Cameron of Lochiel

by Philippe Aubert de Gaspé

The eyes of the Canadian shot flame, and instinctively he grasped his hatchet; but, suddenly changing his mind, he assumed an indifferent air, and knocked the ashes out of the bowl of his tomahawk, which served the Canadians as well as the savages for tobacco-pipe when on the march. Although the first hostile movement of the Canadian had not escaped the keen eye of his companion, the latter went on smoking tranquilly.

The words of Dumais had revived the spark of hope in Archie's heart. In spite of his bitter remorse, he was too young to bid farewell without regret to all that made life dear. Could he, the last of his race, willingly suffer the shield of the Camerons to go to the tomb with a stain? Could he endure to die, leaving the D'Habervilles to think that they had cherished a viper in their bosom? He thought of the despair of Jules, the curses of the implacable captain, the silent grief of the good woman who used to call him her son, the sorrow of the fair girl whom he had hoped one day to call by a tenderer name than that of sister. Archie was, indeed, young to die; and with the renewal of hope in his heart, he again clung desperately to life.

He had followed with ever-increasing anxiety the scene that was passing before him. He endeavored to comprehend it by watching the faces of the speakers. Dark as was the night, he had lost nothing of the hate and scorn which were flashed upon him from the cruel eyes of the savages. Knowing the ferocity of the Indians when under the influence of alcohol, it was not without surprise he saw Dumais passing them the bottle; but when he saw one refuse to drink and the other stretched in drunken stupor on the sand, he understood the Canadian's tactics. When he heard the name of Wallace, he remembered that during Dumais's illness he had often entertained him with fabulous stories about his favorite hero, but he was puzzled to guess the Canadian's purpose in talking about the deeds of a Scottish warrior. If he had understood the latter part of Dumais's story, he would have recalled the chaffing of Jules in regard to the pretended delicacies of his countrymen. When he saw the angry gleam in the Canadian's eyes, when he saw him grasp his tomahawk, he was on the point of crying not to strike. His generous soul foresaw the dangers to which his friend would be exposed if he should kill an Indian belonging to a tribe allied with the French.

The Canadian was silent for some time. He refilled his pipe, began to smoke, and at length said quietly:

"When Grand-Loutre, with his father, his wife, and his two sons, fell sick of the small-pox over by South River, Dumais sought them out. At the risk of bringing the disease upon himself and family, he carried them to his own wigwam, where he nursed them for three moons. It was not the fault of Dumais if the old man and the two boys died; Dumais had them buried like Christians, and the Black Robe has prayed to the Great Spirit for their souls."

"If Dumais," replied the Indian, "if Dumais and his wife and his children had fallen sick in the forest, Grand-Loutre would have carried them to his wigwam, would have fished for them and would have hunted for them, would have bought them the fire-water which is the Frenchman's medicine, and would have said, 'Eat and drink my brothers, and recover your strength.' Grand-Loutre and his squaw would have watched day and night by the couch of their French friends; and never would Grand-Loutre have said, 'Remember that I fed you and took care of you and bought fire-water for you with my furs.' Let my brother take the prisoner," continued the Indian, drawing himself up proudly; "the red-skin is no longer in debt to the pale face!" And he calmly resumed his smoking.

"Listen, my brother," said the Canadian, "and pardon Dumais that he has hidden the truth. He knew not thy great heart. Now he is going to speak in the presence of the Great Spirit himself, in whose presence he dare not lie."

"That is true," said the Indian, "let my brother speak."

"When Grand-Loutre was sick two years ago," continued the Canadian, "Dumais told him about his adventure when the ice went out that spring at the Falls of St. Thomas, and how he was saved by a young Scotchman who had arrived that very evening at the house of the Seigneur de Beaumont."

"My brother has told me," said the Indian, "and he has shown me the little island suspended over the abyss, whereon he awaited death. Grand-Loutre knew the place and the old cedar to which my brother clung."