There was no time lost. Our few belongings were all ready, and we set out after Radisson who followed in the steps of the Keeper. As for the Arrow, he melted into the bushes and was gone—to scout for danger and to meet us at the canoes, explained the old wanderer.
That march through the forest was one of no little hardship for all of us, but more especially for Ruth and me. There was danger all about us, for at any moment we might come upon parties of Chippewas who were even then searching the forest for trace of us. I walked along as one in a maze, and in truth my poor brain was all bewildered.
What was the meaning of this strange meeting with the two Mohawks? And Radisson's words to them—was Ruth indeed his niece? That was hardly to be credited, methought, for why had he said no word to us before? And in any case, he could know no more of the maid than did I, who had lived all my life beside her. None the less, the matter troubled me.
In point of distance we had not far to go, but the difficulties of the savage forest beset us sorely. Ruth had much ado to prevent her skirts being torn by thorns and jagged branches. At one time we would be pushing through thick-grown saplings, and at another leaping from tussock to tussock of swamp-grass. The Keeper and Radisson, better accustomed to such places, moved like shadows; but had there been any foe near, my crashing must have betrayed our presence beyond a doubt.
Yet all things draw to an end, and the end of our journey was a clear, open lake of good size. Not a hundred yards from where we emerged, The Arrow stood waiting beside the shore, and at his feet were two canoes. Here was a new wonder to me, that the Keeper should have guided us so surely through those trackless woods to the side of his comrade.
But Ruth was fain for rest, and so was I. We sank down beside the canoes, and here Radisson joined us.
"Now," he said with a certain vigor and spring in his voice which was new to me, "I will explain things to you, my children. In the first place, you are verily my sister's daughter, Ruth. It was nigh twenty years ago that I left her in Montreal, new-married to the Sieur de Courbelles, and my last gift to her was that brooch you wear at your throat. See—those are mine own arms upon it! Then I left New France, but she, with her husband, was to join me in London town. I never heard word of her again, my child; there can be no doubt that their ship was driven far north and you alone were saved."
He paused a space, and I saw that Ruth's own little fingers had stolen out to grasp his. But here there came a great light to me.
"Then," I exclaimed, "was that why Gib o' Clarclach was so hasty after Ruth? Nay, but it could hardly have been so, for he had scarce recognized that little brooch!"
"Not that, David," smiled the old man, "but he knew the arms right well, and doubtless he also knew the tale of my sister and her loss by shipwreck. I must tell you, lad, that the man who you know as Gib, whom I know as Jean Lareatt, whom the Indians hereabouts know to their cost as The Pike, is an agent of France—a spy, who serves France or England according as he is best paid. No one knows, or ever will know, just who his masters are. So you see, lad, that if he could lay hold on the maid and fetch her to Paris, they might get me into their clutches again right easily."