“I beg your pardon, my friend,” said I, at once. “I know your love. I said it but to banter you, for I had not guessed that you had been led captive, Nicole.”
“A man’s way, Master Paul, when a woman wills!” said he cheerfully.
But I had no more thought of it than to be glad it had taught Nicole Brun a short path through the woods to Kenneticook.
What strange tricks do these our tangled makeups play us! I know that that night, during that swift half-hour’s run through the woods, my whole brain, my every purpose, was concentrated upon the rescue of George Anderson. The price I was prepared to pay was life, no less. Yet all the shaping emotion of it—sharp enough, one would think, to cut its lines forever on a man’s face, to say nothing of his brain—has bequeathed to me no least etching of remembrance. Of great things all I recall is that the name “Yvonne” seemed ever just within my lips—so that once or twice I thought I had spoken it aloud. But my senses were very wide awake, taking full advantage, perhaps, of the heart’s preoccupation. My eyes, ears, nose, touch, they busied themselves to note a thousand trifles—and these are what come back to me now. Such idle, idle things alone remain, out of that race with death.
Things idle as these: I see a dew-wet fir-top catch the moonlight for an instant and flash to whiteness, an up-thrust lance of silver; I see the shadow of a dead, gnarled branch cast upon a mossy open in startling semblance of a crucifix—so clear, I cannot but stoop and touch it reverently as I pass; I see, at the edge of a grassy glade, a company of tall buttercups, their stems invisible, their petals seeming to float toward me, a squadron of small, light wings. I hear—I hear the rush of the tide die out as we push deeper into the woods; I hear the smooth swish of branches thrust apart; I hear the protesting, unresonant creak of the green underbrush as we tread it down, and the sharp crackle of dry twigs as we thread the aisles of older forest; I hear, from the face of a moonlit bluff upon our left, the long, mournful Whóo-hu-hu—Hóo-oo of the brown owl. I smell the savour of juniper, of bruised snakeroot, of old, slow-rotting wood; with once a fairy breath of unseen linnæa; and once, at the fringed brink of a rivulet, the pungent fragrance of wild mint. I feel the frequent wet slappings of branches on my face; I feel the strong prickles of the fir, the cool, flat frondage of the spruce and hemlock, the unresisting, feathery spines of the young hackmatack trees; I feel, once, a gluey web upon my face, and the abhorrence with which I dash off the fat spider that clings to my chin; I feel the noisome slump of my foot as I tread upon a humped and swollen gathering of toad-stools.
All this is what comes back to me—and Nicole’s form, ever silent, ever just ahead, wasting no breath; till at last we came upon a fence, and beyond the fence wide fields, and beyond the fields a low white house with wings and outbuildings, at peace in the open moonlight.
“We are in time, Master Paul!” said Nicole quietly.
Chapter XVIII
For a Little Summer’s Sleep
We vaulted the fence, jumped a well-cut ditch (I took note that Anderson was an excellent farmer), and ran across the fields. Presently came a deep, baying bark, and a great, light-coloured English mastiff came bounding toward us.
“Quiet, Ban!” said Nicole; and the huge beast, with a puppy-whine of delight, fell fawning at his knees. We were close to the house. Nicole stopped, and pointed to a cabin just visible at the foot of a long slope falling away to our right.