I was still staring at this dim picture when some noise, other than the wind, startled me, and I drew silently back behind a great stump to avoid discovery. My thought was that someone had left the mission house––Cassion perhaps with final orders to those on the beach––but a moment later I realized my mistake, yet only crouched lower in the shadow––a man was advancing from the black concealment of the woods, and crossing the open space.
He moved cautiously, yet boldly enough, and his movements were not those of an Indian, although the low bushes between us and the house shadow, prevented my distinguishing more than his mere outline. It was only when he lifted his head into the gleam of light, and took hasty survey through the window of the scene within, that I recognized the face of De Artigny. He lingered scarcely a moment, evidently satisfied with what he saw, and then drew silently back, 178 hesitating a brief space, as though debating his next movement.
I waited breathless, wondering what his purpose could be, half inclined to intercept and question him. Was he seeking to serve my cause? to learn the truth of my relationship with Cassion? or did he have some other object, some personal feud in which he sought revenge? The first thought sent the warm blood leaping through my veins; the second left me shivering as if with sudden chill.
Even as I stood, hesitating, uncertain, he turned, and retraced his steps along the same path of his approach, passing me not ten steps away, and vanishing into the wood. I thought he paused at the edge, and bent down, yet before I found voice, or determination to stop him, he had disappeared. My courage returned, spurred by curiosity. Why should he take so roundabout a way to reach the shore? What was that black, shapeless thing he had paused to examine? I could see something there, dark and motionless, though to my eyes no more than a shadow.
I ventured toward it, creeping behind the bushes bordering the path, conscious of an odd fear as I drew closer. Yet it was not until I emerged from the fringe of shrubbery that even the faintest conception of what the object I saw was occurred to me. Then I stopped, frozen by horror, for I confronted a dead body.
For an instant I could not utter a sound, or move a muscle of my body. My hands clung convulsively to a nearby branch, thus supporting me erect in spite of trembling limbs, and I stared at the grewsome object, black and almost shapeless in the moonlight. Only part of the trunk was revealed, the lower portion concealed by bushes, yet I could no longer doubt it was a man’s body––a large, heavily built man, his hat still crushed on his head, but with face turned away.
What courage overcame my horror, and urged me forward I cannot tell; I seemed impelled by some power not my own, a vague fear of recognition tugging at my heart. I crept nearer, almost inch by inch, trembling at every noise, dreading to discover the truth. At last I could perceive the ghastly features––the dead man was Hugo Chevet.
I scarcely know why this discovery of his identity brought back so suddenly my strength, and courage. But it did; I was no longer afraid, no longer shrank from contact with the corpse. I confess I felt no special sorrow, no deep regret at the fate which had overtaken him. Although he was my mother’s brother, yet his treatment of me had never been kind, and there remained no memories to touch my heart. Still his death was from treachery, murder, and every instinct urged me to learn its cause, and who had been guilty of the crime.