Fort Amity

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"Monsieur is _distrait_, it appears," she said, mischievously.
"It must be weary work for him, whiling away the hours in this
contemptible fortress?"

"I do not find Fort Amitie contemptible, mademoiselle."

She shook her head and laughed. "If you wish to please me, monsieur,
you must find some warmer praise for it. For in some sort it is my
ancestral home, and I love every stone of it."

"Mademoiselle speaks in riddles. I had thought that every one of the
Commandant's household--except the Commandant himself, perhaps--was
pining to get back to Boisveyrac."

She let her needlework lie for a moment, and sat with her eyes
resting on the facade of the Commandant's quarters across the square.

"It is foolish in me," she said musingly; "for in the days of which I
am thinking not one of these stones was laid. You must know,
monsieur, that in those days many and many a young man of family took
to the woods; no laws, no edicts would restrain them; the life of the
forest seemed to pass into their blood and they could not help
themselves . . . ah, I myself understand that, sometimes!" she added,
after a pause.

"Well, monsieur," she went on, "there came to Fort Amitie a certain
young Raoul de Tilly, who suffered from this wandering fever.
The Government outlawed him in the end; but as yet his family had
hopes to reclaim him, and, being powerful in New France, they managed
to get his sentence delayed. He came here, and here he fell in love
with an Indian girl, and married her--putting, they say, a pistol at
the priest's head. The girl was a Wyandot from Lake Huron, and had
been baptised but a week before. For a year they lived together in
the Fort here; but when a child was born the husband sent her down
the river to his father's Seigniory below Three Rivers, and himself
wandered westward into the Lakes, and was never again heard of.
The mother died on the voyage, it is said; but the child--
a daughter--reached the Seigniory and was acknowledged, and lived to
marry a cousin, a de Tilly of Roc Sainte-Anne. My mother was her
grand-daughter."

Why had she chosen to tell him this story? He turned to her in some
wonder. But, for whatever reason she had told it, the truth of the
story was written in her face. Hardly could he recognise the
Mademoiselle Diane who had declaimed to him of Joan of Arc and the
glory of fighting for New France. She was gone, and in her place a
girl fronted him, a child almost, with a strange anguish in her
voice, and in her eyes the look of a wild creature trapped. She was
appealing to him. But again, why?

"I think you must be in some trouble, mademoiselle," said he,
speaking the thought that came uppermost. Something prompted him to
add, "Has it to do with Dominique Guyon?" The question seemed to
stab her. She stood up trembling, with a scared face.

"Why should you think I am troubled? What made you suppose--" she
stammered, and stopped again in confusion. "I only wanted you to
understand. Is it not much better when folks speak to one another
frankly? Something may be hidden which seems of no importance, and
yet for lack of knowing it we may misjudge utterly, may we not?"

Heaven knew that of late John had been feeling sorely enough the
torment of carrying about a secret. But to the girl's broken
utterances he held no clue at all, nor could he hit on one.

"See now," she went on, almost fiercely; "you speak of Dominique
Guyon. You suspected something--what, you could not tell; perhaps it
had not even come to a suspicion. But, seeing me troubled--as you
think--at once Dominique's name comes to your lips. Now listen to
the truth, how simple it is. When Armand and I were children . . .
you have heard of Armand?"

"A little; from Father Joly."

"Papa thinks he has behaved dishonourably, and will scarcely allow
his name to be uttered until he shall return from the army, having
redeemed his fault. Papa, though he seems easy, can be very stern on
all questions of honour. Well, when Armand and I were children, we
played with the two Guyon boys. Their father, Bonhomme Guyon, was
only my father's farmer; but in a lonely place like Boisveyrac, and
with no one to instruct us in difference of rank and birth--for my
mother died when I was a baby--"

"I understand, mademoiselle."

"And so we played about the farm, as children will. But by and by,
and a short while before I left Boisveyrac to go to school with the
Ursulines, Dominique began to be--what shall I say? He was very
tiresome."

She paused. "I understand," repeated John quietly. "At first I did
not guess what he meant. And the others, of course, did not guess.
But he was furiously jealous, even of his brother, poor Bateese. And
when Bateese met with his accident--"

"One moment, mademoiselle. When Bateese fell between the logs, was
it because Dominique had pushed him?"

She wrung her hands as in a sudden fright. "You guessed that?
How did you guess? No one knows it but I, and Father Launoy, no
doubt, and perhaps Father Joly. But Dominique knows that _I_ know;
and his misery seems to give him some hold over me."

"In what way can I help you, mademoiselle?"

"Did I ask you to help me?" She had resumed her seat on the
gun-carriage and, drawing Sergeant Barboux's tunic off its gun,
began with her embroidery scissors to snip at the shanks of its
breast-buttons. His cheeks were burning now; she spoke with a
trained accent of levity. "I called you, monsieur, to say that I
cannot, of course, copy these buttons, and to ask if you consent to
my using them on your new tunic, or if you prefer to put up with
plain ones. But it appears that I have wandered to some distance
from my question." She attempted a laugh; which, however, failed
dolefully.

"Decidedly I prefer any buttons to those. But, excuse me," persisted
John, drawing nearer, "though you asked for no help and need none,
yet I will not believe you have honoured me so far with your
confidence and all without purpose."

"Oh," she replied, still in the same tone of hard, almost
contemptuous, levity. "I had a whim, monsieur, to be understood by
you, that is all; and perhaps to rebuke you by contrast for telling
us so little of yourself. It is as Felicite said--you messieurs of
the army keep yourselves well padded over the heart. See here--"
She began to dig with her scissor-point and lay bare the quilting
within Barboux's tunic; but presently stopped, with a sharp cry.

"What is the matter, mademoiselle?"

For a second or two she snipped furiously, and then--"This is the
matter!" she cried, plunging her fingers within the lining.
"A dispatch! He carried one after all!" She dragged forth a paper
and held it up in triumph.

"Give it to me, please. But I say that you must and shall,
mademoiselle!" John's head swam, but he stepped and caught her by
the wrists.

And with that the paper fell to the ground. He held her wrist; he
felt only the magnetic touch, looked into her eyes, and understood.
From wonder at his outburst they passed to fear, to appeal, to love.
Yes, they shrank from him, sick with shame and self-comprehension,
pitifully seeking to hide the wound. But it would not by any means
be hid. A light flowed from it, blinding him.

"You hurt! Oh, you hurt!"

He dropped her hands and strode away, leaving the paper at her feet.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE DISMISSAL.

The Commandant tapped the dispatch on the table before him, with a
_ruse_ smile.

"I was right then, after all, M. a Clive, in maintaining that your
comrade carried a message from the General. My daughter has told me
how you came, between you, to discover it. That you should have
preserved the tunic is no less than providential; indeed, I had all
along supposed it to be your own."

John waited, with a glance at the document, which lay with the seal
downward, seemingly intact.

"It is addressed," the Commandant pursued, "in our ordinary cypher to
the Marquis de Vaudreuil at Montreal. In my own mind I have not the
least doubt that it instructs him--the pressure to the south having
been relieved by the victory at Fort Carillon--to send troops up to
us and to M. de Noyan at Fort Frontenac. My good friend up there has
been sending down appeals for reinforcements at the rate of two a
week, and has only ceased of late in stark despair. It is evident
that your comrade carried a message of some importance to Montreal;
and I have sent for you, monsieur, to ask: Are you in a condition to
travel?"

"You wish me to carry this dispatch, monsieur?"

"If you tell me that you are fit to travel. Indeed it is a privilege
which you have a right to claim, and M. de Vaudreuil will doubtless
find some reward for the bearer. Young men were ambitious in my
day--eh, M. a Clive?"

John, averting his face, gazed out of window upon the empty
courtyard, the slope of the terrace and the line of embrasures above
it. Diane was not there beside her accustomed gun, and he wondered
if he should see her again before departing. He wondered if he
desired to see her. To be sure he must accept this mission, having
gone so far in deceit. It would set him free from Fort Amitie; and,
once free, he could devise with Menehwehna some plan of escaping
southward. Within the fort he could devise nothing. He winced under
the Commandant's kindness; yet blessed it for offering, now at last,
a term to his humiliation.

"M. de Vaudreuil will not be slow, I feel sure, to recognise your
services," pursued the Commandant genially. "But, that there may be
no mistake about it, I have done myself the pleasure to write him a
letter commending you. Would you care to hear a sentence or two?
No?"--for John's hand went up in protest--"Well, youth is never the
worse for a touch of modesty. Be so good, then, monsieur, as to pass
me the seal yonder."

John picked up and handed the seal almost without glancing at it.
His thoughts were elsewhere as the Commandant lit a taper, heated the
wax, and let it drop upon the letter. But just as the seal was
impressed, old Jeremie Tripier entered without knocking, and in a
state of high perturbation. "Monseigneur! Monseigneur! A whole
fleet of boats in sight--coming down the river!"

The Commandant pushed back his chair.

"Boats? Down the river? Nonsense, Jeremie, it is up the river you
mean; you have the message wrong. They must be the relief from
Montreal!"

"Nay, Monseigneur, it is down the river they are approaching.
The news came in from Sans Quartier, who is on sentry-go upstream.
He has seen them from Mont-aux-Ours, and reports them no more than
three miles away."

"Please God no ill has befallen de Noyan!" muttered the Commandant.
"Excuse me, M. a Clive; I must look into this. We will talk of our
business later."

But John scarcely heard. His eyes had fallen on the seal of the
Commandant's letter. It stared back at him--a facsimile of the one
hidden in his pocket--a flying Mercury, with, cap, winged sandals,
and caduceus.

He pulled his wits together to answer the Commandant politely, he
scarcely knew how, and followed him out to the postern gate.
Half a dozen of the garrison--all, in fact, who happened to be off
duty--were hurrying along the ridge to verify Sans Quartier's news.
John, still weak from his wound, could not maintain the pace.
Halting on the slope for breath, while the Commandant with an apology
left him and strode ahead, he turned, caught sight of Diane, and
waited for her.

She came as one who cannot help herself, with panting bosom and eyes
that supplicated him for mercy. But Love, not John a Cleeve, was the
master to grant her remission--and who can supplicate Love?

They met without greeting, and for a while walked on in silence, he
with a flame in his veins and a weight of lead in his breast.

"Is papa sending you to Montreal?" she asked, scarcely above a
whisper.

"He was giving me orders when this news came."

There was a long pause now, and when next she spoke he could hardly
catch her words. "You will come again?"

His heart answered, "My love! O my love!" But he could not speak
it. He looked around upon sky, forest, sweeping river--all the
landscape of his bliss, the prison of his intolerable shame.
A fierce peremptory longing seized him to kill his bliss and his
shame at one stroke. Four words would do it. He had but to stand up
and cry aloud, "I am an Englishman!" and the whole beautiful hideous
dream would crack, shiver, dissolve. Only four words! Almost he
heard his voice shouting them and saw through the trembling heat her
body droop under the stab, her love take the mortal hurt and die with
a face of scorn. Only four words, and an end desirable as death!
What kept him silent then? He checked himself on the edge of a
horrible laugh. The thing was called Honour: and its service steeped
him in dishonour to the soul.

"You will come again?" her eyes repeated.

He commanded himself to say, "It may be that there is now no need to
go. If Fort Frontenac has fallen--"

"Why should you believe that Fort Frontenac has fallen?" she broke
in; and then, clasping her hands, added in a sort of terror, "Do you
know that--that now--I hardly seem able to think about Fort
Frontenac, or to care whether it has fallen or not? What wickedness
has come to me that I should be so cruelly selfish?"

He set his face. Even to comfort her he must not let his look or
voice soften; one touch of weakness now would send him over the
abyss.

"Let us go forward," said he. "At the next bend we shall know what
has happened."

But around the bend came a procession which told plainly enough what
had happened; a procession of boats filled with dark-coated
provincial soldiers, a few white-coats, many women and children.
No flags flew astern; the very lift of the oars told of disgrace and
humiliation. Thus came Payan de Noyan with his garrison, prisoners
on _parole_, sent down by the victorious British to report the fall
of Frontenac and be exchanged for prisoners taken at Ticonderoga.

Already the Commandant and his men had surmised the truth, and were
hurrying back along the ridge to meet the unhappy procession at the
quay. John and Diane turned with them and walked homeward in
silence.

The flotilla passed slowly beneath their eyes, but did not head in
toward the quay. An old man in the leading boat waved an arm from
mid-stream--or rather, lifted it in salutation and let it fall again
dejectedly.

This was de Noyan himself, and apparently his _parole_ forbade him to
hold converse with his countrymen before reaching Montreal. On them
next, for aught the garrison of Fort Amitie could learn, the enemy
were even now descending.

Diane, halting on the slope, heard her father call across the water
to de Noyan, who turned, but shook his head and waved a hand once
more with a gesture of refusal.

"He was asking him to carry the dispatch to Montreal. Since he will
not, or cannot, you must follow with it."

"For form's sake," John agreed. "It can have no other purpose now."

They were standing at the verge of the forest, and she half turned
towards him with a little choking cry that asked, as plainly as
words, "Is this all you have to say? Are you blind, that you cannot
see how I suffer?"

He stepped back a pace into the shadow of the trees. She lifted her
head and, as their eyes met, drooped it again, faint with love.
He stretched out his arms.

"Diane!"

But as she ran to him he caught her by the shoulders and held her at
arms' length. Her eyes, seeking his, saw that his gaze travelled
past her and down the slope. And turning in his grasp she saw
Menehwehna running towards them across the clearing from the postern
gate, and crouching as he ran.

He must have seen them; for he came straight to where they stood, and
gripping John by the arm pointed towards the quay, visible beyond the
edge of the flagstaff tower.

"Who are these newcomers?" cried Diane, recovering herself.
"Why, yes, it is Father Launoy and Dominique Guyon! Yes, yes--and
Bateese!--whom you have never seen."

John turned to her quietly, without haste.

"Mademoiselle," said he in a voice low and firm, and not altogether
unhappy, "I have met Bateese Guyon before now. And these men bring
death to me. Run, Menehwehna! For me, I return to the Fort with
mademoiselle."

She stared at him. "Death?" she echoed, wondering.

"Death," he repeated, "and I deserve it. On many accounts I have
deserved it, but most of all for having stolen your trust. I am an
Englishman."

For a moment she did not seem to hear. Then slowly, very slowly, she
put out both hands and cowered from him.

"Return, Menehwehna!" commanded John firmly. "Yes, mademoiselle, I
cannot expiate what I have done. But I go to expiate what I can."

He took a step forward; but she had straightened herself up and stood
barring his path with her arm, fronting him with terrible scorn.

"Expiate! What can you expiate? You can only die; and are you so
much afraid of death that you think it an atonement? You can only
die, and--and--" she hid her face in her hands. "Oh, Menehwehna,
help me! He can only die, and I cannot let him die!"

Menehwehna stepped forward with impassive face. "If my brother goes
down the hill, I go with him," he announced calmly.

"You see?" Diane turned on John wildly. "You will only kill your
friend--and to what purpose? The wrong you have done you cannot
remedy; the remedy you seek would kill me surely. Ah, go! go!
Do not force me to kneel and clasp your knees--you that have already
brought me so low! Go, and let me learn to hate as well as scorn
you. You wish to expiate? This only will I take for expiation."

"Come, brother!" urged Menehwehna, taking him by the arm.

Diane bent close to the Indian, whispered a word in his ear, and,
turning about, looked John in the face.

"Are you sorry at all? If you are sorry, you will obey me now."

With one long searching look she left him and walked down the slope.
Menehwehna dragged him back into the undergrowth as the postern door
opened, and M. Etienne came through it, followed by Father Launoy,
Dominique, and Bateese.

Peering over the bushes Menehwehna saw Diane descend to meet them--he
could not see with what face.

Marvellous is woman. She met them with a gay and innocent smile.

Her whispered word to Menehwehna had been to keep by the waterside.
And later that night, when the garrison had given over beating the
woods for the fugitives, a canoe stole up the river, close under the
north bank. One man sat in it; and after paddling for a couple of
miles up-stream he began to sing as he went--softly at first, but
raising his voice by little and little--

"Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le coeur gai;
Tu as le coeur a rire,
Moi je l'ai-t a pleurer."

No answer came from the dark forest. He took up his chant again, more
boldly:

"Tu as le coeur a rire,
Moi je l'ai-t a pleurer;
J'ai perdu ma maitresse
Sans pouvoir la trouver.
--Lui y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."

He listened. A low call sounded from the trees on his right, and he
brought the canoe under the bank.

"Is that you, Bateese?"

"Monsieur, forgive me! I said as little as I could, but the Reverend
Father and Dominique were too clever for me. And how was I to have
known? . . . . Take the canoe and travel fast, my friends; they will
be searching again at dawn."

"Did mademoiselle send the canoe?"

"Yes; and she charged you to answer one question. It was her
brother--M. Armand--whom the Iroquois slew in the Wilderness.
Ah, that cry! Can one ever forget?"

"Her brother!" John's hand went to his breast in the darkness.

"Monsieur did not know, then? I was sure that monsieur could not
have known! For myself I did not know until four days ago.
The Iroquois had not seen us, and we escaped back to the Richelieu--
to Sorel--to Montreal, where I left my wounded man. Ah, monsieur,
but we suffered on the way! And from Montreal I made for Boisveyrac,
and there my tongue ran loose--but in all innocence. And there I
heard that M. Armand had been crossing the Wilderness . . . but
monsieur did not know it was her brother?"

"That, at least, I never knew nor guessed, Bateese. Was this the
question Mademoiselle Diane desired you to ask me?"

"It was, monsieur. And, according to your answer, I was to give you
her word."

"What is her word, Bateese?"

"She commends you to God, monsieur, and will pray for you."

"Take back my word that I will pray to deserve her prayers, who can
never deserve her pardon."

CHAPTER XVII.

FRONTENAC SHORE.

"And what will my brother do?"

For minutes before John heard and answered it the question had been
singing in his ears to the beat of the paddles. He supposed that
Menehwehna had asked it but a moment ago.

"I cannot tell. Let us press on; it may be we shall find my
countrymen at Frontenac."

"As a child breaks down a lodge which another child has built, and
runs away, so your countrymen will have departed."

Fort Amitie lay far behind. They were threading their way now among
the Thousand Isles, and soon Lake Ontario opened before them,
spreading its blue waters to the horizon. But John heeded neither
green islands nor blue lake, nor their beauty, nor their peace, but
only the shame in his heart. He saw only the dazzle on the water,
heard only the swirl around his paddle, stroke by stroke, hour after
hour; prayed only for fatigue to drug the ache and bring about
oblivion with the night.

Coasting the shore they came at the close of day upon the charred
skeletons of three ships lifting their ribs out of the shallows
against the sunset, and beyond these, where the water deepened, to a
deserted quay.

They landed; and while they climbed the slope towards the fort, out
of one of its breaches its only inhabitant crawled to them--a young
dog, gaunt and tame with hunger.

The dog fawned upon Menehwehna. But John turned his back on the
smoke-blackened walls in a sick despair, seated himself on the slope,
and let his gaze travel southward over the shoreless water.
Beyond the rim of it would lie Oswego, ruined by the French as the
English had ruined Frontenac.

The dog came and stretched itself at his feet, staring up with eyes
that seemed at once to entreat his favour and to marvel why he sat
there motionless. Menehwehna had stepped down to the canoe to fetch
food for it, and by and by returned with a handful of biscuit.

"He will be useful yet," said Menehwehna, seating himself beside the
dog and feeding it carefully with very small pieces. "He cannot be
more than a year old, and before the winter is ended we will make a
hunter of him."

John did not answer.

"You will come with me now, brother?" Still Menehwehna kept his eyes
on the dog. "There is no other way."

"There is one way only," answered John, with his eyes fastened on the
south. "Teach me to build a canoe, and let me cross the water alone.
If I drown, I drown."

"And if you reached? Your countrymen are all gathering back to the
south; until the snow has come and passed, there will be no more
fighting. You are better with me. Come, and when the corn begins to
shoot again you shall tell me if you are minded to return."

"Menehwehna, you do not understand."

"I have studied you, my brother, when you have not guessed it; and I
say to you that if you went back now to your people it would be
nothing to their gain, nor to yours, for the desire of fighting has
gone out of you. Now in my nation we do not wonder when a man loses
that desire, for we put it away as men by eating put away the desire
of food. All things come to us in their season. This month the corn
ripens, and at home my wife and children are gathering it; but anon
comes the Moon of Travel, and they will weary of the village and
watch the lake for me to arrive and lead them away to the
hunting-grounds. So the beasts have their seasons; the buck his
month for belling, and the beaver his month for taking shelter in his
house which he has stored. And with us, when the snow melts, it may
happen that the war-talk begins--none knowing how--and spreads
through the villages: first the young men take to dancing and
painting their faces, and the elder men catch fire, and a day sees us
taking leave of our womankind to follow the war-path. But in time we
surfeit even of fighting, and remember our lodges again."

Menehwehna paused awhile, and patted the dog's head.

"Therefore, brother, were you of our race, I should not wonder that
the spirit of war has gone out of you. I myself am weary of it
for a season; I forget that Frenchman differs from Englishman, and
think of the sound of thin ice above the beaver's wash, the blood of
the red-deer's hocks on the snow, the smell of his steak over the
fire. But of the pale-faces some are warriors, some are not;
and the warriors fight, year in and year out, whenever they can.
That is your calling, brother, is it not?"

"I am not grown a coward, I hope."

"No," said Menehwehna thoughtfully, "you are not a coward; else my
heart had never gone out to you. But I think there is something dead
within you that must come to life, and something alive within you
that must die, before you grow into a warrior again. As for your
going back to-day, listen--

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