“My dear fellow,” returned the lieutenant, with a faint smile, “do you think there is anything under the sun—scarcely even the tomahawk in his own brain—that could persuade Headley to mistrust his pet Pottowatomies? No, not even his long experience of the treachery of the race—not all his knowledge of the fickleness of their character—of the facility with which they turn over in a single day from the American to the British flag—would convince him.”
“And yet,” pursued Ronayne, musingly, “they know nothing of the war. What could be their motives, where their immediate interests will be rather retarded than promoted by the maintenance of peaceful relations?”
“How do we know what passes without the fort? They may have had their runners and news brought to them of the war before Winnebeg returned.”
A sudden thought flashed across the brain of Ronayne. Could tidings of the event in any way be connected with the flight of his wife? and had that, at the instigation of Wau-nan-gee, accelerated the moment of her departure? But Elmsley knew not what he knew, and he offered no remark on the subject.
“It wants now an hour,” resumed Lieutenant Elmsley, looking at his watch, “to the time named for the council which is to be held on the glacis immediately in front of the southern bastion, and, therefore, immediately under the flag. Join me here then, Ronayne, and I shall have made the necessary arrangements. All the responsibility I take upon myself, my friend, not only as your senior, but as one who is perfectly willing to take the lion's share of the anger that has been showered so plentifully upon both this day. Now I must hasten and regulate the 'imperium in imperio' for I am afraid that if, as you say, we trust alone to Headley's reading of Pottowatomie faith, we shall have rather a Flemish account of satisfaction to render to ourselves. Goodbye. In half an hour—not later.”
Ronayne, having nothing in the meantime to do, sauntered towards his own apartments. When he entered his chamber, Catharine, the faithful servant of his wife, was leaning along the foot of the bed, her face buried in the covering and sobbing violently. The depth of her sorrow was anguish to him. He shuffled his feet along the floor to make her sensible of his presence. The girl heard him; she looked up—her face and eyes were so swollen with tears that she could scarcely see. She started to her feet, and raising her apron with both hands to her eyes, left the room sobbing even more violently than before.
“Poor girl—poor girl!” murmured Ronayne, while a tear forced itself into his own; “indeed I feel for your grief; but it will soon subside; you will soon be well, while I —-”
He threw himself, dressed as he was, even without removing his sword, upon, the bed—he took out Maria's hasty note—he read the words “Go not to the council” at least fifty times over. There was not the minutest particle of each letter of each word that he did not typify in his heart. Her delicate and expressive, yet faithless hand had traced the whole. It was enough. It was the last relic of herself.
[CHAPTER XIV.]
“I would have some conference with you that concerns you nearly.”