Chapter XX
The Fellowship Dissolved
In Giraud's cabin during our absence things had gone tranquilly. We found Marc mending,—pale and weak indeed, but happy; Prudence no longer pale, and with a content in her eyes which told us that her time had not been all passed in grieving for our absence. Father Fafard was in charge, of course; and of the Black Abbé there had been nothing seen or heard since our departure.
Nevertheless there was great news, and a word that deeply concerned me. De Ramezay had led his little army against Annapolis. Just ten days before had he passed up the Valley; and for me he had left an urgent message, begging me to join him immediately on my return. This was a black disappointment; for just now my soul desired nothing so much as a few days of quiet converse with Mizpah, and the chance to show her a courtesy something different from the rough comradeship of our wilderness travels. But this was not to be. It was incumbent upon me to go in the morning.
That evening was a busy one; but I snatched leisure to sit by Marc's bedside and give the dear lad a hasty outline of our adventure. The tale called a flush to his face, and breathless exclamations from Prudence; but Mizpah sat in silence, save for a faint protest once or twice when I told of her heroism, and of her noble self-sacrifice on behalf of the Indian lad. She was weighed down with a sadness which she could make no pretence to hide,—doubtless feeling the more little Philip's absence and loneliness as she contemplated Marc's joy on my return. My hands and lips ached with a longing to comfort her, but I firmly forbade myself to intrude upon her sorrow. By and by, when I spoke of my positive determination to set out for Annapolis in the early morning, both Marc and Prudence strove hard to dissuade me, crying out fervently against my going; but Mizpah said nothing more than—
"Why not take one day, at least, to rest?"
And I was somewhat hurt at the quiet way she said it. Said I to myself within, "She might spare me a little thought, now that she knows Philip is safe, and sure to be brought back to her."
In the morning I saw Big Etienne and Xavier set forth upon their quest,—and Mizpah stood beside me to wish them a grateful "God-speed." Pale and sad as was the exquisite Madonna face, her lips were marvellously red, and wore an unwonted tenderness. Her eyes evaded mine,—which hurt me sorely, but I was comforted a little by her word as the canoe slipped silently away.
"I wish we were going with them," said she, in a wistful voice.
It was that "we" that stirred my heart.