Bayard and his cousins mounted their horses and rode off at a gallop. Pierre watched them until they were out of sight, and then went into the house and renewed his search for Wilson, which he kept up until he was interrupted by a hasty step in the hall, and Coulte appeared and looked through the broken door. He had heard the sound of the hunting-horn, and knowing from the peculiar manner in which it was blown, that there was something unusual going on at the house, he had hurried back to see what was the matter. A single glance at the inside of the room and at his son’s face, was enough to tell him that the latter had some exciting news to communicate.
“Oh! Whew! Somedings is going wrong again!” he exclaimed, in a frightened tone.
Pierre replied that there were a good many things going wrong, and in a few hurried words made him acquainted with all that had happened in the house during the last fifteen minutes, adding a piece of information and prediction that greatly alarmed Coulte, namely: that Wilson had again escaped, and that in less than an hour he would return to the clearing with an army of settlers at his heels. The old Frenchman listened eagerly to his son’s story, only interrupting him with long-drawn whistles, which were loud and frequent, and when it was finished declared that it was necessary to make a change in their plans—that, instead of waiting until night to begin the voyage to Lost Island, they must begin it at once. They would sail down the bayou into the swamp, conceal themselves there until dark, and then continue their journey. What they would do after they had disposed of their prisoner, Coulte said he did not know; but of one thing he was satisfied, and that was, that they could not return to the settlement to sell their property, as they had intended to do. They had worked hard for it, but they must give it up now, for it would probably be confiscated when the authorities learned that he and his sons belonged to the smugglers. This thought seemed to drive the old Frenchman to the verge of distraction. He paced up and down the floor with his beloved pipe tightly clenched between his teeth, swinging his arms wildly about his head, talking loudly, sometimes in English and sometimes in French, and declaring, over and over again, that this was the most magnificent scrape he had ever got into.
“Well, I can’t help it,” grumbled Pierre. “You know that I didn’t want to have anything to do with it in the first place. I told you just how it would end, and now there is no use in wasting words over it. Let’s be moving, for as long as we stay here we’re in danger.”
Pierre bustled out of the room, and presently returned with an axe, a side of meat, a small bag of corn-meal, and a couple of old blankets, which he deposited in the hall. He then approached the prisoner and remarked, as he began untying his arms—
“As those things are intended for you, you can take them down to the boat yourself. Have you a flint and steel?”
“I have,” replied Chase. “Is that all you are going to give me for an outfit?”
“Of course, and you may be glad to get it, too. What more do you want? There’s grub enough to last you a week, blankets to keep you warm of nights, and an axe to build your camp and cut fire-wood.”
“Why, I want a gun and some ammunition. How am I going to get anything to eat after that bread and meat are gone?”
“Trap it, that’s the way. Your own gun is on board the schooner; we’ve got none here to give you, and besides, you don’t need one, and shan’t have it. Shoulder those things and come along; and mind you, now, no tricks.”