“Yes, Monsieur; he has been my kind friend.”
“He would not be the one I love else. We know men on this frontier, Madame, and this lad hath seen years of service by my side.” His hand rested on De Artigny’s shoulder. “’Twas only natural then that I should resent M. Cassion’s charge of murder.”
“I share your faith in the innocence of M. de Artigny,” I answered firmly enough, “but beyond this assertion I can say nothing.”
“Naturally not, Madame. Yet we must move along. You can walk, Rene?”
“Ay, my hurts are mostly bruises.”
The torches led the way, the dancing flames lighting up the scene. There was hard, packed earth under our feet, nor did I realize yet that this Fort St. Louis occupied the summit of a great rock, protected on three sides by precipices, towering high above the river. Sharpened palisades of logs surrounded us on every side, with low log houses built against them, on the roofs of which riflemen could stand in safety to guard the valley below.
The central space was open except for two small buildings, one from its shape a chapel, and the other, as I learned later, the guardhouse. A fire blazed at the farther end of the enclosure, with a number of men 297 lounging about it, and illumined the front of a more pretentious building, which apparently extended across that entire end. This building, having the appearance of a barrack, exhibited numerous doors and windows, with a narrow porch in front, on which I perceived a group of men.
As we approached more closely, De Tonty walking between De Artigny and myself, a soldier ran up the steps, and made some report. Instantly the group broke, and two men strode past the fire, and met us. One was a tall, imposing figure in dragoon uniform, a sword at his thigh, his face full bearded; the other whom I recognized instantly with a swift intake of breath, was Monsieur Cassion. He was a stride in advance, his eyes searching me out in the dim light, his face flushed from excitement.
“Mon Dieu! what is this I hear,” he exclaimed, staring at the three of us as though doubting the evidence of his own eyes. “My wife alive? Ay, by my faith, it is indeed Adele.” He grasped me by the arm, but even at that instant his glance fell upon De Artigny, and his manner changed.
“Saint Anne! and what means this! So ’tis with this rogue you have been wandering the wilderness!”