"Scarcely that, Monsieur. I would ascertain the truth, and my only means of doing so is through a confession by Francois Cassion."

"And he is too cold-blooded a villain to ever acknowledge guilt. To my mind the methods of Chevet would be most likely to bring result."

"But not to mine, Monsieur," I interrupted earnestly. "The man is not so cold-blooded as you imagine. Arrogant he is, and conceited, deeming himself admired, and envied by all, especially my sex. He has even dared boast to me of his victims. But therein lies his very weakness; I would make him love me."

He turned now, and looked searchingly into my face, no glimpse of a smile in the gray eyes.

"Pardon; I do not understand," he said gravely. "You seek his love?"

I felt his manner a rebuke, a questioning of my honesty, and swift indignation brought the answering words to my lips.

"And why not pray! Must I not defend myself—and what other weapons are at hand? Do I owe him kindness; or tender consideration? The man married me as he would buy a slave."

"You may be justified," he admitted regretfully. "Yet how is this to be done?"

I arose to my feet, and stood before him, my face uplifted, and, with one hand, thrust aside the shade of my hat.

"Monsieur, deem you that impossible?"

His lips parted in a quick smile, revealing the white teeth, and he bowed low, flinging his hat to the ground, and standing bareheaded.

"Mon Dieu! No! Monsieur Cassion is to be congratulated. Yet it was my thought you said yonder that you despised the man."

"I do; what reason have I to feel otherwise? Yet there lies my strength in this battle. He laughs at women, plays with them, breaks their hearts. It is his pride and boast, and his success in the past has ministered to his self conceit. He thought me of the same kind, but has already had his lesson. Do you not know what that means to a man like him? More than ever he will desire my favor. A week back, he cared nothing; I was but a plaything, awaiting his pleasure; his wife to be treated as he pleased. He knows better now, and already his eyes follow me as though he were my dog."

"And that then is why you send for me—that I may play my part in the game?"

I shrugged my shoulders, yet there was doubt in my eyes as I faced him.

"Is there harm in such play, Monsieur," I asked innocently, "with so important an end in view? 'Tis not that I seek amusement, but I must find out where this King's pardon is hidden, who concealed it, and obtain proof of the fraud which compelled my marriage. My only hope of release lies in compelling Francois Cassion to confess all he knows of this foul conspiracy. I must possess the facts before we return to Quebec."

"But of what use?" he insisted. "You will still remain his wife, and your property will be in his control. The church will hold you to the marriage contract."

"Not if I can establish the truth that I was deceived, defrauded, and married by force. Once I have the proofs in my hands, I will appeal to Louis—to the Pope for relief. These men thought me a helpless girl, friendless and alone, ignorant of law, a mere waif of the frontier. Perhaps I was, but this experience has made of me a woman. In Montreal I talked with the Mother Superior, and she told me of a marriage in France where the pere officiated under threat, and the Pope dissolved the ties. If it can be done for others, it shall be done for me. I will not remain the wife of Francois Cassion."

"Yet you would make him love you?"

"In punishment for his sins; in payment for those he has ruined. Ay! 'tis a duty I shall not shrink from, Monsieur de Artigny, even although you may deem it unwomanly. I do not mean it so, nor hold myself immodest for the effort. Why should I? I but war against him with his own weapons, and my cause is just. And I shall win, whether or not you give me your aid. How can I fail, Monsieur? I am young, and not ill to look upon; this you have already confessed; here in this wilderness I am alone, the only woman. He holds me his wife by law, and yet knows he must still win me. There are months of loneliness before us, and he will not look upon the face of another white woman in all those leagues. Are there any French of my sex at Fort St. Louis?"

"No."

"Nor at St. Ignace, Pere Allouez assures me. I shall have no rival then in all this wilderness; you think me harmless, Monsieur? Look at me, and say!"

"I do not need to look; you will have your game, I have no doubt, although the final result may not prove what you desire."

"You fear the end?"

"It may be so; you play with fire, and although I know little of women, yet I have felt the wild passions of men in lands where there is no restraint of law. The wilderness sees many tragedies—fierce, bitter, revengeful deeds—and 'tis best you use care. 'Tis my belief this Francois Cassion might prove a devil, once his heart was tricked. Have you thought of this?"

I had thought of it, but with no mercy in my heart, yet as De Artigny spoke I felt the ugliness of my threat more acutely, and, for an instant, stood before him white-lipped, and ashamed. Then before me arose Cassion's face, sarcastic, supercilious, hateful, and I laughed in scorn of the warning.

"Thought of it!" I exclaimed, "yes, but for that I care nothing. Why should I, Monsieur? Has the man shown mercy to me, that I should feel regret because he suffers? As to his revenge, death is not more to be dreaded than a lifetime passed in his presence. But why do you make plea on his behalf—the man is surely no friend of yours?"

"I make no plea for him," he answered, strangely sober, "and claim no friendship. Any enemy to La Salle is an enemy to Rene de Artigny; but I would front him as a man should. It is not my nature to do a deed of treachery."

"You hold this treachery?"

"What else? You propose luring him to love you, that you may gain confession from his lips. To attain this end you barter your honesty, your womanhood; you take advantage of your beauty to enslave him; you count as ally the loneliness of the wilderness; ay! and, if I understand aright, you hope through me to awaken the man's jealousy. Is this not true?"

I drew a quick breath, my eyes staring into his face, and my limbs trembling. His words cut me like a knife, yet I would not yield, would not even acknowledge their truth.

"You are unjust, unfair," I burst forth impetuously. "You will see but the one side—that of the man. I cannot fight this battle with my hands, nor will I submit to such wrong without struggle. He has never thought to spare me, and there is no reason why I should show him mercy. I wish your good will, Monsieur, your respect, but I cannot hold this plan which I propose as evil. Do you?"

He hesitated, looking at me with such perplexity in his eyes as to prove his doubt.

"I cannot judge you," he admitted at last, "only that is not the way in which I have been trained. Neither will I stand between you and your revenge, nor have part in it. I am your friend—now, always. In every honorable way I will serve you, and your cause. If Cassion dares violence, or insult he must reckon with me, though I faced his whole company. I pledge you this, but I will not play a part, or act a lie even at your request."

"You mean you will not pretend to care for me?" I asked, my heart leaden at his words.

"There would be no pretense," he answered frankly. "I do care for you, but I will not dishonor my thought of you by thus deliberately scheming to outwit your husband. I am a man of the woods, the wilderness; not since I was a boy have I dwelt in civilization, but in all that time I have been companion of men to whom honor was everything. I have been comrade with Sieur de la Salle, with Henri de Tonty, and cannot be guilty of an act of treachery even for your sake. Perchance my code is not the same as the perfumed gallants of Quebec—yet it is mine, and learned in a hard school."

He went on quietly, "there are two things I cannot ignore—one is, that I am an employee of this Francois Cassion, pledged to his service by my own free will; the other is, that you are his wife, joined to him by Holy Church, and although you may have assumed those vows under coercion, your promise is binding. I can but choose my path of duty, and abide therein."

His words hurt, angered me; I lacked power of expression, ability to grasp his full meaning and purpose.

"You—you desert me then? You—you leave me to this fate?"

"I leave you to reconsider your choice of action," he returned gravely, his hat still in hand, his lips unsmiling. "I do believe your womanhood will find a better way to achieve its liberty, but what that way is I must trust you to discover. I am your friend, Adele, always—you will believe that?"

I did not answer; I could not, because of the choking in my throat, yet I let him grasp my hand. Once I raised my eyes to his, but lowered them instantly in strange confusion. Here was a man I did not understand, whose real motives I could not fathom. His protest had not yet penetrated my soul, and I felt toward him, an odd mixture of respect and anger. He released my hand, and turned away, and I stood motionless as he crossed the open space between the trees. At the edge of the bluff he paused and glanced about, lifting his hat in gesture of farewell. I do not think I moved, or made response, and an instant later he was gone.

I know not how long I stood there staring into vacancy, haunted by regret, tortured by fear and humiliation. Slowly all else crystallized into indignation, with a fierce resolve to fight on alone. The sun sank, and all about me clung the purple twilight, yet I did not move. He had been unjust, unfair; his simple code of the woods could not be made to apply to such a situation as this of mine.

I had a right to use the weapons of womanhood in my own defense. Ay! and I would; and whether voluntary, or not this spotless knight of the wilderness should be my ally. Let him pretend to high virtue, yet surely under that outer armor of resolve there beat the heart of a man. He meant all he said; he was honest in it; not once did I doubt that, yet his apparent indifference, his seeming willingness to leave me to fate, and Cassion, was all assumed.

That one glimpse I had into his eyes told me this in a sudden revelation stronger than any words. I smiled at the recollection, the sense of power reawakening in my heart. He did care—no less than I cared, and this knowledge gave me the weapon I needed, and the courage to use it.

I heard no sound of warning, yet as I turned to retrace my way to the camp below, I became suddenly aware of the presence of Cassion.



CHAPTER XIII

WE REACH THE LAKE

He was between me and the deer trail, and enough of daylight yet remained to enable me to perceive the man clearly. How long he may have been there observing me I could not know, but when I first saw him he was bent forward, apparently deeply interested in some sudden discovery upon the ground at his feet.

"You thought me long in returning, Monsieur?" I asked carelessly, and taking a step toward him. "It was cooler up here, and the view from the bluff yonder beautiful. You may gain some conception of it still, if you care."

He lifted his head with a jerk, and stared into my face.

"Ay! no doubt," he said harshly, "yet I hardly think it was the view which held you here so long. Whose boot print is this, Madame? not yours, surely."

I glanced where he pointed, my heart leaping, yet not altogether with regret. The young Sieur had left his trail behind, and it would serve me whether by his will or no.

"Certainly not mine," and I laughed. "I trust, Monsieur, your powers of observation are better than that—'tis hardly a compliment."

"Nor is this time for any lightness of speech, my lady," he retorted, his anger fanned by my indifference. "Whose is it then, I ask you? What man has been your companion here?"

"You jump at conclusions, Monsieur," I returned coldly. "The stray imprint of a man's boot on the turf is scarcely evidence that I have had a companion. Kindly stand aside, and permit me to descend."

"Mon Dieu! I will not!" and he blocked my passage. "I have stood enough of your tantrums already in the boat. Now we are alone, and I will have my say. You shall remain here until I learn the truth."

His rage rather amused me, and I felt not the slightest emotion of fear, although there was threat in his words, and in the gesture accompanying them. I do not think the smile even deserted my lips, as I sought a comfortable seat on a fallen tree trunk, fully conscious that nothing would so infuriate the man as studied indifference.

"Very well, Monsieur, I await your investigation with pleasure," I said sweetly. "No doubt it will prove interesting. You honor me with the suspicion that I had an appointment here with one of your men?"

"No matter what I suspicion."

"Of course not; you treat me with marked consideration. Perchance others have camped here, and explored these bluffs."

"The print is fresh, not ancient, and none of the men from my camp have come this way."

He strode forward, across the narrow open space, and disappeared into the fringe of trees bordering the edge of the bluff. It would have been easy for me to depart, to escape to the security of the tent below, but curiosity held me motionless. I knew what he would discover, and preferred to face the consequences where I was free to answer him face to face. I wished him to be suspicious, to feel that he had a rival; I would fan his jealousy to the very danger point. Nor had I long to wait. Forth from the shade of the trees he burst, and came toward me, his face white, his eyes blazing.

"Tis the fellow I thought," he burst forth, "and he went down the face of the bluff yonder. So you dared to have tryst with him?"

"With whom, Monsieur?"

"De Artigny, the young fool! Do you think me blind? Did I not know you were together in Quebec? What are you laughing at?"

"I was not laughing, Monsieur. Your ridiculous charge does not amuse me. I am a woman; you insult me; I am your wife; you charge me with indiscretion. If you think to win me with such cowardly insinuations you know little of my nature. I will not talk with you, nor discuss the matter. I return to the camp."

His hands clinched as though he had the throat of an enemy between them, but angry as he was, some vague doubt restrained him.

"Mon Dieu! I'll fight the dog!"

"De Artigny, you mean? Tis his trade, I hear, and he is good at it."

"Bah! a bungler of the woods. I doubt if he ever crossed blades with a swordsman. But mark you this, Madame, the lad feels my steel if ever you so much as speak to him again."

There was contempt in my eyes, nor did I strive to disguise it.

"Am I your wife, Monsieur, or your slave?"

"My wife, and I know how to hold you! Mon Dieu! but you shall learn that lesson. I was a fool to ever give the brat place in the boats. La Barre warned me that he would make trouble. Now I tell you what will occur if you play false with me."

"You may spare your threats—they weigh nothing. The Sieur de Artigny is my friend, and I shall address him when it pleases me. With whatever quarrel may arise between you I have no interest. Let that suffice, and now I bid you good night, Monsieur."

He made no effort to halt me, nor to follow, and I made my way down the darkening path, without so much as turning my head to observe his movements. It was almost like a play to me, and I was reckless of the consequences, intent only on my purpose.

I was awake a long time, lying alone on my blankets within the silent tent, and staring out at the darkness. I saw Cassion descend the deer path, perhaps an hour after I left him, and go on to the main camp below. He made no pause as he passed, yet walked slowly as though in thought. Where he went I could not determine in the gloom, yet was convinced he had no purpose then of seeking De Artigny or of putting his threat into immediate action. In all probability he believed that his words would render me cautious, in spite of my defiant response, and that I would avoid creating trouble by keeping away from the younger man. He was no brawler, except as he felt safe, and this young frontiersman was hardly the antagonist he would choose. It would be more apt to be a blow in the dark, or an overturned canoe.

I cannot recall now that I experienced any regret for what had occurred. Perhaps I might if I had known the end, yet I felt perfectly justified in all my actions. I had done no conscious wrong, and was only seeking that which was mine by every standard of justice. I knew I despised Cassion, while my feeling's toward De Artigny were so confused, and indefinite as to be a continual puzzle. I knew nothing of what love was—I was merely aware that the man interested me, and that I felt confidence in him. I recalled his words, the expression of his face, and felt the sharp sting of his rebuke, yet all was strangely softened by the message I had read in his eyes.

He had not approved of my course, yet in his heart had not blamed; he would not lend himself to my purpose, yet remained no less loyal to me. I could ask no more. Indeed, I had no wish to precipitate an open quarrel between the two men. However it ended, such an occurrence would serve me ill, and all that my plan contemplated was that they should distrust each other, and thus permit me to play the one against the other, until I won my game. I felt no fear of the result, no doubt of my ability to manipulate the strings adroitly enough to achieve the end sought.

The one point I ignored was the primitive passions of men. These were beyond my control; were already beyond, although I knew it not. Fires were smouldering in hearts which out yonder in the dark woods would burst into flame of destruction. Innocent as my purpose was, it had in it the germs of tragedy; but I was then too young, too inexperienced to know.

Nor had I reason to anticipate the result of my simple ruse, or occasion to note any serious change in my surroundings. The routine of our journey gave me no hint of the hidden passions seething below the outward appearance of things. In the early dawn we broke camp as usual, except that chosen boatmen guided the emptied canoes through the rapids, while the others of the party made portage along the rough shore. In the smooth water above we all embarked again, and won slow way against the current. The advance company had departed before our arrival, nor did I again obtain glimpse of De Artigny for many days.

I would not say that Cassion purposely kept us apart, for the arrangement might have been the same had I not been of the party, yet the only communication between the two divisions occurred when some messenger brought back warning of dangerous water ahead. Usually this messenger was an Indian, but once De Artigny himself came, and guided our canoes through a torrent of white, raging water, amid a maze of murderous rocks.

During these days and weeks Cassion treated me with consideration and outward respect. Not that he failed to talk freely, and to boast of his exploits and adventures, yet he refrained from laying hand on me, nor did he once refer to the incident of the bluff. I knew not what to make of the man in this new role of gallant, yet suspicioned that he but bided his time, and a better opportunity for exhibiting his true purpose.

There were times, when he thought I was not observing him, when the expression of his eyes brought me uneasiness, and I was soon aware that, in spite of his genial manner, and friendly expression, his surveillance was in no degree relaxed. Not for a moment was I alone. When he was not beside me in the canoe, Pere Allouez became my companion, and at night a guard kept vigilant eye upon my tent. Twice I ventured to test this fact, only to be halted, and turned back within three yards of the entrance. Very polite the soldier was, with explanation of danger from prowling beasts, and the strictness of his order. At first such restraint angered me, but on second thought I did not greatly care, humiliating though it was; yet the protection thus afforded was not altogether unwelcome, and was in itself evidence of Cassion's determination to conquer me.

Nor was the journey lacking in interest or adventure. Never shall I forget the charm of those days and nights, amid which we made slow and toilsome passage through the desolate wilderness, ever gaining new leagues to the westward. Only twice in weeks did we encounter human beings—once a camp of Indians on the shore of a lake, and once a Capuchin monk, alone but for a single voyageur, as companion, passed us upon the river. He would have paused to exchange words, but at sight of Pere Allouez's black robe, he gave swift command to his engage, and the two disappeared as though fleeing from the devil.

But what visions of beauty, and sublimity, were those that swept constantly past us as we thus advanced into the wild depths of the woods. No two views were ever alike, and every curve in the river bank brought a fresh vista. I never tired of the vast, silent forests that seemed to shut us in, nor of the dancing silver of the swift water under our keel, nor of the great rocky bluffs under whose grim shadows we found passage. To me the hardships even were enjoyable: the clambering over rough portages, the occasional mishap, the coarse fare, the nights I was compelled to pass in the canoe, these only served to give added zest to the great adventure, to make real the unusual experiences I was passing through.

I was scarce more than a girl, young, strong, little accustomed to luxury, and my heart responded to the exhilaration of constant change, and the thrill of peril. And when, at last, we made the long portage, tramping through the dark forest aisles, bearing on our shoulders heavy loads, scarcely able to see the sun even at midday through the leafy screen of leaves, and came forth at twilight on the shores of the mighty lake, no words can express the raptures with which I stood and gazed across that expanse of heaving, restless water. The men launched their canoes upon the surface, and made camp in the edge of the forest, but I could not move, could not restrain my eyes, until darkness descended and left all before me a void.

Never had I gazed upon so vast a spectacle, so somber in the dull gray light, stretching afar to the horizon, its wild, desolate silence adding to its awful majesty. Even when darkness enshrouded it all, the memory haunted me, and I could but think and dream, frightened and awed in presence of that stupendous waste of waters. The soldiers sang about their fires, and Cassion sought me with what he meant to be courteous words, but I was in no spirit to be amused. For hours I lay alone, listening to the dull roar of waves along the shore, and the wind in the trees. De Artigny, and his party, camped just beyond us, across the mouth of a narrow stream, but I saw nothing of him, nor do I believe I gave his presence a thought.

It was scarcely more than daybreak when we broke camp, and headed our canoes out into the lake. With the dawn, and the glint of sunlight over the waters, much of my dread departed, and I could appreciate the wild song of delight with which our Indian paddlers bent to their work. The sharp-prowed canoes swept through the waters swiftly, no longer battling against a current, and the shore line ever in view was fascinating in its green foliage. We kept close to the northern shore, and soon found passage amid numerous islands, forest covered, but with high, rocky outlines.

Of life there was no sign, and the silence of the vast primeval wilderness surrounding us rested heavily upon me. Whether this same sense of loneliness and awe affected the others I cannot say—yet the savage song died away, and the soldiers sat motionless, while the Indians plied their paddles noiselessly. Cassion even restrained his garrulous tongue, and when I glanced at him in some surprise, he was intent on the shores of a passing island, forgetful of my presence.

For four days we coasted thus, never out of sight of shore, and usually with islands between us and the main body of water. In all that time we had no sign of man—not even a wisp of smoke, nor heard the crack of distant rifle. About us extended loneliness and desolation, great waters never still, vast forests grim and somber, tall, menacing rocks, bright-colored in the sun.

Once it rained, drenching us to the skin, and driving us to shelter in an island cove. Once a sudden storm swept the lake, and we barely made land in time to save us from wreck, Chevet's canoe smashing an ugly hole in its bow, and a soldier dislocating his shoulder in the struggle. The accident held us for some hours, and later, when once more afloat, retarded progress.

This misfortune served also to restore Monsieur Cassion to his natural ill temper, and led to a quarrel between himself and Chevet which might have ended seriously had I not intervened. The incident, however, left the Commissaire in ugly mood, and caused him to play the bully over his men. To me he was sullen, after an attempt at insolence, and sat glowering across the water, meditating revenge.

At last we left the chain of islands behind, and one morning struck out from the shore into the waste of waters, the prows of the canoes turned westward, the steersman guiding our course by the sun. For several hours we were beyond view of land, with naught to rest the eye upon save the gray sea, and then, when it was nearly night, we reached the shore, and beached our canoes at St. Ignace.



CHAPTER XIV

AT ST. IGNACE

So much had been said of St. Ignace, and so long had the name been familiar throughout New France, that my first view of the place brought me bitter disappointment. The faces of the others in our party pictured the same disillusion.

Hugo Chevet had been in these parts before on fur-trading expeditions, and 'twas probable that De Artigny had stopped there on one of his voyages with La Salle. But to all the others the place had been merely a name, and our imagination had invested it with an importance scarcely justified by what we saw as our canoes drew in toward the beach.

The miserable little village was upon a point of land, originally covered with heavy growth of forest. A bit of this had been rudely cut, the rotting stumps still standing, and from the timber a dozen rough log houses had been constructed facing the lake. A few rods back, on slightly higher land, was a log chapel, and a house, somewhat more pretentious than the others, in which the priests lodged. The whole aspect of the place was peculiarly desolate and depressing, facing that vast waste of water, the black forest shadows behind, and those rotting stumps in the foreground.

Nor was our welcome one to make the heart rejoice. Scarce a dozen persons gathered at the beach to aid us in making landing, rough engages mostly, and not among them all a face familiar. It was only later, when two priests from the mission came hurrying forward, that we were greeted by cordial speech. These invited a few of us to become guests at the mission house, and assigned the remainder of our party to vacant huts.

Cassion, Chevet, and Pere Allouez accompanied me as I walked beside a young priest up the beaten path, but De Artigny was left behind with the men. I overheard Cassion order him to remain, but he added some word in lower voice, which brought a flush of anger into the younger man's face, although he merely turned on his heel without reply.

The young Jesuit beside me—a pale-faced, delicate appearing man, almost emaciated in his long black robe—scarcely breathed a word as we climbed the rather steep ascent, but at the door of the mission house paused gravely, and directed our attention to the scene unrolled behind. It was indeed a vista of surpassing beauty, for from this point we could perceive the distant curve of the shore, shadowed by dark forests, while the lake itself, silvered by the setting sun stretched afar to the horizon, unbroken in its immensity except for an island lifting its rock front leagues away.

So greatly was I impressed with the view, that after we had been shown into the bare room of the mission, where scarcely a comfort was to be seen, I crossed to the one window, and stood there staring out, watching the light fade across those leagues of water, until the purple twilight descended like a veil of mist. Yet I heard the questions and answers, and learned that nearly all the inhabitants were away on various expeditions into the wilderness, none remaining except the two priests in charge of the mission, and the few engages necessary for their work. Only a few days before five priests had departed to establish a mission at Green Bay, and visit the Indian villages beyond.

The young Jesuit spoke freely when once convinced that our party journeyed to the Illinois country, and was antagonistic to La Salle, who had shown small liking for his Order. The presence of Pere Allouez overcame his first suspicion at recognition of De Artigny, and he gave free vent to his dislike of the Recollets, and the policy of those adventurous Frenchmen who had dared oppose the Jesuits.

He produced a newly drawn map of the great lake we were to traverse, and the men studied it anxiously while the two priests and the engage prepared a simple meal. For the moment I was forgotten, and left alone on a rude bench beside the great fireplace, to listen to their discussion, and think my own thoughts.

We remained at St. Ignace three days, busily engaged in repairing our canoes, and rendering them fit for the long voyage yet before us. From this point we were to venture on treacherous waters, as yet scarcely explored, the shores inhabited by savage, unknown tribes, with not a white man in all the long distance from Green Bay to the Chicago portage. Once I got out the map, and traced the distance, feeling sick at heart as I thus realized more clearly the weary journey.

Those were dull, lonely days I passed in the desolate mission house, while the others were busy at their various tasks. Only at night time, or as they straggled in, to their meals, did I see anyone but Pere Allouez, who was always close at hand, a silent shadow from whose presence I could not escape. I visited the priest's garden, climbed the rocks overlooking the water, and even ventured into the dark forest, but he was ever beside me, suave but insistent on doing his master's will. The only glimpse I had of De Artigny was at a distance, for not once did he approach the mission house. So I was glad enough when the canoes were ready, and all preparations made for departure.

Yet we were not destined to escape thus easily from St. Ignace. Of what occurred I must write as it happened to me then, and not as its full significance became later clear to my understanding. It was after nightfall when Cassion returned to the mission house. The lights were burning on the table, and the three priests were rather impatiently waiting their evening meal, occasionally exchanging brief sentences, or peering out through the open window toward the dark water.

As long as daylight lasted this had been my post of observation, while watching the distant figures busily engaged in reloading the canoes for the morrow's journey. They were like so many ants, running across the brown sands, both soldiers and Indians stripped to the waist, apparently eager enough to complete their task. Occasionally the echo of a song reached my ears, and the distance was not so great but that I could distinguish individuals. Cassion sat upon a log directing operations, not even rising to lend a hand, but Chevet gave his great strength freely.

De Artigny was back among the huts, in charge of that end of the line, no doubt, and it was only occasionally I gained glimpse of his presence. An Indian canoe came ashore just before sundown, and our men knocked off work to cluster about and examine its cargo of furs. Angered by the delay Cassion strode in among them, and, with bitter words and a blow or two, drove them back to their task. The loss of time was not great, yet they were still busily engaged when darkness shut out the scene.

Cassion came in alone, yet I observed nothing strange about his appearance, except that he failed to greet me with the usual attempt at gallantry, although his sharp eyes swept our faces, as he closed the door, and stared about the room.

"What! not eaten yet?" he exclaimed. "I anticipated my fate to be a lonely meal, for the rascals worked like snails, and I would not leave them rest until all was finished. Faith, the odor is appetizing, and I am hungry as a bear."

The younger priest waved his hand to the engage, yet asked softly:

"Monsieur Chevet—he is delayed also?"

"He will sup with his men tonight," returned Cassion shortly, seating himself on the bench. "The sergeant keeps guard of the canoes, and Chevet will be useful with those off duty."

The man ate as though nearly famished, his ready tongue unusually silent, and at the conclusion of the meal, appeared so fatigued, that I made early excuse to withdraw so he might rest in comfort, climbing the ladder in one corner to my own bed beneath the eaves. This apartment, whose only advantage was privacy, was no more than a narrow space between the sloping rafters of the roof, unfurnished, but with a small window in the end, closed by a wooden shutter. A partition of axe-hewn planks divided this attic into two compartments, thus composing the priests' sleeping chambers. While I was there they both occupied the one to the south, Cassion, Chevet, and Pere Allouez resting in the main room below.

As I lowered the trap in the floor, shutting out the murmur of voices, I was conscious of no desire to sleep, my mind busily occupied with possibilities of the morrow. I opened the window, and seated myself on the floor, gazing out at the night. Below extended the priests' garden, and beyond the dark gloom of forest depths. A quarter moon peeped through cloud rifts, and revealed in spectral light the familiar objects. It was a calm, peaceful scene, yet ghostly in the silvery gleam and silence—the stumps of half-burned trees assuming grotesque forms, and the wind tossing branches as though by some demon hand. Yet in my restless mood that outside world called me and I leaned forth to see if it was possible to descend.

The way of egress was easy—a mere step to the flat roof of the kitchen, the dovetailed logs of which afforded a ladder to the ground. I had no object in such adventure, but a restless impulse urged me, and, almost before I realized my action, I was upon the ground. Avoiding the gleam of light which streamed from the open window of the room below, I crossed the garden, and reached the path leading downward to the shore. From this point I could perceive the wide sweep of water, showing silvery in the dim moonlight, and detect the darker rim of the land. There was fire on the point below the huts, and its red glare afforded glimpses of the canoes—mere blurred outlines—and occasionally the figure of a man, only recognizable as he moved.

I was still staring at this dim picture when some noise, other than the wind, startled me, and I drew silently back behind a great stump to avoid discovery. My thought was that someone had left the mission house—Cassion perhaps with final orders to those on the beach—but a moment later I realized my mistake, yet only crouched lower in the shadow—a man was advancing from the black concealment of the woods, and crossing the open space.

He moved cautiously, yet boldly enough, and his movements were not those of an Indian, although the low bushes between us and the house shadow, prevented my distinguishing more than his mere outline. It was only when he lifted his head into the gleam of light, and took hasty survey through the window of the scene within, that I recognized the face of De Artigny. He lingered scarcely a moment, evidently satisfied with what he saw, and then drew silently back, hesitating a brief space, as though debating his next movement.

I waited breathless, wondering what his purpose could be, half inclined to intercept and question him. Was he seeking to serve my cause? to learn the truth of my relationship with Cassion? or did he have some other object, some personal feud in which he sought revenge? The first thought sent the warm blood leaping through my veins; the second left me shivering as if with sudden chill.

Even as I stood, hesitating, uncertain, he turned, and retraced his steps along the same path of his approach, passing me not ten steps away, and vanishing into the wood. I thought he paused at the edge, and bent down, yet before I found voice, or determination to stop him, he had disappeared. My courage returned, spurred by curiosity. Why should he take so roundabout a way to reach the shore? What was that black, shapeless thing he had paused to examine? I could see something there, dark and motionless, though to my eyes no more than a shadow.

I ventured toward it, creeping behind the bushes bordering the path, conscious of an odd fear as I drew closer. Yet it was not until I emerged from the fringe of shrubbery that even the faintest conception of what the object I saw was occurred to me. Then I stopped, frozen by horror, for I confronted a dead body.

For an instant I could not utter a sound, or move a muscle of my body. My hands clung convulsively to a nearby branch, thus supporting me erect in spite of trembling limbs, and I stared at the grewsome object, black and almost shapeless in the moonlight. Only part of the trunk was revealed, the lower portion concealed by bushes, yet I could no longer doubt it was a man's body—a large, heavily built man, his hat still crushed on his head, but with face turned away.

What courage overcame my horror, and urged me forward I cannot tell; I seemed impelled by some power not my own, a vague fear of recognition tugging at my heart. I crept nearer, almost inch by inch, trembling at every noise, dreading to discover the truth. At last I could perceive the ghastly features—the dead man was Hugo Chevet.

I scarcely know why this discovery of his identity brought back so suddenly my strength, and courage. But it did; I was no longer afraid, no longer shrank from contact with the corpse. I confess I felt no special sorrow, no deep regret at the fate which had overtaken him. Although he was my mother's brother, yet his treatment of me had never been kind, and there remained no memories to touch my heart. Still his death was from treachery, murder, and every instinct urged me to learn its cause, and who had been guilty of the crime.

I nerved myself to the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to enable me to discover the wound—he had been pierced by a knife from behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry, dead ere he struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a blow in the back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred, of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet, staring about through the weird moonlight, every nerve throbbing, as I thought to grip the fact, and find its cause. Slowly I drew back, shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the priest's garden. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain beginning to grasp the situation, and assert itself.



CHAPTER XV

THE MURDER OF CHEVET

Who had killed him? What should I do? These were the two questions haunting my mind, and becoming more and more insistent. The light still burned in the mission house, and I could picture the scene within—the three priests reading, or talking softly to each other, and Cassion asleep on his bench in the corner, wearied with the day.

I could not understand, could not imagine a cause, and yet the assassin must have been De Artigny. How else could I account for his presence there in the night, his efforts at concealment, his bending over the dead body, and then hurrying away without sounding an alarm. The evidence against the man seemed conclusive, and yet I would not condemn. There might be other reasons for his silence, for his secret presence, and if I rushed into the house, proclaiming my discovery, and confessing what I had seen, he would be left without defense.

Perhaps it might be the very purpose of the real murderer to thus cast suspicion on an innocent man, and I would be the instrument. But who else could be the murderer? That it could have been Cassion never seriously occurred to me, but I ran over in my mind the rough men of our party—the soldiers, some of them quarrelsome enough, and the Indians to whom a treacherous blow was never unnatural. This must have been the way it happened—Chevet had made some bitter enemy, for he was ever prodigal of angry word and blow, and the fellow had followed him through the night to strike him down from behind. But why did De Artigny fail to sound an alarm when he found the body? Why was he hiding about the mission house, and peering in through the window?

I sank my face in my hands, so dazed and bewildered as to be incapable of thought—yet I could not, I would not believe him guilty of so foul a crime. It was not possible, nor should he be accused through any testimony from my lips. He could explain, he must explain to me his part in this dreadful affair, but, unless he confessed himself, I would never believe him guilty. There was but one thing for me to do—return silently to my room, and wait. Perhaps he had already descended to camp to alarm the men; if not the body would be early discovered in the morning, and a few hours delay could make no difference to Hugo Chevet.

The very decision was a relief, and yet it frightened me. I felt almost like an accomplice, as though I also was guilty of a crime by thus concealing my knowledge, and leaving that body to remain alone there in the dark. Yet there was nothing else to do. Shrinking, shuddering at every shadow, at every sound, my nerves throbbing with agony, I managed to drag my body up the logs, and in through the window. I was safe there, but there was no banishing from memory what I had seen—what I knew lay yonder in the wood shadow. I sank to the floor, clutching the sill, my eyes staring through the moonlight. Once I thought I saw a man's indistinct figure move across an open space, and once I heard voices far away.

The priests entered the room opposite mine, and I could distinguish the murmur of their voices through the thin partition. These became silent, and I prayed, with head bowed on the window sill. I could not leave that position, could not withdraw my eyes from the scene without. The moon disappeared, the night darkening; I could no longer perceive the line of forest trees, and sitting thus I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

I do not know that I was called, yet when I awoke a faint light proclaiming the dawn was in the sky, and sounds of activity reached my ears from the room below. I felt tired and cramped from my unnatural position, but hastened to join the others. The morning meal was already on the table, and we ate as usual, no one mentioning Chevet, thus proving the body had not been discovered. I could scarcely choke the food down, anticipating every instant the sounding of an alarm. Cassion hurried, excited, no doubt, by the prospect of getting away on our journey, but seemed in excellent humor. Pushing back the box on which he sat, he buckled his pistol belt, seized his hat, and strode to the door.

"We depart at once," he proclaimed briefly. "So I will leave you, here, to bring the lady."

Pere Allouez, still busily engaged, murmured some indistinct reply, and Cassion's eyes met mine.

"You look pale, and weary this morning," he said. "Not fear of the voyage, I hope?"

"No, Monsieur," I managed to answer quietly. "I slept ill, but shall be better presently—shall I bear my blankets to the boats?"

"The engage will see to that, only let there be as little delay as possible. Ah! here comes a messenger from below—what is it, my man?"

The fellow, one of the soldiers whose face I did not recall, halted in the open door, gasping for breath, his eyes roving about the room.

"He is dead—the big man," he stammered. "He is there by the woods."

"The big man—dead!" Cassion drew back, as though struck a blow. "What big man? Who do you mean?"

"The one in the second canoe, Monsieur; the one who roared."

"Chevet? Hugo Chevet? What has happened to him? Come, speak up, or I'll slit your tongue!"

The man gulped, gripping the door with one hand, the other pointing outward.

"He is there, Monsieur, beyond the trail, at the edge of the wood. I saw him with his face turned up—Mon Dieu! so white; I dare not touch him, but there was blood, where a knife had entered his back."

All were on their feet, their faces picturing the sudden horror, yet Cassion was first to recover his wits, and lead the way without. Grasping the soldier's arm, and bidding him show where the body lay, he thrust him through the door. I lingered behind shrinking from being again compelled to view the sight of the dead man, yet unable to keep entirely away. Cassion stopped, looking down at the object on the grass, but made no effort to touch it with his hands. The soldier bent, and rolled the body over, and one of the priests felt in the pockets of the jacket, bringing forth a paper or two. Cassion took these, gripping them in his fingers, his face appearing gray in the early light.

"Mon Dieu! the man has been murdered," he exclaimed, "a dastard blow in the back. Look about, and see if you find a knife. Had he quarrel with anyone, Moulin?"

The soldier straightened up.

"No, Monsieur; I heard of none, though he was often rough and harsh of tongue to the men. Ah! now I recall, he had words with Sieur de Artigny on the beach at dusk. I know not the cause, yet the younger man left him angrily, and passed by where I stood, with his hands clinched."

"De Artigny, hey!" Cassion's voice had a ring of pleasure in it. "Ay! he is a hothead. Know you where the young cock is now?"

"He, with the Chief, left an hour ago. Was it not your order, Monsieur?"

Cassion made a swift gesture, but what it might signify I could not determine, as his face was turned away. A moment there was silence, as he shaded his eyes, and peered out across the water.

"True, so I did," he said at last. "They were to depart before dawn. The villain is yonder—see; well off that farthest point, and 'tis too late to overtake him now. Sacre! there is naught for us to do, that I see, but to bury Hugo Chevet, and go our way—the King's business cannot wait."

They brought the body into the mission house, and laid it upon the bench. I did not look upon the ghastly face, which the young priest had covered, but I sank to my knees and prayed earnestly for the repose of his soul. For a moment I felt in my heart a tenderness for this rough, hard man who in the past had caused me such suffering.

Perchance he was not altogether to blame; his had been a rough, hard life, and I had only brought him care and trouble. So there were tears in my eyes as I knelt beside him, although in secret my heart rejoiced that De Artigny had gone, and would not be confronted with his victim; for there was no longer doubt in my mind of his guilt, for surely, had the man been innocent, he would have sounded an alarm. It was Cassion's hand which aroused me, and I glanced up at his face through the tears clinging to my lashes.

"What, crying!" he exclaimed, in apparent surprise. "I never thought the man of such value to you as to cause tears at his death."

"He was of my blood," I answered soberly, rising to my feet, "and his murder most foul."

"Ay! true enough, girl, and we will bring to book the villain who did the deed. Yet we cannot remain here to mourn, for I am on the King's service. Come, we have lost time already, and the canoes wait."

"You would go at once?" I asked, startled at his haste, "without even waiting until he is buried?"

"And why not? To wait will cost us a day; nor, so far as I can see, would it be of the slightest value to Hugo Chevet. The priests here will attend to the ceremony, and this handful of silver will buy him prayers. Pouf! he is dead, and that is all there is to it; so come along, for I will wait here no longer."

The man's actions, his manner, and words were heartless. For an instant I stood in revolt, ready to defy openly, an angry retort on my lips; yet before I found speech, Pere Allouez rested his hand on my shoulder.

"'Tis best, my child," he said softly. "We can no longer serve the dead by remaining here, and there are long leagues before us. In the boat your prayers will reach the good God just as surely as though you knelt here beside this poor body. 'Tis best we go."

I permitted him to lead me out through the door, and we followed Cassion down the steep path to the shore. The latter seemed to have forgotten all else save our embarkation, and hurried the soldier off on a run to get the boats in the water. The pere held to my arm, and I was conscious of his voice continually speaking, although I knew nothing of what he said. I was incapable of thinking, two visions haunting me—the body of Hugo Chevet outstretched on the bench in the mission house, and Rene de Artigny far away yonder on the water. Why had it happened? What could ever excuse a crime like this?

On the beach all was in readiness for departure, and it was evident enough that Moulin had already spread the news of Chevet's murder among his comrades. Cassion, however, permitted the fellows little time for discussion, for at his sharp orders they took their places in the canoes, and pushed off. The priest was obliged to assume Chevet's former position, and I would gladly have accompanied him, but Cassion suddenly gripped me in his arms, and without so much as a word, waded out through the surf, and put me down in his boat, clambering in himself, and shouting his orders to the paddlers.

I think we were all of us glad enough to get away. I know I sat silent, and motionless, just where he placed me, and stared back across the widening water at the desolate, dismal scene. How lonely, and heart-sickening it was, those few log houses against the hill, the blackened stumps littering the hillside, and the gloomy forest beyond. The figures of a few men were visible along the beach, and once I saw a black-robed priest emerge from the door of the mission house, and start down the steep path.

The picture slowly faded as we advanced, until finally the last glimpse of the log chapel disappeared in the haze, and we were alone on the mystery of the great lake, gliding along a bare, uninhabited shore. I was aroused by the touch of Cassion's hand on my own as it grasped the side of the canoe.

"Adele," he said, almost tenderly. "Why should you be so serious? Cannot we be friends?"

My eyes met his in surprise.

"Friends, Monsieur! Are we not? Why do you address me like that?"

"Because you treat me as though I were a criminal," he said earnestly. "As if I had done you an evil in making you my wife. 'Twas not I who hastened the matter, but La Barre. 'Tis not just to condemn me unheard, yet I have been patient and kind. I thought it might be that you loved another—in truth I imagined that De Artigny had cast his spell upon you; yet you surely cannot continue to trust that villain—the murderer of your uncle."

"How know you that to be true?" I asked.

"Because there is no other accounting for it," he explained sternly. "The quarrel last evening, the early departure before dawn—"

"At your orders, Monsieur."

"Ay, but the sergeant tells me the fellow was absent from the camp for two hours during the night; that in the moonlight he saw him come down the hill. Even if he did not do the deed himself, he must have discovered the body—yet he voiced no alarm."

I was silent, and my eyes fell from his face to the green water.

"'Twill be hard to explain," he went on. "But he shall have a chance."

"A chance! You will question him; and then—"

He hesitated whether to answer me, but there was a cruel smile on his thin lips.

"Faith, I do not know. 'Tis like to be a court-martial at the Rock, if ever we get him there; though the chances are the fellow will take to the woods when he finds himself suspected. No doubt the best thing I can do will be to say nothing until we hold him safe, though 'tis hard to pretend with such a villain."

He paused, as if hoping I might speak, and my silence angered him.

"Bah, if I had my way the young cockerel would face a file at our first camp. Ay! and it will be for you to decide if he does not."

"What is your meaning, Monsieur?"

"That I am tired of your play-acting; of your making eyes at this forest dandy behind my back. Sang Dieu! I am done with all this—do you hear?—and I have a grip now which will make you think twice, my dear, before you work any more sly tricks on me. Sacre, you think me easy, hey? I have in my hand so," and he opened and closed his fingers suggestively, "the life of the lad."



CHAPTER XVI

MY PLEDGE SAVES DE ARTIGNY

I had one glimpse of his face as he leaned forward, and there was a look in it which made me shudder, and turn away. His was no idle threat, and whether the man truly loved me or not, his hatred of De Artigny was sufficient for any cruelty.

I realized the danger, the necessity for compromise, and yet for the moment I lacked power to speak, to question, fearful lest his demands would be greater than I could grant. I had no thought of what I saw, and still that which my eyes rested upon remains pictured on my brain, the sparkle of sun on the water, the distant green of the shore, the soldiers huddled in the canoe, the dark shining bodies of the Indians ceaselessly plying the paddles, and beyond us, to the left, another canoe, cleaving the water swiftly, with Pere Allouez' face turned toward us, as though he sought to guess our conversation. I was aroused by the grip of Cassion's hand.

"Well, my beauty," he said harshly, "haven't I waited long enough to learn if it is war or peace between us?"

I laughed, yet I doubt if he gained any comfort from the expression of the eyes which met his.

"Why I choose peace, of course, Monsieur," I answered, assuming a carelessness I was far from feeling. "Am I not your wife? Surely you remind me of it often enough, so I am not likely to forget; but I resent the insult of your words, nor will you ever win favor from me by such methods. I have been friendly with Sieur de Artigny, it is true, but there is nothing more between us. Indeed no word has passed my lips in his presence I would not be willing for you to hear. So there is no cause for you to spare him on my account, or rest his fate on any action of mine."

"You will have naught to do with the fellow?"

"There would be small chance if I wished, Monsieur; and do you suppose I would seek companionship with one who had killed my uncle?"

"'Twould scarce seem so, yet I know not what you believe."

"Nor do I myself; yet the evidence is all against the man thus far. I confess I should like to hear his defense, but I make you this pledge in all honor—I will have no word with him, on condition that you file no charges until we arrive at Fort St. Louis."

"Ah!" suspiciously, "you think he has friends there to hold him innocent."

"Why should I, Monsieur? Indeed, why should I care but to have justice done? I do not wish his blood on your hands, or to imagine that he is condemned because of his friendship for me rather than any other crime. I know not what friends the man has at the Rock on the Illinois. He was of La Salle's party, and they are no longer in control. La Barre said that De Baugis commanded that post, and for all I know De Tonty and all his men may have departed."

"'Tis not altogether true, and for that reason we are ordered to join the company. De Baugis has the right of it under commission from La Barre, but does not possess sufficient soldiers to exercise authority. La Salle's men remain loyal to De Tonty, and the Indian tribes look to him for leadership. Mon Dieu! it was reported in Quebec that twelve thousand savages were living about the fort—ay! and De Artigny said he doubted it not, for the meadows were covered with tepees—so De Baugis has small chance to rule until he has force behind him. They say this De Tonty is of a fighting breed—the savages call him the man with the iron hand—and so the two rule between them, the one for La Barre, and the other for La Salle, and we go to give the Governor's man more power."

"You have sufficient force?"

"Unless the Indians become hostile; besides there is to be an overland party later to join us in the spring, and Sieur de la Durantaye, of the regiment of Carignan-Salliers is at the Chicago portage. This I learned at St. Ignace."

"Then it would seem to me, Monsieur, that you could safely wait the trial of De Artigny until our arrival at the fort. If he does not feel himself suspected, he will make no effort to escape, and I give you the pledge you ask."

It was not altogether graciously that he agreed to this, yet the man could not refuse, and I was glad enough to escape thus easily, for it was my fear that he might insist on my yielding much more to preserve De Artigny from immediate condemnation and death. The fellow had the power, and the inclination, and what good fortune saved me, I can never know. I think he felt a certain fear of me, a doubt of how far he might presume on my good nature.

Certainly I gave him small encouragement to venture further, and yet had he done so I would have been at my wit's end. Twice the words were upon his lips—a demand that I yield to his mastery—but he must have read in my eyes a defiance he feared to front, for they were not uttered. 'Twas that he might have this very talk that he had found me place alone in his canoe, and I would have respected him more had he dared to carry out his desire. The coward in the man was too apparent, and yet that very cowardice was proof of treachery. What he hesitated to claim boldly he would attain otherwise if he could. I could place no confidence in his word, nor reliance upon his honor.

However nothing occurred to give Cassion opportunity, nor to tempt me to violate my own pledge. We proceeded steadily upon our course, aided by fair weather, and quiet waters for several days. So peaceful were our surroundings that my awe and fear of the vast lake on which we floated passed away, and I began to appreciate its beauty, and love those changing vistas, which opened constantly to our advance.

We followed the coast line, seldom venturing beyond sight of land, except as we cut across from point to point; and fair as the wooded shore appeared, its loneliness, and the desolation of the great waters began, at last, to affect our spirits. The men no longer sang at their work, and I could see the depression in their eyes as they stared about across ceaseless waves to the dim horizon.

Day after day it was the same dull monotony, crouched in the narrow canoe, watching the movements of the paddlers, and staring about at endless sea and sky, with distant glimpse of wilderness. We lost interest in conversation, in each other, and I lay for hours with eyes closed to the glare of the sun, feeling no desire save to be left alone. Yet there were scenes of surpassing beauty unrolled before us at sunrise and sunset, and when the great silvery moon reflected its glory in the water.

Had companionship been congenial no doubt every league of that journey would have proven a joy to be long remembered, but with Cassion beside me, ever seeking some excuse to make me conscious of his purpose, I found silence to be my most effective weapon of defense. Twice I got away in Pere Allouez' canoe, and found pleasure in conversing, although I had no confidence in the priest, and knew well that my absence would anger Cassion.

Our camps occurred wherever night overtook us and we found good landing place. Occasionally we went ashore earlier, and the Indians hunted for wild game, usually with success. In all these days and nights I had no glimpse of De Artigny, nor of his crew. It was not possible for me to question Cassion, for to do so would have aroused his jealous suspicion; but, as he never once referred to their continued absence, I became convinced that it was his orders which kept them ahead. No doubt it was best, as the men soon forgot the tragedy of Hugo Chevet's death, and after the first day I do not recall hearing the murder discussed.

Such deeds were not uncommon, and Chevet had made no friends to cherish his memory. If others suspected De Artigny they felt little resentment or desire to punish him—and doubtless the men had quarreled, and the fatal knife thrust been delivered in fair fight. The result interested them only slightly, and none regretted the loss of the man killed.

We made no entrance into Green Bay, for there was nothing there but a newly established mission station, and perhaps a hunter's camp, scarcely worth our wasting two days in seeking. Besides the night we made camp at a spot marked on the map as Point de Tour, we found waiting us there the advance canoe, and both De Artigny and the chief counseled that our course be south across the mouth of the bay. I sat in my tent and watched them discuss the matter in the red glow of a fire, but this was my only glimpse of De Artigny, until he led the way the next morning.

Our voyage that day was a long one, and we were often beyond view of land, although we skirted several islands. The lake was stirred by a gentle breeze, yet not enough to delay our passage, and the sky above was cloudless. The Indian chief took the steering paddle in one of our boats, relieving Pere Allouez, and De Artigny guided us, his canoe a mere black speck ahead. It was already dark when we finally attained the rocky shore of Port de Morts.

When dawn came De Artigny and his crew had departed by order of Cassion, but the chief remained to take charge of the third canoe. The indifference the younger man had shown to my presence hurt me strangely—he had made no effort to approach or address me; indeed, so far as I was aware, had not so much as glanced in my direction. Did he still resent my words, or was it his consciousness of guilt, which held him thus aloof?

Not for a moment would I believe him wholly uninterested. There had been that in his eyes I should never forget, and so I persuaded myself that he thus avoided me because he feared to anger Cassion. This was not at all in accord with his nature as I understood it, yet the explanation gave me a certain content, and I could find no better. Thus we resumed our journey southward along the shore, but with clouded skies overhead, and the water about us dull and gray.



CHAPTER XVII

THE BREAK OF STORM

We had no more pleasant weather for days, the skies being overcast and the wind damp and chill. It did not rain, nor were the waves dangerous, although choppy enough to make paddling tiresome and difficult.

A mist obscured the view, and compelled us to cling close to the shore so as to prevent becoming lost in the smother, and as we dare not venture to strike out boldly from point to point, we lost much time in creeping along the curves.

The canoes kept closer together, never venturing to become separated, and the men stationed on watch in the bows continually called to each other across the tossing waters in guidance. Even De Artigny kept within sight, and made camp with us at night, although he made no effort to seek me, nor did I once detect that he even glanced in my direction. The studied indifference of the man puzzled me more than it angered, but I believed it was his consciousness of guilt, rather than any dislike which caused his avoidance. In a way I rejoiced at his following this course, as I felt bound by my pledge to Cassion, and had no desire to further arouse the jealousy of the latter, yet I remained a woman, and consequently felt a measure of regret at being thus neglected and ignored.

However I had my reward, as this state of affairs was plainly enough to Monsieur Cassion's liking, for his humor changed for the better, in spite of our slow progress, and I was pleased to note that his watchfulness over my movements while ashore noticeably relaxed. Once he ventured to speak a bold word or two, inspired possibly by my effort to appear more friendly, but I gave him small opportunity to become offensive, for the raw, disagreeable atmosphere furnished me with sufficient excuse to snuggle down beneath blankets, and thus ignore his presence.

I passed most of those days thus hidden from sight, only occasionally lifting my head to peer out at the gray, desolate sea, or watch the dim, mist-shrouded coast line. It was all of a color—a gloomy, dismal scene, the continuance of which left me homesick and spiritless. Never have I felt more hopeless and alone. It seemed useless to keep up the struggle; with every league we penetrated deeper into the desolate wilderness, and now I retained not even one friend on whom I could rely.

As Cassion evidenced his sense of victory—as I read it in his laughing words, and the bold glance of his eyes—there came to me a knowledge of defeat, which seemed to rob me of all strength and purpose. I was not ready to yield yet; the man only angered me, and yet I began dimly to comprehend that the end was inevitable—my courage was oozing away, and somewhere in this lonely, friendless wilderness the moment I dreaded would come, and I would have no power to resist. More than once in my solitude, hidden beneath the blankets, I wiped tears from my eyes as I sensed the truth; yet he never knew, nor did I mean he should.

I had no knowledge of the date, nor a very clear conception of where we were, although it must have been either the fourth or fifth day since we left Port du Morts. The night before, we had camped at the mouth of a small stream, the surrounding forest growing down close to the shore, and so thick as to be almost impenetrable. The men had set up my tent so close to the water the waves broke scarcely a foot away, and the fire about which the others clustered for warmth was but a few yards distant.

Wrapped in my blankets I saw De Artigny emerge from the darkness, and approach Cassion, who drew a map from his belt pocket, and spread it open on the ground in the glare of the fire. The two men bent over it, tracing the lines with finger tips, evidently determining their course for the morrow. Then De Artigny made a few notes on a scrap of paper, arose to his feet, and disappeared.

They had scarcely exchanged a word, and the feeling of enmity between them was apparent. Cassion sat quiet, the map still open, and stared after the younger man until he vanished in the darkness. The look upon his face was not a pleasant one.

Impelled by a sudden impulse I arose to my feet, the blanket still draped about my shoulders, and crossed the open space to the fire. Cassion, hearing the sound of my approach, glanced around, his frown changing instantly into a smile.

"Ah, quite an adventure this," he said, adopting a tone of pleasantry. "The first time you have left your tent, Madame?"

"The first time I have felt desire to do so," I retorted. "I feel curiosity to examine your map."

"And waited until I was alone; I appreciate the compliment," and he removed his hat in mock gallantry. "There was a time when you would have come earlier."

"Your sarcasm is quite uncalled for. You have my pledge relative to the Sieur de Artigny, Monsieur, which suffices. If you do not care to give me glimpse of your map, I will retire again."

"Pouf! do not be so easily pricked, I spoke in jest. Ay, look at the paper, but the tracing is so poor 'tis no better than a guess where we are. Sit you down, Madame, so the fire gives light, and I will show you our position the best I can."

"Did not De Artigny know?"

"He thinks he does, but his memory is not over clear, as he was only over this course the once. 'Tis here he has put the mark, while my guess would be a few leagues beyond."

I bent over, my eyes seeking the points indicated. I had seen the map before, yet it told me little, for I was unaccustomed to such study, and the few points, and streams named had no real meaning to my mind. The only familiar term was Chicagou Portage, and I pointed to it with my fingers.

"Is it there we leave the lake, Monsieur?"

"Ay; the rest will be river work. You see this stream? 'Tis called the Des Plaines, and leads into the Illinois. De Artigny says it is two miles inland, across a flat country. 'Twas Pere Marquette who passed this way first, but since then many have traversed it. 'Tis like to take us two days to make the portage."

"And way up here is Port du Morts, where we crossed the opening into Green Bay, and we have come since all this distance. Surely 'tis not far along the shore now to the portage?"

"Mon Dieu, who knows! It looks but a step on the map, yet 'tis not likely the distance has ever been measured."

"What said the Sieur de Artigny?"

"Bah! the Sieur de Artigny; ever it is the Sieur de Artigny. 'Tis little he knows about it in my judgment. He would have it thirty leagues yet, but I make it we are ten leagues to the south of where he puts us. What, are you going already? Faith, I had hopes you might tarry here a while yet, and hold converse with me."

I paused, in no way tempted, yet uncertain.

"You had some word you wished to say, Monsieur?"

"There are words enough if you would listen."

"'Tis no fault of yours if I do not. But not now, Monsieur. It is late, and cold. We take the boats early, and I would rest while I can."

He was on his feet, the map gripped in his hand, but made no effort to stop me, as I dropped him a curtsey, and retreated. But he was there still when I glanced back from out the safety of the tent, his forehead creased by a frown. When he finally turned away the map was crushed shapeless in his fingers.

The morning dawned somewhat warmer, but with every promise of a storm, threatening clouds hanging above the water, sullen and menacing, their edges tipped with lightning. The roar of distant thunder came to our ears, yet there was no wind, and Cassion decided that the clouds would drift southward, and leave us safe passage along the shore. His canoe had been wrenched in making landing the evening before, and had taken in considerable water during the night. This was bailed out, but the interior was so wet and uncomfortable that I begged to be given place in another boat, and Cassion consented, after I had exhibited some temper, ordering a soldier in the sergeant's canoe to exchange places with me.

We were the last to depart from the mouth of the stream where we had made night camp, and I took more than usual interest, feeling oddly relieved to be away from Cassion's presence for an entire day. The man irritated me, insisting on a freedom of speech I could not tolerate, thus keeping me constantly on defense, never certain when his audacity would break bounds. So this morning it was a relief to sit up, free of my blanket, and watch the men get under way.

We may have proceeded for half a league, when a fog swept in toward the land enveloping us in its folds, although we were close enough to the shore so as to keep safely together, the word being passed back down the line, and as we drew nearer I became aware that De Artigny's boat had turned about, and he was endeavoring to induce Cassion to go ashore and make camp before the storm broke. The latter, however, was obstinate, claiming we were close enough for safety, and finally, in angry voice, insisted upon proceeding on our course.

De Artigny, evidently feeling argument useless, made no reply, but I noticed he held back his paddlers, and permitted Cassion's canoe to forge ahead. He must have discovered that I was not with Monsieur, for I saw him stare intently at each of the other canoes, as though to make sure of my presence, shading his eyes with one hand, as he peered through the thickening mist. This action evidenced the first intimation I had for days of his continued interest in my welfare, and my heart throbbed with sudden pleasure. Whether, or not, he felt some premonition of danger, he certainly spoke words of instruction to his Indian paddlers, and so manipulated his craft as to keep not far distant, although slightly farther from shore, than the canoe in which I sat.

Cassion had already vanished in the fog, which swept thicker and thicker along the surface of the water, the nearer boats becoming mere indistinct shadows. Even within my own canoe the faces of those about me appeared gray and blurred, as the damp vapor swept over us in dense clouds. It was a ghastly scene, rendered more awesome by the glare of lightning which seemed to split the vapor, and the sound of thunder reverberating from the surface of the lake.

The water, a ghastly, greenish gray, heaved beneath, giving us little difficulty, yet terrifying in its suggestion of sullen strength, and the shore line was barely discernible to the left as we struggled forward. What obstinacy compelled Cassion to keep us at the task I know not—perchance a dislike to yield to De Artigny's advice—but the sergeant swore to himself, and turned the prow of our canoe inward, hugging the shore as closely as he dared, his anxious eyes searching every rift in the mist.

Yet, dark and drear as the day was, we had no true warning of the approaching storm, for the vapor clinging to the water concealed from our sight the clouds above. When it came it burst upon us with mad ferocity, the wind whirling to the north, and striking us with all the force of three hundred miles of open sea. The mist was swept away with that first fierce gust, and we were struggling for life in a wild turmoil of waters. I had but a glimpse of it—a glimpse of wild, raging sea; of black, scurrying clouds, so close above I could almost reach out and touch them; of dimly revealed canoes flung about like chips, driving before the blast.

Our own was hurled forward like an arrow, the Indian paddlers working like mad to keep stern to the wind, their long hair whipping about. The soldiers crouched in the bottom, clinging grimly to any support, their white faces exhibiting the abasement of fear. The sergeant alone spoke, yelling his orders, as he wielded steering paddle, his hat blown from his head, his face ghastly with sudden terror. It was but the glimpse of an instant; then a paddle broke, the canoe swung sideways, balanced on the crest of a wave and went over.

I was conscious of cries, shrill, instantly smothered, and then I sank, struggling hard to keep above water, yet borne down by the weight of the canoe. I came up again, choking and half strangled, and sought to grip the boat as it whirled past. My fingers found nothing to cling to, slipping along the wet keel, until I went down again, but this time holding my breath. My water-soaked garments, and heavy shoes made swimming almost impossible, yet I struggled to keep face above water. Two men had reached the canoe, and had somehow found hold. One of these was an Indian, but they were already too far away to aid me, and in another moment had vanished in the white crested waves. Not another of our boat's crew was visible, nor could I be sure of where the shore lay.

Twice I went down, waves breaking over me, and flinging me about like a cork. Yet I was conscious, though strangely dazed and hopeless. I struggled, but more as if in a dream than in reality. Something black, shapeless, seemed to sweep past me through the water; it was borne high on a wave, and I flung up my hands in protection; I felt myself gripped, lifted partially, then the grasp failed, and I dropped back into the churning water. The canoe, or whatever else it was, was gone, swept remorselessly past by the raging wind, but as I came up again to the surface a hand clasped me, drew me close until I had grip on a broad shoulder.



CHAPTER XVIII

ALONE WITH DE ARTIGNY

Beyond this I knew nothing; with the coming of help, the sense that I was no longer struggling unaided for life in those treacherous waters, all strength and consciousness left me. When I again awoke, dazed, trembling, a strange blur before my eyes, I was lying upon a sandy beach, with a cliff towering above me, its crest tree-lined, and I could hear the dash of waves breaking not far distant. I endeavored to raise myself to look about, but sank back helpless, fairly struggling for breath. An arm lifted my head from the sand, and I stared into a face bending above me, at first without recollection.

"Lie still a moment," said a voice gently. "You will breathe easier shortly, and regain strength."

I knew my fingers closed on the man's hand convulsively, but the water yet blinded my eyes. He must have perceived this for he wiped my face with a cloth, and it was then I perceived his face clearly, and remembered.

"The Sieur de Artigny!" I exclaimed.

"Of course," he answered. "Who else should it be, Madame? Please do not regret my privilege."

"Your privilege; 'tis a strange word you choose, Monsieur," I faltered, not yet having control of myself. "Surely I have granted none."

"Perchance not, as there was small chance," he answered, evidently attempting to speak lightly. "Nor could I wait to ask your leave; yet surely I may esteem it a privilege to bring you ashore alive."

"It was you then who saved me? I scarcely understood, Monsieur; I lost consciousness, and am dazed in mind. You leaped into the water from the canoe?"

"Yes; there was no other course left me. My boat was beyond yours, a few yards farther out in the lake, when the storm struck. We were partially prepared, for I felt assured there would be trouble."

"You told Monsieur Cassion so," I interrupted, my mind clearing. "It was to bring him warning you returned."

"I urged him to land until we could be assured of good weather. My Indians agreed with me."

"And he refused to listen; then you permitted your canoe to fall behind; you endeavored to keep close to the boat I was in—was that not true, Monsieur?"

He laughed, but very softly, and the grave look did not desert his eyes.

"You noted me then! Faith, I had no thought you so much as glanced toward us. Well, and why should I not? Is it not a man's duty to seek to guard your safety in such an hour? Monsieur Cassion did not realize the peril, for he knows naught of the treachery of this lake, while I have witnessed its sudden storms before, and learned to fear them. So I deemed it best to be near at hand. For that you cannot chide me."

"No, no, Monsieur," and I managed to sit up, and escape the pressure of his arm. "To do that would be the height of ingratitude. Surely I should have died but for your help, yet I hardly know now what occurred—you sprang from the canoe?"

"Ay, when I found all else useless. Never did I feel more deadly blast; no craft such as ours could face it. We were to your left and rear when your canoe capsized, and I bore down toward where you struggled in the water. An Indian got grip upon you as we swept by, but the craft dipped so that he let go, and then I jumped, for we could never come back, and that was the only chance. This is the whole story, Madame, except that by God's help, I got you ashore."

I looked into his face, impressed by the seriousness with which he spoke.

"I—I thank you, Monsieur," I said, and held out my hand. "It was most gallant. Are we alone here? Where are the others?"

"I do not know, Madame," he answered, his tone now that of formal courtesy. "'Tis but a short time since we reached this spot, and the storm yet rages. May I help you to stand, so you may perceive better our situation."

He lifted me to my feet, and I stood erect, my clothes dripping wet, and my limbs trembling so that I grasped his arm for support, and glanced anxiously about. We were on a narrow sand beach, at the edge of a small cove, so protected the waters were comparatively calm, although the trees above bowed to the blast, and out beyond the headland I could see huge waves, whitened with foam, and perceive the clouds of spray flung up by the rocks. It was a wild scene, the roar of the breakers loud and continuous, and the black clouds flying above with dizzy rapidity. All the horror which I had just passed through seemed typified in the scene, and I covered my face with my hands.

"You—you think they—they are all gone?" I asked, forcing the words from me.

"Oh, no," he answered eagerly, and his hand touched me. "Do not give way to that thought. I doubt if any in your canoe made shore, but the others need not be in great danger. They could run before the storm until they found some opening in the coast line to yield protection. The sergeant was no voyageur, and when one of the paddles broke he steered wrong. With an Indian there you would have floated."

"Then what can we do?"

"There is naught that I see, but wait. Monsieur Cassion will be blown south, but will return when the storm subsides to seek you. No doubt he will think you dead, yet will scarcely leave without search. See, the sky grows lighter already, and the wind is less fierce. It would be my thought to attain the woods yonder, and build a fire to dry our clothes; the air chills."

I looked where he pointed, up a narrow rift in the rocks, yet scarcely felt strength or courage to attempt the ascent. He must have read this in my face, and seen my form shiver as the wind struck my wet garments, for he made instant decision.

"Ah, I have a better thought than that, for you are too weak to attempt the climb. Here, lie down, Madame, and I will cover you with the sand. It is warm and dry. Then I will clamber up yonder, and fling wood down; 'twill be but a short time until we have a cheerful blaze here."

I shook my head, but he would listen to no negative, and so, at last, I yielded to his insistence, and he piled the white sand over me until all but my face was covered. To me the position was ridiculous enough, yet I appreciated the warmth and protection, and he toiled with enthusiasm, his tongue as busy as his hands in effort to make me comfortable.

"'Tis the best thing possible; the warmth of your body will dry your clothes. Ah, it is turning out a worthy adventure, but will soon be over with. The storm is done already, although the waves still beat the shore fiercely. 'Tis my thought Monsieur Cassion will be back along this way ere dusk, and a canoe can scarce go past without being seen while daylight lasts, and at night we will keep a fire. There, is that better? You begin to feel warm?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Then lie still, and do not worry. All will come out right in a few hours more. Now I will go above, and throw down some dry wood. I shall not be out of sight more than a few minutes."

From where I lay, my head on a hummock of sand, my body completely buried, I could watch him scale the rocks, making use of the rift in the face of the cliff, and finding no great difficulty. At the top he looked back, waved his hand, and then disappeared among the trees. All was silent about me, except for the dash of distant waves, and the rustle of branches far overhead. I gazed up at the sky, where the clouds were thinning, giving glimpses of faintest blue, and began to collect my own thoughts, and realize my situation.

In spite of my promise to Cassion I was here alone with De Artigny, helpless to escape his presence, or to be indifferent for the service he had rendered me. Nor had I slightest wish to escape. Even although it should be proven that the man was the murderer of my uncle, I could not break the influence he had over me, and now, when it was not proven, I simply must struggle to believe that he could be the perpetrator of the deed. All that I seemed truly conscious of was a relief at being free from the companionship of Cassion. I wanted to be alone, relieved from his attentions, and the fear of what he might attempt next. Beyond this my mind did not go, for I felt weak from the struggle in the water, and a mere desire to lie quiet and rest took possession of all my faculties.

De Artigny appeared at the edge of the cliff, and called to reassure me of his presence. He had his arms filled with broken bits of wood which were tossed to the sand, and, a moment later, he descended the rift in the wall, and paused beside me.

"No sign of anyone up there," he said, and I felt not regretfully. "The canoes must have been blown some distance down the coast."

"Were you able to see far?"

"Ay, several leagues, for we are upon a headland, and there is a wide sweep of bay below. The shore line is abrupt, and the waves still high. Indeed I saw no spot in all that distance where a boat might make safe landing. Are you becoming dry?"

"I am at least warm, and already feel much stronger. Would it not be best, Monsieur, for us to scale the cliff, and wait our rescuers there, where we can keep lookout?"

"If you feel able to climb the rocks, although the passage is not difficult. A boat might pass us by here and never be seen, or know of our presence, unless we keep up a fire."

I held out my hand to him, and he helped me to my feet. The warmth of the sand while it had not entirely dried my clothing, had given me fresh vigor, and I stood erect, requiring no assistance. With this knowledge a new assurance seemed to take possession of me, and I looked about, and smiled.

"I am glad to know you can laugh," he said eagerly. "I have felt that our being thus shipwrecked together was not altogether to your liking."

"And why?" I asked, pretending surprise. "Being shipwrecked, of course, could scarcely appeal to me, but I am surely not ungrateful to you for saving my life."

"As to that, I did no more than any man might be expected to do," he protested. "But you have avoided me for weeks past, and it can scarcely be pleasant now to be alone with me here."