack, had found the child, brought it up here, and given it in charge of a Huron woman, living at Lorette. At first I doubted the story; but I went to see the child two days ago, and recognised him as my son. I cannot leave him where he is—it is not safe; and, moreover, I never wish him to know that he has Indian blood in his veins. I have thought that at the Convent of the Ursulines they would take him in, and care for him, if you would obtain admission for him.”
“Nothing can be simpler,” answered Montcalm. “You know that three months ago Mercèdes entered as a novice. After that affair of Montreal I never allowed her to return to Madame Péan: indeed, she had no desire to do so; she begged me to let her enter the convent at once. In fact, she pined and drooped from that time, until I brought her back to Quebec, and she and Marthe both entered the Ursulines together. Since then she has recovered, and whenever I can manage to find time to go and see her, she is as bright and happy as I can wish. Yes, certainly, I will give you a letter to the Superior. Take your child there; it will be well cared for. I will write it at once;” and sitting down, he drew the writing materials towards him. “There,” he said, handing the letter to Charles, “if you present yourself to-morrow, and ask to see the Superior in my name, you will gain admittance. Give her this. I have explained everything; the child will be safe there.”
“Thank you,” said Charles; “and now I will leave you. I shall be in Quebec to-morrow. You may trust me; I am yours until the war is over,” he added.
“I have your word,” answered Montcalm; “surely that is enough,” and accompanying him to the door, they shook hands, and then he watched the young man go down the hill-side, on his way to the Indian quarters.
“A fine fellow, but a ruined life,” he thought. “Thank goodness I have persuaded him to remain with his Indians; the game would have been as good as played out if he had deserted us.”
It was early morning as Charles Langlade strode rapidly along the road leading from the hamlet of Lorette to Quebec. Through meadows and rye-fields it wound, crossing and recrossing the swift St. Charles, a somewhat lonely road with a few cottages scattered here and there, and irregular, shabby-looking cabins along the lanes, at the doors of which lounged Indian boys and girls of all shades and colours. This was the Huron village of Lorette. They were Christians after their fashion, the poor remnant of the mighty Huron nation, converted by the Jesuits and crushed by the Iroquois in the far western wilderness.