“Adieu, Mademoiselle,” he murmured; then caught her hand, raised it to his lips, dropped it, and was gone.
Mercèdes stood still with a pained feeling at her heart, and a regretful longing for the world which had suddenly become so pleasant in her eyes. She drew a short, impatient sigh.
“Come, Marthe,” she said; “my father will be wondering why we linger;” and they hurried forward.
“He need not have bidden me adieu to-night,” she thought, when an hour later she stood at the window of the room which had been allotted for her use, and looked up at the sky, brilliant with myriads of stars. She could not guess that he was gazing up at her from behind the garden fence—the star of his life, although he knew it not.
CHAPTER IX
TRUE MEN
“Loïs, there are five or six men on horseback just come up through the village; they are outside the gate, and are asking for Roger. Where’s mother?” and Marie Langlade dashed into the kitchen, where Loïs, her sleeves tucked up above the elbows, was busy kneading the bread.
“Roger won’t be back till to-morrow; he’s gone up country with Stark and Bradstreet after some cattle which are missing. There was a rumour of the Indians having been seen down the river, and he’s gone to reconnoitre. Mother is with Mistress Cleveland; she was ailing, and sent Charlie up to ask her to come down. She went an hour ago.”
“Then you must come out and speak to the strangers,” said Marie. “They are different from the men who usually come this way; they are neither hunters nor merchants, and they sit so straight on their horses and look so grand, and their speech is soft and pleasant.”
“I will come,” said Loïs, smiling at the description; and taking her hands out of the kneading-trough, she quickly washed them, drew down her sleeves, and went out into the porch, followed by Marie.
They were a great contrast, those two sisters,—Loïs in the dawn of early womanhood, with her soft dark hair and rich, ripe complexion, quiet and composed, as eldest daughters, upon whom tired mothers are often wont to shift a portion of their burdens, frequently are; whilst Marie was not yet seventeen, and fair as a northern maiden, with rippling golden-hued hair, a rose-leaf complexion, forget-me-not blue eyes; not beautiful in feature, but fresh and pure and lovable. Very pleasant they looked as they came out together, and at sight of them the foremost horseman sprang to the ground, opened the garden gate, and, doffing his military cap, came towards them.