The last portage had carried them across several small streams. They were in the heart of the forest. All night Brother Jacques sat at the side of the women, guarding with watchful eyes. How the spirit and the flesh of this man warred! And all the while his face in the filtered moonlight was marbled and set of expression. He was made of iron, const.i.tutionally; his resolution, tempered steel.
Anne slept, but not so madame. She listened and listened: to the stir of the leaves, to the dim murmur of running water, to the sighs of the night wind, to the crackling of a dry twig when Anne turned uneasily in her sleep. She listened and listened, but the sound she hungered for never came.
At Quebec the news of the calamity did not become known till near midnight. As the wind-drifted pleasure-boat told its grim story, desolation fell upon the hearts of four men, each being conscious in his own way that some part of the world had shifted from under his feet. The governor recommended patience; he was always recommending that attribute; he was always practising it, and fatally at times. The four men shook their heads. The Chevalier and Victor bundled together a few necessities, such as cloaks, blankets and arms. They set out at once while the moon was yet high; set out in silence and with sullen rage.
Jean Pauquet and the vicomte were in the act of following, when D"Herouville, disheveled and breathing heavily from his run down from the upper town, arrested them.
"Vicomte," he cried, "you must take me with you. I can find no one to go with me."
"Stay here then. Out of the way, Monsieur." The vicomte was not patient to-night, and he had not time for banter.
"I say that you shall!"
"Not to-night. Now, Pauquet."
"One of us dies, then!" D"Herouville"s sword was out.
"Are you mad?" exclaimed the vicomte, recoiling.
"Perhaps. Quick!" The sword took an ominous angle, and the point touched the vicomte.
"Get in!" said the vicomte, controlling his wild rage. "I will kill you the first opportunity. To-night there is not time." He seized his paddle, which he handled with no small skill considering how recently he had applied himself to this peculiar art of navigation.
Pauquet took his position in the stern, while D"Herouville crouched amidships, his bare sword across his knees. The vicomte"s broad back was toward him, proving his contempt of fear. They were both brave men.
"Follow the ripple, Monsieur," said Pauquet; "that is the way Monsieur le Chevalier has gone."
It was all very foolhardy, this expedition of untried men against Indian cunning; but it was also very gallant: the woman they loved was in peril.
So the two canoes stole away upon the broad bosom of the river and presently disappeared in the pearly moon-mists, the one always hugging the wake of the other. The weird call of the loon sometimes sounded close by. The air was heavy with the smell of water, of earth, and of resin.
Three of these men had taken the way from which no man returns.
CHAPTER XXVII
ONONDAGA
The Oneida village lay under the grey haze of a chill September night.
Once or twice a meteor flashed across the vault of heaven; and the sharp, clear stars lighted with magic fires the pure crystals of the first frost. The hoot of an owl rang out mournfully in answer to the plaintive whine of the skulking panther. A large hut stood in the center of the clearing. The panther whined again and the owl hooted.
The bear-skin door of the hut was pushed aside and a hideous face peered forth. There was a gutteral call, and a prowling cur slunk in.
Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women and children had packed themselves. The air was foul, and the smoke from the blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled and sank. The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting and lying as was their wont of an evening. Near-by the medicine man, sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science and rattled bears" claws in a tortoise-sh.e.l.l. A sick man lay huddled in skins at the farthest end of the hut. His friends and relatives gave him scant attention. Indians were taught to scorn pity. Drawings on the walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.
Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat. Gallantry is a n.o.ble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads into pits and blind alleys. And these four men recognized with no small bitterness the truth of this aphorism. They had been ambushed scarce four hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas. Only Jean Pauquet had escaped. They had been captives now for several weeks.
Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in its listless embrace. Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and their hair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders. They were all pictures of dest.i.tution, and especially the whilom debonair poet. His condition was almost pitiable. Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocks into his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap. He had thrashed one of these tormentors, and had been belabored in return. He had by now grown to accept each new indignity with the same patient philosophy which made the Chevalier and the vicomte objects of admiration among the older redskin stoics. As for D"Herouville, he had lost but little of his fire, and flew into insane pa.s.sions at times; but he always paid heavily for the injuries which he inflicted upon his tormentors. His wound, however, had entirely healed, and the color on his cheeks was healthful. He would become a formidable antagonist shortly. And there were intervals when the vicomte eyed him morosely.
The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or in looks. D"Herouville was not at all embarra.s.sed. Rather it added to the zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed. It was a tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he must fight and kill these three men or be killed himself.
Occasionally the vicomte would stare at the Chevalier, long and profoundly. Only Victor was aware of this peculiar scrutiny. It often recalled to him that wild night at the Hotel de Perigny in Roch.e.l.le.
But the scrutiny was untranslatable.
No one spoke of madame; there was no need, as each knew instinctively that she was always in the others" thoughts. The Chevalier no more questioned the poet as to her ident.i.ty. Was she living or dead, in captivity or safe again in Quebec? Not one laid his head down at night without these questions.
The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; for every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to revile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save the gamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words. The jests were coa.r.s.e and vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men.
Modesty and morality were not among the red man"s immediate obligations.
The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming. It was an occupation which all shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings.
He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire. He could see the Rubens above the mantel at the hotel in Roch.e.l.le, the a.s.sembly at the Candlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays, or the cabarets in the suburbs. A camp song rises above the clinking of the bottles and gla.s.ses; a wench slaps a cornet"s face for a pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.
"Count," said the vicomte to D"Herouville, "did you ever reckon what you should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receive for that paper of signatures?"
At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.
D"Herouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of his boots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it. He was weary of the vicomte"s banter. All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, with this man opposing him.
"Now, if I had those livres," went on the vicomte, whose only object was to hear the sound of his own voice, "and were at Voisin"s, I should order twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux."
"Bordeaux," said Victor, absently.
The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumed his dreams.
"Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly. And on top of that should be a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing which Voisin alone knows how to make."
"And then?" urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.
"Then, two bottles of champagne." The vicomte stood up. He appeared to be counting on his fingers. "That would make fourteen bottles."
"You would be drunk."
"Drunk as a fiddler on Sat.u.r.day night. Now, I am going to promote my character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." And he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying his body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary.
The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that this exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte as one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine man. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists, shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.
D"Herouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said the vicomte, wiping his b.l.o.o.d.y lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.
"It is a habit I have," retorted D"Herouville, glancing boldly at the Chevalier.
"Some day your habit will choke you to death."
D"Herouville"s cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of his boots.
"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became quiet.
This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he had come upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And that memory was all he had. She did not love him!
The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out and struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the fire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon a glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughter resounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of pain.