“As early as I can remember,” said Charles thoughtfully, “my father took me with him on his hunting expeditions. He was very popular with the Indians, delighted in sport of every kind; and I grew accustomed to the freedom. I was more at home in an Indian wigwam than at Alpha Marsh. There I was impatient of restraint. I set myself against a regular life with the headstrong self-will of youth; and when my father died it was worse still. More was then expected of me. I was the heir, and had to stay at home and attend to the business of the settlement. Father Nat humoured me, Roger and Loïs screened me; but it was of no use, I was like a spoilt child. I wanted my own way, my liberty, and nothing short of it could satisfy me. Besides, my sympathies were enlisted on the side of the French. You know I am descended from a Chevalier de Langlade, one of the earliest French colonists, and I considered, and do still consider, that by right of pre-occupation Canada belongs to France and not to England; and yet for no consideration would I have served under the present Canadian Government. I am willing to fight for France freely and independently, but not with those who are robbing her and virtually bringing about her ruin. This was my excuse to my own conscience for breaking the bonds which had become irksome to me; and yet I loved my mother and sisters—above all, Loïs; and of Roger I cannot speak. I do not think, if I had realised how completely this contemplated act of mine would have parted us, I should have had the courage to go through with it. But I imagined time would reconcile him to the change, and that he would continue to join our hunting parties and visit me in my wigwam; instead of which he entirely withdrew himself, and after the expedition against Old Britain it was open enmity between us. From that time to this he has waged incessant war against the tribes. He is greatly feared; his name is coupled with a sort of superstitious terror, and his unusual strength, and the way in which he always manages to escape capture, tend to make the Indians believe him invulnerable, and so they are set upon destroying him. When I joined the Indians my first act was to marry Nadjii, the chief Ominipeg’s daughter.”
He said this in a low voice, with averted head.
“You mean to say you deliberately married one of those wild Indian women?” exclaimed Montcalm.
“Yes, in all honour, according to Indian rites, I took Nadjii for my squaw. We have a son. I am irrevocably bound to her,” he continued. “Fully as I recognise the mistake I have made, I would not have you misjudge her. Nadjii is no wild Indian woman: she is very gentle, tender, and true; her devotion to me is unbounded. I believe she would lay down her life for me. No, she is not to blame; if a wrong has been done it has been of my own doing, and in all honour I must abide by it.”
“I pity you with all my heart,” said the General.
“I never felt the need of pity until now,” answered the hunter. “Of course you cannot understand the charms of such a life as I have led for nearly seven years. It is purely physical. To gallop over the prairies, to hunt in the forests, to penetrate into mountain fastnesses and deep, glorious valleys—no one who has not partaken of it can conceive the delight of such an existence. The mere fact of living is in itself a joy. You, with your high European civilisation, have mental and intellectual enjoyments; but we colonists have nothing of all that—we know only the primitive pleasures of hunting, fishing, and warfare. And then there is a strange poetry, a wonderful charm, in this Indian life. To lie in a birch canoe throughout the calm summer days upon the bosom of some great inland lake, to cast the line into its deep, pellucid waters, and, gazing down into its depths, watch the trout glide shadowy and silent over the glistening pebbles, has a mysterious fascination; or, again, to explore the forests, floating down rivers or lakes beneath the shadows of moss-bearded firs, to drag the canoes up on the sandy beach, and, lighting the camp fire, recline beneath the trees, and smoke and laugh away the sultry hours, in a lazy luxury of enjoyment, indescribable, and which you cannot realise, but which I have lived and revelled in, forgetful, alas? that there are higher duties incumbent upon man than mere personal indulgence. And now I reap the bitter fruit. If I had remained at my post, all this would not have happened.”
“But where was the Ranger?” asked Montcalm.
“In October he was, you know, somewhere up by Ticonderoga. You remember he had a skirmish with one of our scouting parties about that time?”
“Yes,” said Montcalm, “and he punished our men terribly, driving them back with such heavy loss that I determined that for the winter, at least, no more scouting parties should be sent out. But now what are your plans? What do you propose doing?”
“I came to let you know that I am going down to the Marshes to reconnoitre, and see with my own eyes the extent of the misfortune. As you say, there may be exaggeration in the account I have received, which was by no means through a direct channel. You will not begin operations till March, and I shall be back long before that.”