Even as he spoke Martha and her children joined them, and together they passed through the wicket gate which alone separated the two gardens.
The meal was, according to the good old custom, taken in common, masters and servants sitting at the same board. When the master entered the great kitchen, some ten or twelve men and women employed on the home farm were standing about in groups awaiting Nat’s appearance, and naturally discussing the great event of the day. Doffing his broad wideawake, he bade them “Good-evening,” as did also Martha and her children. The salutation was heartily returned, and then he took his place at the head of the long table, upon which great joints of cold viands and huge pasties were already exciting the appetites of those about to partake thereof. When they were all gathered round the board, Father Nat raised his hand to enforce silence, and in a solemn voice called upon God to bless the fruits of the earth. When he had finished his prayer, before uttering the usual “Amen” he paused; evidently some strong emotion checked his power of speech, but all present felt he had something more to say, and waited respectfully.
“My friends,” he said at last, with a slight quiver in his manly voice, “you all know that one we love has gone out from amongst us, to our great sorrow. I commend him to your prayers. May the God of his fathers watch over him, and guide his footsteps in the right way. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated all present, and then they seated themselves and the meal began, but not gaily as usual, the cloud which rested on the master overshadowing them all.
CHAPTER II
PARTED
The sun was setting, and the rays of crimson light tinged the topmost branches of the forest trees, but scarcely could be said to penetrate through the closely interlaced branches. The long grass and thick undergrowth made walking difficult, whilst the tightly entwined boughs of the trees formed a thick, leafy canopy, perfectly impenetrable, added to which parasitic plants twined up the huge trunks in luxuriant wildness.
After he had, so to speak, fled from his home and his people, Charles Langlade walked straight before him through the forest. He was a handsome man, his mouth firm set, his nose rather large, and his chin prominent, cleft in the middle. His eyes were grey, like those of his sister Loïs, and his eyebrows marked. He wore, what was unusual among the hunters, his hair rather long. Altogether his appearance was remarkable; there was something about him which reminded one of the heroes of old, knights and crusaders. Suddenly he stopped, and passed his hand across his brow as if trying to remember.
“It has unnerved me,” he said aloud. “I shall lose my way if I don’t take care.”
As he spoke he stretched out his hand, and, passing it lightly over the trunk of the nearest tree, knew instantly by the feel of the bark the direction he was in, whether north or south, east or west. Satisfied, he strode forward, stopping from time to time to make sure he was on the right track.
This following a trail is perfectly simple to the Indian and the Canadian hunter. They read every mark and sign in the wood as clearly as if they were written; the moss, the lichen, tell their tale. No foot-print, however light, can escape their notice; they know whether it be a white or red man’s foot, whether it be of to-day or yesterday.