“She will want this,” he said, and then bent over his writing. 276
Again, when Sucatash came in for more stuff, De Launay stopped him. He held out the pen, indicating the sheet of paper spread upon the table.
“This needs two witnesses, I think, but one will have to serve. She is my wife, after all—but it will make it more certain. Will you sign it?”
Sucatash glanced hastily at the document, reading the opening words: “I, Louis Bienville de Launay, colonel and late general of division of the army of France, being of sound and disposing mind, do make, declare, and publish this my Last Will and Testament——”
His eye caught only one other phrase: “I give, bequeath, and devise to my dearly beloved wife, Solange——”
With an oath, Sucatash savagely dashed his signature where De Launay indicated, and then rushed out of the room. The soldier took another piece of paper and resumed his writing. When he had finished he folded the two sheets into an envelope and sealed it. Outside, Sucatash was heaving the lashings taut on the last packs.
De Launay came to the door and stood watching the final preparations. Solange still sat desolately on the log.
Finally Sucatash came to her and assisted her to rise. He led her to her horse and held the stirrup for her as she swung to the saddle. He was about 277 to mount himself when De Launay caught his eye. Instead, he stepped to the soldier’s side.
“Take this,” said De Launay, holding out the envelope. “Give it to her to-morrow. And—she needn’t worry about the mine—or Banker.”
“She’s not even thinkin’ about them!” growled Sucatash.