Red laughed: “Sarde’s wife, of course.”
The Blackguard whistled softly. “So she’s poor Polly—oh, you sly dog! Oh, Buck!”
III.
The Blackguard slept in the cells a prisoner—“Pretty well, thank you!” as he told Red, through the window, afterwards. All day he lay at ease while the rest of the fellows made dismal lamentations about overwork. That soothed him, also the aftertaste of a nice fight, while in his cheery soul he gloated on things to come, the war, the downfall of Sarde, and meetings with that officer’s merry lady. No wonder she could not bear any more Sarde—small blame to her, for he was dismal and the lady gay, with a sense of humor, an engaging laugh, a dimple or two, and a pert eye for any fun in sight. Poor Polly! And so she let Buck hold her hand of an evening? Poor Buck! The Blackguard sighed. “But I’m rather nice”—he felt that Buck would approve—“and disengaged, too! I’m grateful, refreshing, comforting, well broken, docile, with the sweetest manners, the dearest little ways.” He chuckled as he thought of other merry ladies whom he had fondly loved, two or three at a time, charming girls by swarms down the perspectives of nice memory. “I did my duty.” He crooned, and composed himself for a nap.
Red came in the afternoon with news. The fort was to be abandoned, evacuated at midnight, and the garrison was to fall back, defending the settlements eastward. The boys had been turned loose to loot the Hudson’s Bay store—and here was the Blackguard’s share, flung in through the bars: a box of cigars, a mouth organ, a fine revolver, a baby’s bottle, some chocolate creams, and a family Bible which caught him full in the eye and floored him.
The Blackguard found that he could not play the mouth organ while he was eating chocolates and smoking, but had to take them by turns. The shadow of night stole softly in through the bars before he was bored.
Later on he began to get hungry, and as supper was delayed some hours he clamored at the door. To his amazement he was at once let out by a half-breed washerwoman, and looking round saw that the guardroom was full of civilian refugees. For a minute he stood watching them as they sat around a glowing stove, whose naked iron flue went red-hot through the wooden ceiling. “You’ll have the place on fire soon,” he said, and they only smiled at him. Where was the Guard? Away relieving sentries, he supposed, as he reached his sidearms down from a peg, belted on his revolver, and strolled outside. He found himself in the covered entry of the fort, under the gate house. On his right the great courtyard was littered with sleighs, and swarming with men at work preparing for the retreat. On his left the gates swung ajar. To look more business-like he swung an axe across his shoulder, and marched out, explaining to the sentry that he was on duty. The riverside meadows lay silver below the moon and the fresh night allured him as he skirted the stockade, answering a challenge from the bastion, then turned towards the rear side of the fort. He was thinking of the merry lady who might have been there had he come last night. She was there!
He drew near to the cloaked and silent woman, and lifted his cap; “Mrs. Sarde, I think?”
She shrank back against the upright posts of the stockade, thrust out white hands against him, and barely repressed a scream. “Who are you? What are you?” she cried.
He saw that her face was pale, touched by the moonlight into a spiritual delicacy. “The Blackguard, madam,” he answered.