“Yes, Monsieur––see. He must have known, suspected the truth before our departure, yet had no thought such villainy was the work of M. Cassion. He sought evidence.”
“That is the whole story, no doubt. La Barre learned of his search, for he would have spies in plenty, and wrote his letter of warning to Cassion. The latter, fearing the worst, and desperate, did not even hesitate at murder to gain possession of these documents. Fate served him well, and gave him De Artigny as victim. I wonder only that he did not long ago destroy the papers.”
“There is always some weakness in crime,” commented La Forest, “and the man has paid penalty for his. It would be my guess he desired to place them in La Barre’s hands in proof of his loyalty. But, Messieurs, De Artigny needs to have his wound dressed. We can discuss all this later.”
It was two days later, and the bright sunshine rested on Fort St. Louis flecking the sides of the great rock with gold, and bridging the broad valley below. De Artigny, yet too weak to rise unaided, sat in a chair Barbeau had made beside the open window, and to his call I joined him, my arm on his shoulder as I also gazed down upon the scene below. It was one of peace now, the silvery Illinois winding hither and yon 406 among its green islands, the shadowy woods darkening one bank, and the vast meadows stretching northward from the other. Below the bend an Indian village, already rebuilt and occupied, slept in the sun, and I could see children and dogs playing before the tepees.
Down the sharp trail from the fort a line of Indian packers were toiling slowly, their backs supporting heavy burdens which they bore to two canoes resting against the bank. About these were grouped a little party of white men, and when at last the supplies were all aboard, several took their places at the paddles, and pushed off into the stream.
There was waving of hands, and shouts, and one among them––even at that distance I could tell La Forest––looked up at our window, and raised his hat in gesture of farewell. I watched until they rounded the rock and disappeared on their long journey to Quebec, until the others––exiles of the wilderness––turned away and began to climb upward to the fort gates. De Artigny’s hand closed softly over mine.
“You are sad, sweetheart; you long too for New France?”
“No, Dear One,” I answered, and he read the truth in my eyes. “Wherever you are is my home. On this rock in the great valley we will serve each other––and France.”