"Avoided you! Rather should I affirm it was your own choice, Monsieur. If I recall aright I gave you my confidence once, long ago on the Ottawa, and you refused my request of assistance. Since then you have scarcely been of our party."

He hesitated, as though doubtful of what he had best say.

"It was never through indifference as to your welfare," he answered at last, "but obedience to orders. I am but an employee on this expedition."

My eyes met his.

"Did Monsieur Cassion command that you keep in advance?" I asked, "and make your night camps beyond those of the main company?"

"Those were his special orders, for which I saw no need, except possibly his desire to keep us separated. Yet I did not know his reason, nor was it my privilege to ask. Had Monsieur Cassion any occasion to distrust me?"

"I know not as to occasion, Monsieur, but he left Quebec disliking you because of our conference there, and some words La Barre spoke gave him fresh suspicion that you and I were friends, and should be watched. I do not altogether blame the man for he learned early that I thought little of him, and held it no honor to be his wife. Yet that distrust would have died, no doubt, had it not been fanned into flame by accident.

"I was kept in his boat, and every instant guarded by either himself, or Pere Allouez, his faithful servitor, until long after we passed Montreal, and entered the wilderness. That day I met you on the bluff was the first opportunity I had found to be alone. Your crew were beyond the rapids, and Cassion felt there could be no danger in yielding me liberty, although, had the pere not been ill, 'tis doubtful if I had been permitted to disappear alone."

"But he knew naught of our meeting?"

"You mistake, Monsieur. Scarcely had you gone when he appeared, and, by chance, noted your footprints, and traced them to where you descended the cliff. Of course he had no proof, and I admitted nothing, yet he knew the truth, and sought to pledge me not to speak with you again."

"And you made such pledge?"

"No; I permitted him to believe that I did, for otherwise there would have been an open quarrel. From then until now we have never met."

"No," he burst forth, "but I have been oftentimes nearer you than you thought. I could not forget what you said to me at that last meeting, or the appeal you made for my assistance. I realize the position you are in, Madame, married by force to a man you despise, a wife only in name, and endeavoring to protect yourself by wit alone. I could not forget all this, nor be indifferent. I have been in your camp at night—ay, more than once—dreaming I might be of some aid to you, and to assure myself of your safety."

"You have guarded me?"

"As best I could, without arousing the wrath of Monsieur Cassion. You are not angry? it was but the duty of a friend."

"No, I am not angry, Monsieur, yet it was not needed. I do not fear Cassion, so long as I can protect myself, for if he attempts evil it will find some form of treachery. But, Monsieur, later I gave him the pledge he asked."

"The pledge! What pledge?"

"That I would neither meet, nor communicate with you until our arrival at Fort St. Louis."

My eyes fell before his earnest gaze, and I felt my limbs tremble.

"Mon Dieu! Why? There was some special cause?"

"Yes, Monsieur—listen. Do not believe this is my thought, yet I must tell you the truth. Hugo Chevet was found dead, murdered, at St. Ignace. 'Twas the morning of our departure, and your boat had already gone. Cassion accused you of the crime, as some of the men saw you coming from the direction where the body was found late at night, and others reported that you two had quarreled the evening before. Cassion would have tried you offhand, using his authority as commander of the expedition, but promised not to file charges until we reached St. Louis, if I made pledge—'twas then I gave him my word."

De Artigny straightened up, the expression on his face one of profound astonishment.

"He—he accused me," he asked, "of murder to win your promise?"

"No, Monsieur; he believed the charge true, and I pledged myself to assure you a fair trial."

"Then you believed also that I was guilty of the foul crime?"

I caught my breath, yet there was nothing for me to do but give him a frank answer.

"I—I have given no testimony, Monsieur," I faltered, "but I—I saw you in the moonlight bending over Chevet's dead body."



CHAPTER XIX

WE EXCHANGE CONFIDENCES

My eyes fell before his; I could not look into his face, yet I had a sense that he was actually glad to hear my words. There was no anger, rather happiness and relief in the gray eyes.

"And you actually believed I struck the blow? You thought me capable of driving a knife into the man's back to gain revenge?"

"Monsieur, what could I think?" I urged eagerly. "It did not seem possible, yet I saw you with my own eyes. You knew of the murder, but you made no report, raised no alarm, and in the morning your boat was gone before the body was found by others."

"True, yet there was a reason which I can confess to you. You also discovered the body that night, yet aroused no alarm. I saw you. Why did you remain silent? Was it to protect me from suspicion?"

I bent my head, but failed to find words with which to answer. De Artigny scarcely permitted me time.

"That is the truth; your silence tells me it was for my sake you remained still. Is it not possible, Adele, that my purpose was the same? Listen to me, my girl, and have faith in my words—I am not guilty of Hugo Chevet's death. I did not like the man, it is true, and we exchanged words in anger while loading the boats, but I never gave the matter second thought. That was not the first night of this journey that I sought to assure myself of your safety.

"I know Monsieur Cassion, and of what he is capable, and felt that some time there would occur between you a struggle—so at every camping place, where it was possible, I have watched. It was for that purpose I approached the Mission House. I gained glimpse within, and saw Cassion asleep on a bench, and knew you had retired to the chamber above. I was satisfied, and started to return to the camp. On my way back I found Chevet's body at the edge of the wood. I discovered how he had been killed—a knife thrust in the back."

"But you made no report; raised no alarm."

"I was confused, unable to decide what was best for me to do. I had no business being there. My first impulse was to arouse the Mission House; my second to return to camp, and tell the men there. With this last purpose in view I entered the wood to descend the hill, but had hardly done so when I caught sight of you in the moonlight, and remained there hidden, watching your movements with horror. I saw you go straight to the body, assure yourself the man was dead; then return to the Mission House, and enter your room by way of the kitchen roof. Do you realize what your actions naturally meant to me?"

I stared at him, scarcely able to speak, yet in some way my lips formed words.

"You—you thought I did it?"

"What else could I think? You were hiding there; you examined the body; you crept secretly in through the window, and gave no alarm."

The horror of it all struck me like a blow, and I covered my eyes with my hands, no longer able to restrain my sobs. De Artigny caught my hands, and uncovered my face.

"Do not break down, little girl," he entreated. "It is better so, for now we understand each other. You sought to shield me, and I endeavored to protect you. 'Twas a strange misunderstanding, and, but for the accident to the canoe, might have had a tragic ending."

"You would never have told?"

"Of seeing you there? of suspecting you? Could you think that possible?"

"But you would have been condemned; the evidence was all against you."

"Let us not talk of that now," he insisted. "We have come back to a faith in each other. You believe my word?"

"Yes."

"And I yours."

His hand clasp tightened, and there was that in his eyes which frightened me.

"No, no, Monsieur," I exclaimed, and drew back quickly. "Do not say more, for I am here with you alone, and there will be trouble enough when Cassion returns."

"Do I not know that," he said, yet releasing my hands. "Still it can surely do no harm for us to understand each other. You care nothing for Cassion; you dislike, despise the man, and there is naught sacred in your marriage. We are in the wilderness, not Quebec, and La Barre has little authority here. You have protected me with your silence—was it not because you cared for me?"

"Yes, Monsieur; you have been my friend."

"Your friend! Is that all?"

"Is that not enough, Monsieur? I like you well; I would save you from injustice. You could not respect me if I said more, for I am Monsieur Cassion's wife by rite of Holy Church. I do not fear him—he is a coward; but I fear dishonor, Monsieur, for I am Adele la Chesnayne. I would respect myself, and you."

The light of conquest vanished from the gray eyes. For a moment he stood silent and motionless; then he drew a step backward, and bowed.

"Your rebuke is just, Madame," he said soberly.

"We of the frontier grow careless in a land where might is right, and I have had small training save in camp and field. I crave your pardon for my offense."

So contrite was his expression I had to smile, realizing for the first time the depth of his interest in my good will, yet the feeling which swayed me was not altogether that of pleasure. He was not one to yield so quietly, or to long restrain the words burning his tongue, yet I surrendered to my first impulse, and extended my hand.

"There is nothing to pardon, Sieur de Artigny," I said frankly. "There is no one to whom I owe more of courtesy than you. I trust you fully, and believe your word, and in return I ask the same faith. Under the conditions confronting us we must aid each other. We have both made mistakes in thus endeavoring to shield one another from suspicion, and, as a result, are both equally in peril. Our being alone together here will enrage Monsieur Cassion, and he will use all his power for revenge. My testimony will only make your case more desperate should I confess what I know, and you might cast suspicion upon me—"

"You do not believe I would."

"No, I do not, and yet, perchance, it might be better for us both if I made full confession. I hesitate merely because Cassion would doubt my word; would conclude that I merely sought to protect you. Before others—fair-minded judges at St. Louis—I should have no hesitancy in telling the whole story, for there is nothing I did of which I am ashamed, but here, where Cassion has full authority, such a confession would mean your death."

"He would not dare; I am an officer of the Sieur de la Salle."

"The more reason why he would. I know Monsieur Cassion even better than you do. He has conversed with me pretty freely in the boat, and made clear his hatred of La Salle, and his desire to do him evil. No fear of your chief will ever deter him, for he believes La Barre has sufficient power now in this country to compel obedience. I overheard the Governor's orders to keep you under close surveillance, and Cassion will jump at the chance of finding you guilty of crime. Now my broken pledge gives him ample excuse."

"But it was not broken except through necessity," he urged. "He surely cannot blame you because I saved your life."

"I doubt if that has slightest weight. All he will care about is our being here alone together. That fact will obscure all else in his mind."

"He believes then that you feel interest in me?"

"I have never denied it; the fact which rankles, however, is his knowledge that I feel no interest whatever in him. But we waste time, Monsieur, in fruitless discussion. Our only course is a discovery of Hugo Chevet's real murderer. Know you anything to warrant suspicion?"

De Artigny did not answer at once, his eyes looking out on the white crested waters of the lake.

"No, Madame," he said at length gravely. "The last time Chevet was seen alive, so far as I now know, was when he left the boats in company with Monsieur Cassion to return to the Mission House."

"At dusk?"

"It was already quite dark."

"They did not arrive together, and Cassion reported that Chevet had remained at the beach in charge of the canoes."

"You saw Cassion when he arrived?"

"Yes, and before; I was at the window, and watched him approach across the open space. He was alone, and appeared at ease."

"What did he do, and say, after he entered the house?"

"Absolutely nothing to attract notice; he seemed very weary, and, as soon as he had eaten, lay down on the bench, and fell asleep."

"Are you sure he slept?"

"I felt no doubt; there was nothing strange about his actions, but as soon as possible I left the room. You surely do not suspect him?"

"He was the last to be seen with Chevet; they left the beach together, yet the murdered man failed to appear at the Mission House, and Cassion falsely reported him left in charge at the beach."

"But no one could act so indifferent, after just committing such a crime. When you looked in through the window what did you see?"

"Only the priests about the table talking, and Cassion seemingly sound asleep. Could there be any reason why he should desire the death of Chevet?"

"I know of none. My uncle felt bitter over the concealment of my fortune, and no doubt the two had exchanged words, but there was no open quarrel. Chevet was rough and headstrong, yet he was not killed in fight, for the knife thrust was from behind."

"Ay, a coward's blow. Chevet possessed no papers of value?"

I shook my head.

"If so, no mention was ever made to me. But, Monsieur, you are still wet, and must be cold in this wind. Why do you not build the fire, and dry your clothing?"

"The wind does have an icy feel," he admitted, "but this is a poor spot. Up yonder in the wood shadow there is more warmth, and besides it affords better outlook for the canoes. Have you strength now to climb the bluff?"

"The path did not appear difficult, and it is dreary enough here. I will try."

I did not even require his aid, and was at the top nearly as soon as he. It was a pleasant spot, a heavy forest growing almost to the edge, but with green carpet of grass on which one could rest, and gaze off across the wide waste of waters. Yet there was little to attract the eyes except the ceaseless roll of the waves, and the curve of the coast line, against which the breakers still thundered, casting high in air their white spray. It was a wild, desolate scene, a wilderness wherever the eyes turned.

I stood silent, gazing to the southward, but there were no canoes visible, although the storm had ceased, and the waves were no longer high enough to prevent their return. They must have been driven below the distant point, and possibly so injured as to make repairs necessary. When I finally turned away I found that De Artigny had already lighted a fire with flint and steel in a little hollow within the forest. He called to me to join him.

"There is nothing to see," he said, "and the warmth is welcome. You had no glimpse of the boats?"

"No," I admitted. "Do you really believe they survived?"

"There was no reason why they should not, if properly handled. I have controlled canoes in far worse storms. They are doubtless safely ashore beyond the point yonder."

"And will return seeking us?"

"Seeking you, at least. Cassion will learn what occurred, and certainly will never depart without seeking to discover if you are alive. The thought that you may be with me will only serve to spur him to quicker action. My fear is he may be delayed by some accident, and we might suffer from lack of food."

"I had not thought how helpless we were."

"Oh, we are not desperate," and he laughed, getting up from his knees. "You forget I am bred to this life, and have been alone in the wilderness without arms before. The woods are full of game, and it is not difficult to construct traps, and the waters are filled with fish which I will devise some means of catching. You are not afraid to be left alone?"

"No," in surprise. "Where are you going?"

"To learn more of our surroundings, and arrange some traps for wild game. I will not be away long but someone should remain here to signal any canoe returning in search."

I watched him disappear among the trees, without regret, or slightest sense of fear at thus being left alone. The fire burned brightly, and I rested where the grateful warmth put new life into my body. The silence was profound, depressing, and a sense of intense loneliness stole over me. I felt a desire to get away from the gloom of the woods, and climbed the bank to where I could look out once more across the waters.



CHAPTER XX

I CHOOSE MY DUTY

The view outspread before me revealed nothing new; the same dread waste of water extended to the horizon, while down the shore no movement was visible. As I rested there, oppressed by the loneliness, I felt little hope that the others of our party had escaped without disaster.

De Artigny's words of cheer had been spoken merely to encourage me, to make me less despondent. Deep down in his heart the man doubted the possibility of those frail canoes withstanding the violence of the storm. It was this thought which had made him so anxious to secure food, for, if the others survived, and would return seeking us, as he asserted, surely they would appear before nightfall, and there would be no necessity for our snaring wild game in order to preserve life.

De Artigny did not believe his own words; I even suspicioned that he had gone now alone to explore the shore-line; seeking to discover the truth, and the real fate of our companions. At first this conception of our situation startled me, and yet, strange as it may seem, my realization brought no deep regret. I was conscious of a feeling of freedom, of liberty, such as had not been mine since we departed from Quebec. I was no longer watched, spied upon, my every movement ordered, my speech criticized. More, I was delivered from the hated presence of Cassion, ever reminding me that I was his wife, and continually threatening to exercise his authority. Ay, and I was with De Artigny, alone with him, and the joy of this was so deep that I came to a sudden realization of the truth—I loved him.

In a way I must have known this before, yet, not until that moment, did the fact dawn upon me in full acknowledgement. I sank my head on my hands, my breath quickened by surprise, by shame, and felt my cheeks burn. I loved him, and believed he loved me. I knew then that all the happiness of life centered in this one fact; while between us arose the shadow of Cassion, my husband. True I loved him not; true I was to him wife only in name; true our marriage was a thing of shame, yet no less a fact, no less a barrier. I was a La Chesnayne to whom honor was a religion; a Catholic bowing humbly to the vow of Holy Church; a Frenchwoman taught that marriage was a sacred rite.

The knowledge of my love for De Artigny brought me more fear than pleasure. I dare not dream, or hope; I must escape his presence while I retained moral strength to resist temptation. I got to my feet, not knowing what I could do, yet with a wild conception of returning to the beach, and seeking to find a passage southward. I would go now along the shore, before De Artigny came back, and meet those returning canoes. In such action lay my only safety—he would find me gone, would trace me along the sand, yet before I could be caught, I would have met the others, and thus escape the peril of being alone with him again.

Even as I reached this decision, something arose in my throat and choked me, for my eyes saw just outside the curve of the shore-line, a canoe emerge from the shadows of the bluff. I cannot picture the reaction, the sudden shrinking fear which, in that instant, mastered me. They were coming, seeking me; coming to drag me back into slavery; coming to denounce De Artigny of crime, and demand his life.

I know not which thought dominated me—my own case, or his; but I realized instantly what course Cassion would pursue. His hatred of De Artigny would be fanned into flame by discovery that we were alone together. He possessed the power, the authority to put this man forever out of his way. To save him there remained but one possible plan—he must reach Fort St. Louis, and friends before Cassion could bring him to trial. It was in my power to permit his escape from discovery, mine alone. If I did otherwise I should be his murderer.

I sank down out of sight, yet my decision was made in an instant. It did not seem to me then as though any other course could be taken. That De Artigny was innocent I had no doubt. I loved him, this I no longer denied to myself; and I could not possibly betray the man to the mad vengeance of Cassion. I peered forth, across the ridge of earth concealing me from observation, at the distant canoe. It was too far away for me to be certain of its occupants, yet I assured myself that Indians were at the paddles, while three others, whose dress designated them as whites, occupied places in the boat. The craft kept close to the shore, evidently searching for any sign of the lost canoe, and the man in the stern stood up, pointing, and evidently giving orders. There was that about the fellow's movements to convince me he must be Cassion, and the very sight of him strengthened my resolve.

I turned, and ran down the bank to where the fire yet glowed dully in the hollow, emitting a faint spiral of blue smoke, dug dirt up with my hands, and covered the coals, until they were completely extinguished. Then I crept back to the bluff summit, and lay down to watch.

The canoe rounded the curve in the shore, and headed straight across toward where I rested in concealment. Their course would keep them too far away from the little strip of sand on which we had landed to observe the imprint of our feet, or the pile of wood De Artigny had flung down. I observed this with an intense feeling of relief, as I peered cautiously out from my covert.

I could see now clearly the faces of those in the canoe—the dark, expressionless countenances of the Indians, and the three white men, all gazing intently at the shore line, as they swept past, a soldier in the bow, and Pere Allouez and Cassion at the stern, the latter standing, gripping the steering paddle. The sound of his rasping, disagreeable voice reached me first.

"This is the spot," he exclaimed, pointing. "I saw that headland just before the storm struck. But there is no wreck here, no sign of landing. What is your judgment, Pere?"

"That further search is useless, Monsieur," answered the priest. "We have covered the entire coast, and found no sign of any survivor; no doubt they were all lost."

"'Tis likely true, for there was small hope for any swimmer in such a sea." Cassion's eyes turned to the others in the boat. "And you, Descartes, you were in the canoe with the Sieur de Artigny, tell us again what happened, and if this be not the place."

The soldier in the bow lifted his head.

"I know little of the place, Monsieur," he answered gruffly, "though it would seem as if I recalled the forked tree yonder, showing through a rift in the fog. All I know is that one of the paddles broke in the sergeant's canoe, and over they went into the water. 'Twas as quick as that," and he snapped his fingers, "and then a head or two bobbed up, but the canoe swept over them, and down they went again. Sieur de Artigny held our steering paddle, and, in an instant, he swung us that way, and there was the lady struggling. I reached out and touched her, but lost hold, and then the Sieur de Artigny leaped overboard, and the storm whirled us off into the fog. I saw no more."

"You do not know that he reached her?"

"No, Monsieur; the lady sank when I lost my grip; I do not even know if she came up again."

Cassion stood motionless, staring intently at the bluff. I almost thought he must have seen me, but there was no outcry, and finally he seated himself.

"Go on, round the long point yonder, and if there is no sign there we will return," he said grimly. "'Tis my thought they were all drowned, and there is no need of our seeking longer. Pull on boys, and let us finish the job."

They rounded the point, the Pere talking earnestly, but the canoe so far away I could not overhear his words. Cassion paid small heed to what he urged, but, at last, angrily bade him be still, and, after a glance into the narrow basin beyond, swung the bow of the canoe about, and headed it southward, the return course further off shore. The Indians paddled with renewed energy, and, in a few moments, they were so far away their faces were indistinguishable, and I ventured to sit on the bank, my gaze still on the vanishing canoe.

So intent was I that I heard no sound of approaching footsteps, and knew nothing of De Artigny's presence until he spoke.

"What is that yonder—a canoe?"

I started, shrinking back, suddenly realizing what I had done, and the construction he might place upon my action.

"Yes," I answered faintly, "it—it is a canoe."

"But it is headed south; it is going away," he paused, gazing into my face. "Did it not come this far?"

I hesitated; he had furnished me with an excuse, a reason. I could permit him to believe the boat had not approached close enough to be signaled. It was, for an instant, a temptation, yet as I looked into his eyes I could not tell the lie. More, I felt the uselessness of any such attempt to deceive; he would discover the fire extinguished by dirt thrown on it, and thus learn the truth. Far better that I confess frankly, and justify my action.

"The canoe came here," I faltered, my voice betraying me. "It went around the point yonder, and then returned."

"And you made no signal? You let them go, believing us dead?"

I could not look at him, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame.

"Yes, Monsieur; but listen. No, do not touch me. Perhaps it was all wrong, yet I thought it right. I lay here, hidden from view, and watched them; I extinguished the fire so they could not see the smoke. They came so near I could hear their voices, and distinguish their words, yet I let them pass."

"Who were in the canoe?"

"Besides the Indians, Cassion, Pere Allouez, and the soldier Descartes."

"He was with me."

"So I learned from his tale; 'twas he who sought to lift me from the water, and failed. Do you realize, Monsieur, why I chose to remain unseen? Why I have done what must seem an unwomanly act?"

He was still gazing after the canoe, now a mere speck amid the waste of waters, but turned and looked into my face.

"No, Madame, yet I cannot deem your reason an unworthy one—yet wait; could it be fear for my life?"

"It was that, and that only, Monsieur. The truth came to me in a flash when I first perceived the canoe approaching yonder. I felt that hate rather than love urged Cassion to make search for us. He knew of your attempt at rescue, and if he found us here together alone, he would care for nothing save revenge. He has the power, the authority to condemn you, and have you shot. I saw no way to preserve your life, but to keep you out of his grip, until you were with your friends at Fort St. Louis."

"You sacrificed yourself for me?"

"'Tis no more than you did when you leaped from the canoe."

"Pah, that was a man's work; but now you risk more than life; you peril reputation—"

"No, Monsieur; no more, at least, than it was already imperiled. Cassion need never know that I saw his searching party, and surely no one can justly blame me for being rescued from death. One does not ask, in such a moment, who the rescuer is. I feel I have chosen right, Monsieur, and yet I must trust you to never cause me to regret that I am the wife of Monsieur Cassion."

To my surprise his face brightened, his eyes smiling, as he bowed low before me.

"Your confidence shall not be betrayed, Madame," he said gallantly. "I pledge you my discretion whatever circumstances may arise. There is no cur in the De Artigny strain, and I fight my own battles. Some day I shall be face to face with Francois Cassion, and if then I fail to strike home it will be memory of your faith which restrains my hand. And now I rejoice that I can make your sacrifice less grievous."

"In what way, Monsieur?"

"In that we are no longer entirely alone in our wilderness adventure. I have fortunately brought back with me a comrade, whose presence will rob Cassion of some sharpness of tongue. Shall we go meet him?"

"Meet him! a man, you mean? One rescued from the canoe?"

"No, but more likely to serve us a good turn—a soldier under Monsieur de la Durantaye, who has camp below at the portage to the Des Plaines. Out yonder I ran onto him, bearing some message from Green Bay—an odd fellow, but with a gun at his shoulder, and a tongue with which to tell the truth on occasion. Come, Madame, there is naught now you need to fear."



CHAPTER XXI

WE DECIDE OUR COURSE

With a feeling of relief in my heart, a sense that my reputation was safe, and that the good God had set the seal of His approval on the choice made, I accepted De Artigny's outstretched hand, and permitted him to assist me down the bank. The new arrival was just within the edge of the forest, bending over a freshly kindled fire, barely commencing to blaze, and beside him on the grass lay a wild fowl, already plucked of its feathers. So intent was the fellow at his task, he did not even lift his head until my companion hailed him.

"Barbeau, here is the lady of whom I spoke—the wife of Monsieur Cassion."

He stood up, and made me a salute as though I were an officer, as odd a looking little man as ever I had seen, with a small, peaked face, a mop of black hair, and a pair of shrewd, humorous eyes. His dress was that of a courier du bois, with no trace of uniform save the blue forage cap gripped in one hand, yet he stood stiff as if on parade. In spite of his strange, uncouth appearance there was that in his face which won my favor, and I held out my hand.

"You are a soldier of France, Monsieur de Artigny tells me."

"Yes, Madame, of the Regiment Carignan-Salliers," he answered.

"I wonder have you served long? My father was an officer in that command—Captain la Chesnayne."

The expression on the man's face changed magically.

"You the daughter of Captain la Chesnayne," he exclaimed, the words bursting forth uncontrolled, "and married to Cassion! how can this be?"

"You knew him then—my father?"

"Ay, Madame; I was with him at the Richelieu, at the village of the Mohawks; and at Bois le Blanc, where he died. I am Jacques Barbeau, a soldier for twenty years; did he not speak to you of me?"

"I was but a girl when he was killed, and we seldom met, for he was usually on campaign. Yet what do you mean by thus expressing surprise at my marriage to Monsieur Cassion?"

He hesitated, evidently regretting his impulsive speech, and glancing from my face into the stern eyes of De Artigny.

"Monsieur, Madame, I spoke hastily; it was not my place."

"That may be true, Barbeau," replied the Sieur grimly, "yet the words have been said, and the lady has a right to have them explained. Was there quarrel between her father and this Francois Cassion?"

"Ay, there was, and bitter, although I know nothing as to the cause. Cassion, and La Barre—he whom I now hear is Governor of New France—were alike opposed to Captain la Chesnayne, and but for reports they made he would have been the colonel. He struck Cassion in the mess tent, and they were to fight the very morning the Iroquois met us at Bois le Blanc. 'Twas the talk of the men that the captain was shot from behind."

"By Cassion?"

"That I cannot say; yet the bullet entered behind the ear, for I was first to reach him, and he had no other enemy in the Regiment Carignan-Salliers. The feeling against M. Cassion was so strong that he resigned in a few months. You never heard this?"

I could not answer, but stood silent with bowed head. I felt De Artigny place his hand on my shoulder.

"The lady did not know," he said gravely, as though he felt the necessity of an explanation. "She was at school in a convent at Quebec, and no rumor reached her. She is thankful to you for what you have said, Barbeau, and can trust you as her father's friend and comrade. May I tell him the truth, Madame? The man may have other information of value."

I looked at the soldier, and his eyes were grave and honest.

"Yes," I answered, "it can do no harm."

De Artigny's hand was still on my shoulder, but his glance did not seek my face.

"There is some low trick here, Barbeau," he began soberly, "but the details are not clear. Madame has trusted me as a friend, and confided all she knows, and I will tell the facts to you as I understand them. False reports were made to France regarding Captain la Chesnayne. We have not learned what they were, or who made them, but they were so serious that Louis, by royal decree, issued order that his estates revert to the crown. Later La Chesnayne's friends got the ear of the King, no doubt through Frontenac, ever loyal to him, and by royal order the estates were restored to his ownership. This order of restoration reached Quebec soon after La Barre was appointed Governor, and was never made public. It was suppressed by someone, and La Chesnayne was killed three months later, without knowing that he had won the favor of the King."

"But Cassion knew; he was ever hand in glove with La Barre."

"We have cause to suspect so, and now, after listening to your tale, to believe that Captain la Chesnayne's death was part of a carefully formed plot. By accident the lady here learned of the conspiracy, through overhearing a conversation, but was discovered by La Barre hiding behind the curtains of his office. To keep her quiet she was forced into marriage with Francois Cassion, and bidden to accompany him on this journey to Fort St. Louis."

"I see," commented Barbeau shrewdly. "Such marriage would place the property in their control by law. Had Cassion sought marriage previously?"

His eyes were upon me as he asked the question, and I answered him frankly.

"He visited often at the home of my Uncle, Hugo Chevet, and, while he never spoke to me directly of marriage, I was told he desired me for his wife and at the palace he so presented me to Monsieur La Barre."

"On pledge of Chevet, no doubt. Your uncle knew of your fortune?"

"No; he supposed me penniless; he thought it a great honor done me by the favorite of the Governor's. 'Twas my belief he expected some reward for persuading me to accept the offer."

"And this Chevet—what became of him?"

"He accompanied us on the journey, also upon order of Monsieur la Barre, who, no doubt, thought he would be safer in the wilderness than in Quebec. He was murdered at St. Ignace."

"Murdered?"

"Ay, struck down from behind with a knife. No one knows who did it, but Cassion has charged the crime against Sieur de Artigny, and circumstances are such he will find it difficult to prove his innocence."

The soldier stood silent, evidently reviewing in his mind all that had been told him, his eyes narrowed into slits as he gazed thoughtfully at us both.

"Bah," he exclaimed at last, "the riddle is not so hard to read, although, no doubt the trick has been well played. I know Governor La Barre, and this Francois Cassion, for I have served under both, while Monsieur la Chesnayne was my Captain, and friend. I was not always a soldier, Madame, and once I sought holy orders, but the flesh was weak. However, the experiment gave me education, and led to comradeship with those above me in station—discipline in the wilderness is not rigid. Many a night at the campfire have I talked with my captain. And I have heard before of this Sieur de Artigny, and of how loyally he has served M. de la Salle. Monsieur de Tonty told the tale to M. de la Durantaye, mayhap a month ago, and I overheard. So I possess faith in him as a gallant man, and have desire to serve you both. May I tell you what, in my judgment, seems best for you to do?"

I glanced at De Artigny, and his eyes gave me courage.

"Monsieur, you are a French soldier," I answered, "an educated man also, and my father's friend. I will listen gladly."

His eyes smiled, and he swept the earth with his cap.

"Then my plan is this—leave Monsieur Cassion to go his way, and let me be your guide southward. I know the trails, and the journey is not difficult. M. de la Durantaye is camped at the portage of the Des Plaines, having but a handful of men to be sure, yet he is a gallant officer, and no enemy to La Salle, although he serves the Governor. He will see justice done, and give you both safe convoy to Fort St. Louis, where De Tonty knows how to protect his officers. Faith! I would like to see Francois Cassion try to browbeat that one armed Italian—'twould be one time he would meet his match."

De Artigny laughed.

"Ay, you are right there, my friend. I have felt the iron-hook, and witnessed how he wins his way with white and red. Yet he is no longer in command at Fort St. Louis; I bring him orders now from Sieur de la Salle bidding him not to interfere with the Governor's lieutenants. 'Tis the Chevalier De Baugis with whom we must reckon."

"True, he has control, and men enough, with Cassion's party, to enforce his order. And he is a hothead, conceited, and holding himself a bit better than others, because he bears commission in the King's Dragoons. 'Tis said that he and De Tonty have had many a stiff quarrel since he came; but he dare not go too far. There are good men there ready to draw sword if it ever come to blows—De Tonty, Boisrondet, L'Espirance, De Marle, and the Algonquins camped on the plain below. They would be tigers if the Italian spoke the word; while I doubt not M. de la Durantaye would throw his influence on the side of mercy; he has small love for the Captain of Dragoons."

I spoke quickly, and before De Artigny could voice decision.

"We will accept your guidance, Monsieur. It is the best choice, and now the only one, for the time is past when we can expect the return of the canoes. Can we not at once begin the journey?"

It was an hour later, after we had eaten, that we left the bluff, and turned westward into the great woods. Barbeau led the way, moving along the bank of a small stream, and I followed, with De Artigny close behind. As we had nothing to carry, except the soldier's rifle and blanket, we made rapid progress, and in less than half an hour, we came to the Indian trail, which led southward from Green Bay to the head waters of the Des Plaines. It was so faint and dim, a mere trace through forest depths, that I would have passed it by unseen, but both my companions were woodsmen, and there was no sign their trained eyes overlooked.

Once in the trail, however, there was no difficulty in following it, although it twisted here and there, in the avoiding of obstacles, ever seeking the easier route. Barbeau had passed this way before, and recalled many a land-mark, occasionally turning, and pointing out to us certain peculiarities he had observed on his journey north. Once he held us motionless while he crept aside, through an intervening fringe of trees to the shore of a small lake, coming back with two fine ducks dangling from his shoulder.

Before dark we halted in a little opening, the grass green underfoot, and a bank of trees all about, and made night camp. There was water near at hand, and the fire quickly built gave cheer to the scene, as the men prepared supper. The adventures of the day had wearied me, and I was very content to lie on Barbeau's blanket, and watch them work. While the soldier cooked, De Artigny swiftly erected a shelter of boughs, within which I was to pass the night. After we had eaten, I retired at once, yet for a long time could not sleep, but lay looking out at the two men seated before the fire smoking. I could hear their voices, and scraps of conversation—De Artigny telling the tale of the exploration of the great river to its mouth in the salt sea, and Barbeau relating many a strange adventure in the wilderness. It was a scene long to be remembered—the black shadows all about, the silence of the great woods, the sense of loneliness, the red and yellow flames of the fire, and the two men telling tales of wild adventure amid the unknown.

At last they grew weary also, and lay down, pillowed their heads on their arms, and rested motionless. My own eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep.



CHAPTER XXII

WE MEET WITH DANGER

It was late in the afternoon of the second day when we arrived at the forks of the Chicago river. There was a drizzle of rain in the air, and never saw I a more desolate spot; a bare, dreary plain, and away to the eastward a glimpse of the lake.

A hut of logs, a mere shack scarcely fit for shelter, stood on a slight eminence, giving wide view in every direction, but it was unoccupied, the door ajar. Barbeau, in advance, stared at it in surprise, gave utterance to an oath, and ran forward to peer within. Close behind him I caught a glimpse of the interior, my own heart heavy with disappointment.

If this miserable place had been the headquarters of M. de la Durantaye, evidently it was so no longer. Not a vestige of occupancy remained, save a rotten blanket on the floor, and a broken bench in one corner. Rude bunks lined two walls, and a table hewed from a log stood in the center of the dirt floor. On this was a paper pinned to the wood by a broken knife blade. Barbeau grasped it, and read the writing, handing it back to me. It was a scrawl of a few words, yet told the whole story.

"Francois Cassion, under commission of Governor la Barre, arrived with party of soldiers and Indians. At his orders we accompany the force to Fort St. Louis.

"De la Durantaye."

"Perhaps it is as well," commented De Artigny lightly. "At least as far as my good health goes; but 'tis like to make a hard journey for you, Madame."

"Is it far yet until we attain the fort?"

"A matter of twenty-five leagues; of no moment had we a boat in which to float down stream, but the trail, as I remember, is rough."

"Perchance there may be a boat," interrupted Barbeau. "There was the wreck of an Indian canoe a mile below here on the Des Plaines, not so damaged as to be beyond repair, and here is a hatchet which we will find useful." He stooped and picked it up from under the bench. "One thing is certain—'tis useless to remain here; they have left the place as bare as a desert. 'Tis my choice that we make the Des Plaines before dark."

"And mine also; are you too greatly wearied, Madame?"

"I? Oh, no! to escape this desolate place I will go gladly. Have men really lived here?"

"Ay, more than once," replied De Artigny. "'Tis said the engages of Pere Marquette built this hut, and that it sheltered him an entire winter. Twice I have been here before, once for weeks, waiting the arrival of the Griffin, alone with Sieur de la Salle."

"The Griffin?"

"The ship which was to bring us provisions and men. 'Twas a year later we learned that she went down in the sea, with all aboard. How long was M. de la Durantaye on station here?" he turned to Barbeau.

"'Tis three months since we came from St. Ignace—a dreary time enough, and for what purpose I could never guess. In that time all we have seen has been Indian hunters. I cannot bear to remain even for another night. Are we ready, Madame? Shall we go?"

The Des Plaines was a narrow stream, flowing quietly through prairie land, although bordered along its shores by a thin fringe of trees. We moved down along its eastern bank for perhaps a half league, when we came to the edge of a swamp and made camp. De Artigny built a fire, and prepared my tent of boughs, while Barbeau waded out around a point in search of the wrecked canoe. He came back just at dusk towing it behind him through the shallow water, and the two men managed to drag it far enough up the bank to enable the water to drain out. Later, aided by a flaming torch, we looked it over, and decided the canoe could be made to float again. It required two days' work, however, before we ventured to trust ourselves to its safety.

But the dawn of the third day saw us afloat on the sluggish current, the two men plying improvised paddles to increase our speed, while I busied myself in keeping the frail craft free from water by constant use of a tin cup. This oozed in through numerous ill-fitting seams, but not fast enough to swamp us in midstream, although the amount gained steadily on me in spite of every effort, and we occasionally had to make shore to free us of the encumbrance.

Yet this voyage south along the Des Plaines was far from unpleasant, despite the labor involved and the discomfort of the leaking canoe. The men were full of cheer and hope, some of it possibly assumed to strengthen my courage, but no less effective—Barbeau telling many an anecdote of his long service in strange places, exhibiting a sense of humor which kept us in continuous laughter. He was, indeed, a typical adventurer, gay and debonair in presence of peril, and apparently without a care in the world. De Artigny caught something of the fellow's spirit, being young enough himself to love excitement, and related in turn, to the music of the splashing paddles, numerous incidents of his wild exploits with La Salle and De Tonty along the great rivers of the West.

It all interested me, these glimpses of rough forest life, and I questioned them both eagerly, learning many a truth the histories fail to tell. Particularly did I listen breathlessly to the story of their adventurous first voyage along the Illinois, following the trail of raiding Iroquois, amid scenes of death and destruction. The very horrors pictured fascinated me even, although the grim reality was completely beyond my power of imagination.

'Twas thus we passed the hours of daylight, struggling with the current, forcing our way past obstacles, seeking the shore to drain off water, every moment bringing to us a new vista, and a new peril, yet ever encouraged by memory of those who had toiled along this stream before us. At night, under the stars and beside the blaze of campfire, Barbeau sang rollicking soldier songs, and occasionally De Artigny joined him in the choruses. To all appearances we were absolutely alone in the desolation of the wilderness. Not once in all that distance did we perceive sign of human life, nor had we cause to feel the slightest uneasiness regarding savage enemies.

Both men believed there was peace in the valley, except for the jealousy between the white factions at Fort St. Louis, and that the various Algonquin tribes were living quietly in their villages under protection of the Rock. De Artigny described what a wonderful sight it was, looking down from the high palisades to the broad meadows below, covered with tepees, and alive with peaceful Indians. He named the tribes which had gathered there for protection, trusting in La Salle, and believing De Tonty their friend—Illini, Shawnees, Abenakies, Miamis, Mohegans—at one time reaching a total of twenty thousand souls. There they camped, guarded by the great fort towering above them, on the same sacred spot where years before the Jesuit Marquette had preached to them the gospel of the Christ. So we had no fear of savages, and rested in peace at our night camps, singing aloud, and sleeping without guard. Every day Barbeau went ashore for an hour, with his rifle, tramping along beside us through the shadowing forest screen, seeking game, and always coming back with plenty. We would hear the sharp report of his gun breaking the silence, and turn the prow of our canoe shoreward and pick him up again.

Owing to the leaking of our canoe, and many difficulties experienced, we were three days in reaching the spot where the Illinois and the Fox rivers joined their waters, and swept forward in one broad stream. The time of our arrival at this spot was early in the afternoon, and, as De Artigny said Fort St. Louis was situated scarce ten miles below, our long journey seemed nearly ended. We anticipated reaching there before night, and, in spite of my fear of the reception awaiting us, my heart was light with hope and expectation.

I was but a girl in years, excitement was still to me a delight, and I had listened to so many tales, romantic, wonderful, of this wilderness fortress, perched upon a rock, that my vivid imagination had weaved about it an atmosphere of marvel. The beauty of the view from its palisades, the vast concourse of Indians encamped on the plains below, and those men guarding its safety—the faithful comrades of La Salle in explorations of the unknown, De Tonty, Boisrondet, and all the others, had long since become to my mind the incarnation of romantic adventure. Wilderness born, I could comprehend and appreciate their toils and dangers, and my dreams centered about this great, lonely rock on which they had established a home. But the end was not yet. Just below the confluence of the rivers there was a village of the Tamaroas, and the prow of our canoe touched the bank, while De Artigny stepped ashore amid a tangle of low-growing bushes, that he might have speech with some of the warriors, and thus learn conditions at the fort. With his foot on the bank, he turned laughing, and held out his hand to me.

"Come, Madame," he said pleasantly, "you have never seen a village of our western tribes; it will interest you."

I joined him gladly, my limbs feeling awkward under me, from long cramping in the boat, yet the climb was not difficult, and he held back the boughs to give me easy passage. Beyond the fringe of brush there was an open space, but as we reached this, both paused, stricken dumb by horror at the sight which met our view. The ground before us was strewn with dead, and mutilated bodies, and was black with ashes where the tepees had been burned, and their contents scattered broadcast.

Never before had I seen such view of devastation, of relentless, savage cruelty, and I gave utterance to a sudden sob, and shrank back against De Artigny's arm, hiding my eyes with my hand. He stood and stared, motionless, breathing heavily, unconsciously gripping my arm.

"Mon Dieu!" he burst forth, at last. "What meaneth this? Are the wolves again loose in the valley?"

He drew me back, until we were both concealed behind a fringe of leaves, his whole manner alert, every instinct of the woodsman instantly awakened.

"Remain here hidden," he whispered, "until I learn the truth; we may face grave peril below."

He left me trembling, and white-lipped, yet I made no effort to restrain him. The horror of those dead bodies gripped me, but I would not have him know the terror which held me captive. With utmost caution he crept forth, and I lay in the shadow of the covert, watching his movements. Body after body he approached seeking some victim alive, and able to tell the story. But there was none. At last he stood erect, satisfied that none beside the dead were on that awful spot, and came back to me.

"Not one lives," he said soberly, "and there are men, women and children there. The story is one easily told—an attack at daylight from the woods yonder. There has been no fighting; a massacre of the helpless and unarmed."

"But who did such deed of blood?"

"'Tis the work of the Iroquois; the way they scalped tells that, and besides I saw other signs."

"The Iroquois," I echoed incredulous, for that name was the terror of my childhood. "How came these savages so far to the westward?"

"Their war parties range to the great river," he answered. "We followed their bloody trail when first we came to this valley. It was to gain protection from these raiders that the Algonquins gathered about the fort. We fought the fiends twice, and drove them back, yet now they are here again. Come, Adele, we must return to the canoe, and consult with Barbeau. He has seen much of Indian war."

The canoe rode close in under the bank, Barbeau holding it with grasp on a great root. He must have read in our faces some message of alarm, for he exclaimed before either of us could speak.

"What is it?—the Iroquois?"

"Yes; why did you guess that?"

"I have seen signs for an hour past which made me fear this might be true. That was why I held the boat so close to the bank. The village has been attacked?"

"Ay, surprised, and massacred; the ground is covered with the dead, and the tepees are burned. Madame is half crazed with the shock."

Barbeau took no heed, his eyes scarce glancing at me, so eager was he to learn details.

"The fiends were in force then?"

"Their moccasin tracks were everywhere. I could not be sure where they entered the village, but they left by way of the Fox. I counted on the sand the imprint of ten canoes."

"Deep and broad?"

"Ay, war boats; 'tis likely some of them would hold twenty warriors; the beasts are here in force."

It was all so still, so peaceful about us that I felt dazed, incapable of comprehending our great danger. The river swept past, its waters murmuring gently, and the wooded banks were cool and green. Not a sound awoke the echoes, and the horror I had just witnessed seemed almost a dream.

"Where are they now?" I questioned faintly. "Have they gone back to their own country?"

"Small hope of that," answered De Artigny, "or we would have met with them before this, or other signs of their passage. They are below, either at the fort, or planning attack on the Indian villages beyond. What think you, Barbeau?"

"I have never been here," he said slowly, "so cannot tell what chance the red devils might have against the white men at St. Louis. But they are below us on the river, no doubt of that, and engaged in some hell act. I know the Iroquois, and how they conduct war. 'Twill be well for us to think it all out with care before we venture farther. Come, De Artigny, tell me what you know—is the fort one to be defended against Iroquois raiders?"

"'Tis strong; built on a high rock, and approachable only at the rear. Given time they might starve the garrison, or drive them mad with thirst, for I doubt if there be men enough there to make sortie against a large war party."

"But the Indian allies—the Algonquins?"

"One war whoop of an Iroquois would scatter them like sheep. They are no fighters, save under white leadership, and 'tis likely enough their villages are already like this one yonder, scenes of horror. I have seen all this before, Barbeau, and this is no mere raid of a few scattered warriors, seeking adventure and scalps; 'tis an organized war party. The Iroquois have learned of the trouble in New France, of La Salle's absence from this valley; they know of the few fighting men at the Rock, and that De Tonty is no longer in command. They are here to sweep the French out of this Illinois country, and have given no warning. They surprised the Indian villages first, killed every Algonquin they could find, and are now besieging the Rock. And what have they to oppose them? More than they thought, no doubt, for Cassion and De la Durantaye must have reached there safely, yet at the best, the white defenders will scarcely number fifty men, and quarreling among themselves like mad dogs. There is but one thing for us to do, Barbeau—reach the fort."

"Ay, but how? There will be death now, haunting us every foot of the way."

De Artigny turned his head, and his eyes met mine questioningly.

"There is a passage I know," he said gravely, "below the south banks yonder, but there will be peril in it—a peril to which I dread to expose the lady."

I stood erect, no longer paralyzed by fear, realizing my duty.

"Do not hesitate because of me, Monsieur," I said calmly. "French women have always done their part, and I shall not fail. Explain to us your plan."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE WORDS OF LOVE

His eyes brightened, and his hand sought mine.

"The spirit of the old days; the words of a soldier's daughter, hey, Barbeau?"

"A La Chesnayne could make no other choice," he answered loyally. "But we have no time to waste here in compliment. You know a safe passage, you say?"

"Not a safe one, yet a trail which may still remain open, for it is known to but few. Let us aboard, and cross to the opposite shore, where we will hide the canoe, and make our way through the forest. Once safely afoot yonder I will make my purpose clear."

A dozen strokes landed us on the other bank, where the canoe was drawn up, and concealed among the bushes, while we descended a slight declivity, and found ourselves in the silence of a great wood. Here De Artigny paused to make certain his sense of direction.

"I will go forward slightly in advance," he said, at last, evidently having determined upon his course.

"And we will move slowly, and as noiselessly as possible. No one ever knows where the enemy are to be met with in Indian campaign, and we are without arms, except for Barbeau's gun."

"I retain my pistol," I interrupted.

"Of small value since its immersion in the lake; as to myself I must trust to my knife. Madame you will follow me, but merely close enough to make sure of your course through the woods, while Barbeau will guard the rear. Are both ready?"

"Perhaps it might be well to explain more clearly what you propose," said the soldier. "Then if we become separated we could figure out the proper direction to follow."

"Not a bad thought that. It is a rough road ahead, heavily wooded, and across broken land. My route is almost directly west, except that we bear slightly south to keep well away from the river. Three leagues will bring us to a small stream which empties into the Illinois. There is a faint trail along its eastern bank which leads to the rear of the Rock, where it is possible for one knowing the way to attain the palisades of the fort. If we can attain this trail before dark we can make the remaining distance by night. Here, let me show you," and he drew with a sharp stick a hasty map on the ground. "Now you understand; if we become separated, keep steadily westward until you reach a stream flowing north."

In this order we took up the march, and as I had nothing to bear except a blanket, which I twisted about my shoulders, I found little difficulty in following my leader. At first the underbrush was heavy, and the ground very broken, so that oftentimes I lost sight entirely of De Artigny, but as he constantly broke branches to mark his passage, and the sun served as guidance, I had small difficulty in keeping the proper direction. To our right along the river appeared masses of isolated rock, and these we skirted closely, always in the shadow and silence of great trees. Within half an hour we had emerged from the retarding underbrush, and came out into an open wood, where the walking was much easier.

I could look down the aisles of the trees for long distances, and no longer experienced any difficulty in keeping within sight of my leader. All sense of fear had passed away, we seemed so alone in the silent forest, although once I thought I heard the report of a distant gun, which brought back to mind a vision of that camp of death we had left behind. It was a wearisome tramp over the rough ground, for while De Artigny found passage through the hollows wherever possible, yet we were obliged to climb many hills, and once to pick our way cautiously through a sickly swamp, springing from hummock to hummock to keep from sinking deep in slimy ooze.

De Artigny came back and aided me here, speaking words of encouragement, and assuring me that the trail we sought was only a short distance beyond. I laughed at his solicitude, claiming to be good for many a mile yet, and he left me, never realizing that I already staggered from weariness.

However we must have made excellent progress, for the sun had not entirely disappeared when we emerged from the dark wood shadows into a narrow, grassy valley, through which flowed a silvery stream, not broad, but deep. Assured that this must be the water we sought, I sank to the ground, eager for a moment's rest, but De Artigny, tireless still, moved back and forward along the edge of the forest to assure himself of the safety of our surroundings. Barbeau joined him, and questioned.

"We have reached the trail?"

"Ay, beside the shore yonder; see you anything of Indian tepees across the stream to the left?"

"Below, there are wigwams there just in the edge of the grove. You can see the outlines from here; but I make out no moving figures."

"Deserted then; the cowards have run away. They could not have been attacked, or the tepees would have been burned."

"An Algonquin village?"

"Miamis. I had hoped we might gain assistance there, but they have either joined the whites in the fort, or are hiding in the woods. 'Tis evident we must save ourselves."

"And how far is it?"

"To the fort? A league or two, and a rough climb at the farther end through the dark. We will wait here until after dusk, eat such food as we have without fire, and rest up for a bit of venture. The next trip will test us all, and Madame is weary enough already."

"An hour will put me right," I said, smiling at him, yet making no attempt to rise. "I have been in a boat so long I have lost all strength in my limbs."

"We feel that, all of us," cheerily, "but come Barbeau, unpack, and let us have what cheer we can."

I know not when food was ever more welcome, although it was simple enough to be sure—a bit of hard cracker, and some jerked deer meat, washed down by water from the stream—yet hunger served to make these welcome. We were at the edge of the wood, already growing dark and dreary with the shadows of approaching night. The wind, what there was, was from the south, and, if there was any firing at the fort, no sound of it reached us. Once we imagined we saw a skulking figure on the opposite bank—an Indian Barbeau insisted—but it disappeared so suddenly as to make us doubt our own eyes.

The loneliness and peril of our situation had tendency to keep us silent, although De Artigny endeavored to cheer me with kindly speech, and gave Barbeau careful description of the trail leading to the fort gate. If aught happened to him, we were to press on until we attained shelter. The way in which the words were said brought a lump into my throat, and before I knew the significance of the action, my hand clasped his. I felt the grip of his fingers, and saw his face turn toward me in the dusk. Barbeau got to his feet, gun in hand, and stood shading his eyes.

"I would like a closer view of that village yonder," he said, "and will go down the bank a hundred yards or so."

"'Twill do no harm," returned De Artigny, still clasping my hand. "There is time yet before we make our venture."

He disappeared in the shadows, leaving us alone, and I glanced aside at De Artigny's face, my heart beating fiercely.

"You did not like to hear me speak as I did?" he questioned quietly.

"No," I answered honestly, "the thought startled me. If—if anything happened to you, I—I should be all alone."

He bent lower, still grasping my fingers, and seeking to compel my eyes to meet his.

"Adele," he whispered, "why is it necessary for us to keep up this masquerade?"

"What masquerade, Monsieur?"

"This pretense at mere friendship," he insisted, "when we could serve each other better by a frank confession of the truth. You love me—"

"Monsieur," and I tried to draw my hand away. "I am the wife of Francois Cassion."

"I care nothing for that unholy alliance. You are his only by form. Do you know what that marriage has cost me? Insults, ever since we left Quebec. The coward knew I dare not lay hand upon him, because he was your husband. We would have crossed steel a hundred times, but for my memory of you. I could not kill the cur, for to do so would separate us forever. So I bore his taunts, his reviling, his curses, his orders that were insults. You think it was easy? I am a woodsman, a lieutenant of La Salle's, and it has never before been my way to receive insult without a blow. We are not of that breed. Yet I bore it for your sake—why? Because I loved you."

"Oh, Monsieur!"

"'Tis naught to the shame of either of us," he continued, now speaking with a calmness which held me silent. "And I wish you to know the truth, so far as I can make it clear. This has been in my mind for weeks, and I say it to you now as solemnly as though I knelt before a father confessor. You have been to me a memory of inspiration ever since we first met years ago at that convent in Quebec. I dreamed of you in the wilderness, in the canoe on the great river, and here at St. Louis. Never did voyageur go eastward but I asked him to bring me word from you, and each one, bore from me a message of greeting."

"I received none, Monsieur."

"I know that; even Sieur de la Salle failed to learn your dwelling place. Yet when he finally chose me as his comrade on this last journey, while I would have followed him gladly even to death, the one hope which held me to the hardships of the trail, was the chance thus given of seeking you myself."

"It was I you sought then at the home of Hugo Chevet? not service under Francois Cassion? Yet, when we met, you knew me not."

"Nay; I had no thought that you were there. 'Twas told me in Quebec—for what cause I cannot decide—that you had returned to France. I had given up all hope, and that very fact made me blind to your identity. Indeed, I scarce comprehended that you were really Adele la Chesnayne, until we were alone together in the palace of the Intendant. After I left you there, left you facing La Barre; left you knowing of your forced engagement to his commissaire, I reached a decision—I meant to accompany his party to Montreal, find some excuse on the way for quarrel, and return to Quebec—and you."

He paused, but I uttered no word, conscious that my cheeks were burning hotly, and afraid to lift my eyes to his face.

"You know the rest. I have made the whole journey; I have borne insult, the charge of crime, merely that I might remain, and serve you. Why do I say this? Because tonight—if we succeed in getting through the Indian lines—I shall be again among my old comrades, and shall be no longer a servant to Francois Cassion. I shall stand before him a man, an equal, ready to prove myself with the steel—"

"No, Monsieur," I burst forth, "that must not be; for my sake you will not quarrel!"

"For your sake? You would have me spare him?"

"Oh, why do you put it thus, Monsieur! It is so hard for me to explain. You say you love me, and—and the words bring me joy. Ay, I confess that. But do you not see that a blow from your hand struck at Francois Cassion would separate us forever? Surely that is not the end you seek. I would not have you bear affront longer, yet no open quarrel will serve to better our affairs. Certainly no clash of swords. Perhaps it cannot be avoided, for Cassion may so insult you when he sees us together, as to let his insolence go beyond restraint. But I beg of you, Monsieur, to hold your hand, to restrain your temper—for my sake."

"You make it a trial, a test?"

"Yes—it is a test. But, Monsieur, there is more involved here than mere happiness. You must be cleared of the charge of crime, and I must learn the truth of what caused my marriage. Without these facts the future can hold out no hope for either of us. And there is only one way in which this end can be accomplished—a confession by Cassion. He alone knows the entire story of the conspiracy, and there is but one way in which he can be induced to talk."

"You mean the same method you proposed to me back on the Ottawa?"

I faced him frankly, my eyes meeting his, no shade of hesitation in my voice.

"Yes, Monsieur, I mean that. You refused me before, but I see no harm, no wrong in the suggestion. If the men we fought were honorable I might hesitate—but they have shown no sense of honor. They have made me their victim, and I am fully justified in turning their own weapons against them. I have never hesitated in my purpose, and I shall not now. I shall use the weapons which God has put into my hands to wring from him the bitter truth—the weapons of a woman, love, and jealousy. Monsieur, am I to fight this fight alone?"

At first I thought he would not answer me, although his hand grip tightened, and his eyes looked down into mine, as though he would read the very secret of my heart.

"Perhaps I did not understand before," he said at last, "all that was involved in your decision. I must know now the truth from your own lips before I pledge myself."

"Ask me what you please; I am not too proud to answer."

"I think there must be back of this choice of yours something more vital than hate, more impelling than revenge."

"There is, Monsieur."

"May I ask you what?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and I feel no shame in answering; I love you! Is that enough?"

"Enough! my sweetheart—"

"Hush!" I interrupted, "not now—Barbeau returns yonder."



CHAPTER XXIV

WE ATTACK THE SAVAGES

It was already so dark that the soldier was almost upon us before I perceived his shadow, but it was evident enough from his first words that he had overheard none of our conversation.

"There are no Indians in the village," he said gruffly, leaning on his gun, and staring at us. "I got across to a small island, along the trunk of a dead tree, and had good view of the whole bank yonder. The tepees stand, but not a squaw, nor a dog is left."

"Were there any canoes in sight along the shore?"

"Only one, broken beyond repair."

"Then, as I read the story, the tribe fled down the stream, either to join the others on the Illinois, or the whites at the fort. They were evidently not attacked, but had news of the coming of the Iroquois, and escaped without waiting to give battle. 'Tis not likely the wolves will overlook this village long. Are we ready to go forward?"

"Ay, the venture must be made, and it is dark enough now."

De Artigny's hand pressed my shoulder.

"I would that I could remain with you, Madame," he said quietly, "but as I know the way my place is in advance. Barbeau must be your protector."

"Nor could I ask for a braver. Do not permit any thought of me to make you less vigilant, Monsieur. You expect to gain the fort unseen?"

"'Tis merely a chance we take—the only one," he explained briefly. "I cannot even be certain the fort is in state of siege, yet, without doubt those warriors who went down the river would be in position to prevent our approaching the rock by canoe. There is a secret path here, known only to La Salle's officers, which, however, should give us entrance, unless some wandering Iroquois has discovered it by accident. We must approach with the utmost caution, yet I do not anticipate great peril. Barbeau, do not become separated from Madame, but let me precede you by a hundred paces—you will have no trouble following the trail."

He disappeared in the darkness, vanishing silently, and we stood motionless waiting our turn to advance. Neither spoke, Barbeau leaning forward, his gun extended, alert and ready. The intense darkness, the quiet night, the mystery lurking amid those shadows beyond, all combined to arouse within me a sense of danger. I could feel the swift pounding of my heart, and I clasped the sleeve of the soldier's jacket merely to assure myself of his actual presence. The pressure of my fingers caused him to glance about.

"Do not be frightened, Madame," he whispered encouragingly. "There would be firing yonder if the Iroquois blocked our path."

"Fear not for me," I answered, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. "It is the lonely silence which makes me shrink; as soon as we advance I shall have my nerve again. Have we not waited long enough?"

"Ay, come; but be careful where you place your feet."

He led the way, walking with such slow caution, that, although I followed step by step, not a sound reached my ears. Dark as the night was, our eyes, accustomed to the gloom, were able to distinguish the marks of the trail, and follow its windings without much difficulty. Many a moccasined foot had passed that way before us, beating down a hard path through the sod, and pressing aside the low bushes which helped to conceal the passage. At first we followed rather closely the bank of the stream; then the narrow trail swerved to the right, entering a gap between two hills, ever tending to a higher altitude. We circled about large rocks, and up a ravine, through which we found barely room for passage, the walls rising steep and high on either side. It was intensely dark down there, yet impossible for us to escape the trail, and at the end of that passage we emerged into an open space, enclosed with woods, and having a grit of sand under foot. Here the trail seemed to disappear, but Barbeau struck straight across, and in the forest shade beyond we found De Artigny waiting.

"Do not shoot," he whispered. "I was afraid you might misjudge the way here, as the sand leaves no clear trace. The rest of the passage is through the woods, and up a steep hill. You are not greatly wearied, Madame?"

"Oh, no; I have made some false steps in the dark, but the pace has been slow. Do we approach the fort?"

"A half league beyond; a hundred yards more, and we begin the climb. There we will be in the zone of danger, although thus far I perceive no sign of Indian presence. Have you, Barbeau?"

"None except this feather of a war bonnet I picked up at the big rock below."

"A feather! Is it Iroquois?"

"It is cut square, and no Algonquin ever does that."

"Ay, let me see! You are right, Barbeau; 'twas dropped from a Tuscarora war bonnet. Then the wolves have been this way."

"Could it not be possible," I asked, "that the feather was spoil of war dropped by some Miami in flight?"

He shook his head.

"Possible perhaps, but not probable; some white man may have passed this way with trophy, but no Illinois Indian would dare such venture. I have seen them before in Iroquois foray. I like not the sign, Barbeau, yet there is naught for us to do now, but go on. We dare not be found without the fort at daybreak. Keep within thirty paces of me, and guard the lady well."

It was a dense woods we entered, and how Barbeau kept to the trail will ever be to me a mystery. No doubt the instinct of a woodsman guided him somewhat, and then, with his moccasined feet, he could feel the slight depression in the earth, and thus cling to the narrow path. I would have been lost in a moment, had I not clung to him, and we moved forward like two snails, scarcely venturing to breathe, our motions as silent as a wild panther stalking its prey.

Except for a faint rustling of leaves overhead no sound was distinguishable, although once we were startled by some wild thing scurrying across our path, the sudden noise it made causing me to give utterance to a half-stifled cry. I could feel how tense was every muscle in the soldier's body, as he advanced steadily step by step, his gun flung forward, each nerve strained to the utmost.

We crossed the wood, and began to climb among loose stones, finally finding solid rock beneath our feet, the path skirting the edge of what seemed to be a deep gash in the earth, and winding about wherever it could find passage. The way grew steeper and steeper, and more difficult to traverse, although, as we thus rose above the tree limit, the shadows became less dense, and we were able dimly to perceive objects a yard or two in advance. I strained my eyes over Barbeau's shoulder, but could gain no glimpse of De Artigny. Then we rounded a sharp edge of rock, and met him blocking the narrow way.

"The red devils are there," he said, his voice barely audible. "Beyond the curve in the bank. 'Twas God's mercy I had glimpse in time, or I would have walked straight into their midst. A stone dropping into the ravine warned me, and I crept on all fours to where I could see."

"You counted them?"

"Hardly that in this darkness; yet 'tis no small party. 'Twould be my judgment there are twenty warriors there."

"And the fort?"

"Short rifle shot away. Once past this party, and the way is easy. Here is my thought Barbeau. There is no firing, and this party of wolves are evidently hidden in ambush. They have found the trail, and expect some party from the fort to pass this way."

"Or else," said the other thoughtfully, "they lie in wait for an assault at daylight—that would be Indian war."

"True, such might be their purpose, but in either case one thing remains true—they anticipate no attack from below. All their vigilance is in the other direction. A swift attack, a surprise will drive them into panic. 'Tis a grave risk I know, but there is no other passage to the fort."

"If we had arms, it might be done."

"We'll give them no time to discover what we have—a shot, a yell, a rush forward. 'Twill all be over with before a devil among them gets his second breath. Then 'tis not likely the garrison is asleep. If we once get by there will be help in plenty to hold back pursuit. 'Tis a desperate chance I admit, but have you better to propose?"

The soldier stood silent, fingering his gun, until De Artigny asked impatiently:

"You have none?"

"I know not the passage; is there no way around?"

"No; this trail leads alone to the fort gate. I anticipated this, and thought it all out as I came along. In the surprise at the first attack, the savages will never know whether we be two or a dozen. They will have no guard in this direction, and we can creep almost upon them before attempting a rush. The two in advance should be safely past before they recover sufficiently to make any fight. It will be all done in the dark, you know."

"You will go first, with the lady?"

"No; that is to be your task; I will cover the rear."

I heard these words, yet it was not my privilege to protest. Indeed, I felt that he was right, and my courage made response to his decision.

"If this be the best way possible," I said quietly, for both men glanced questioningly at me, "then do not think of me as helpless, or a burden. I will do all I can to aid you."

"Never have I doubted that," exclaimed De Artigny heartily. "So then the affair is settled. Barbeau, creep forward about the bank; be a savage now, and make no noise until I give the word. You next, Madame, and keep close enough to touch your leader. The instant I yell, and Barbeau fires, the two of you leap up, and rush forward. Pay no heed to me."

"You would have us desert you, Monsieur?"

"It will be every one for himself," he answered shortly. "I take my chance, but shall not be far behind."

We clasped hands, and then, as Barbeau advanced to the corner, I followed, my only thought now to do all that was required of me. I did not glance backward, yet was aware that De Artigny was close behind. My heart beat fiercely, but I was not conscious of fear, although a moment later, I could perceive the dim figures of savages. They were but mere vague shadows in the night, and I made no attempt to count them, only realizing that they were grouped together in the trail. I could not have told how they faced, but there was a faint sound of guttural speech, which proved them unsuspicious of danger. Barbeau, lying low like a snake, crept cautiously forward, making not the slightest noise, and closely hugging the deeper shadow of the bank. I endeavored to imitate his every motion, almost dragging my body forward by gripping my fingers into the rock-strewn earth.

We advanced by inches, pausing now and then to listen breathlessly to the low murmur of the Indian voices, and endeavoring to note any change in the posture of the barely distinguishable figures. There was no alarm, no changing of places, and the success of our approach brought to us new confidence. Once a savage form, appearing grotesque in its blanket, suddenly stood erect, and we shrunk close to the ground in terror of discovery. An instant of agony followed, in which we held our breath, staring through the dark, every nerve throbbing. But the fellow merely stretched his arms lazily, uttered some guttural word, and resumed his place.

Once the gleam of a star reflected from a rifle barrel as its owner shifted position; but nothing else occurred to halt our steady advance. We were within a very few yards of them, so close, indeed, I could distinguish the individual forms, when Barbeau paused, and, with deliberate caution, rose on one knee. Realizing instantly that he was preparing for the desperate leap, I also lifted my body, and braced myself for the effort. De Artigny touched me, and spoke, but his voice was so low it scarcely reached my ears.

"Do not hesitate; run swift, and straight. Give Barbeau the signal."

What followed is to me a delirium of fever, and remains in memory indistinct and uncertain. I reached out, and touched Barbeau; I heard the sudden roar of De Artigny's voice, the sharp report of the soldier's rifle. The flame cut the dark as though it was the blade of a knife, and, in the swift red glare, I saw a savage fling up his arms and fall headlong. Then all was chaos, confusion, death. Nothing touched me, not even a gripping hand, but there were Indian shots, giving me glimpse of the hellish scene, of naked bodies, long waving hair, eyes mad with terror, and red arms brandished, the rifles they bore shining in the red glare.

I saw Barbeau grip his gun by the barrel and strike as he ran. Again and again it fell crunching against flesh. A savage hand slashed at him with a gleaming knife, but I struck the red arm with my pistol butt, and the Indian fell flat, leaving the way open. We dashed through, but Barbeau grasped me, and thrust me ahead of him, and whirled about, with uplifted rifle to aid De Artigny who faced two warriors, naked knife in hand.

"Run, Madame, for the fort," he shouted above the uproar. "To my help, Barbeau!"



CHAPTER XXV

WITHIN THE FORT

I doubt if I paused a second, yet that was enough to give me glimpse of the weird scene. I saw De Artigny lunge with his knife, a huge savage reeling beneath the stroke, and Barbeau cleave passage to the rescue, the stock of his gun shattered as he struck fiercely at the red devils who blocked his path.

Outnumbered, helpless for long in that narrow space, their only hope lay in a sortie by the garrison, and it was my part to give the alarm. Even as I sprang forward, a savage leaped from the ruck, but I escaped his hand, and raced up the dark trail, the one thought urging me on. God knows how I made it—to me 'tis but a memory of falls over unseen obstacles, of reckless running; yet the distance could have been scarce more than a hundred yards, before my eyes saw the darker shadow of the stockade outlined against the sky.

Crying out with full strength of my voice I burst into the little open space, then tripped and fell just as the gate swung wide, and I saw a dozen dark forms emerge. One leaped forward and grasped me, lifting me partly to my feet.

"Mon Dieu! a woman!" he exclaimed in startled voice. "What means this, in Heaven's name?"

"Quick," I gasped, breaking away, able now to stand on my own feet. "They are fighting there—two white men—De Artigny—"

"What, Rene! Ay, lads, to the rescue! Cartier, take the lady within. Come with me you others."

They swept past me, the leader well in advance. I felt the rush as they passed, and had glimpse of vague figures 'ere they disappeared in the darkness. Then I was alone, except for the bearded soldier who grasped my arm.

"Who was that?" I asked, "the man who led?"

"Boisrondet, Francois de Boisrondet."

"An officer of La Salle's? You then are of his company?"

"I am," a bit proudly, "but most of the lads yonder belong with De Baugis. Now we fight a common foe, and forget our own quarrel. Did you say Rene de Artigny was in the fighting yonder?"

"Yes; he and a soldier named Barbeau."

The fellow stood silent, shifting his feet.

"'Twas told us he was dead," he said finally, with effort. "Some more of La Barre's men arrived three days ago by boat, under a popinjay they call Cassion to recruit De Baugis' forces. De la Durantaye was with him from the portage, so that now they outnumber us three to one. You know this Cassion, Madame?"

"Ay, I traveled with his party from Montreal."

"Ah, then you will know the truth no doubt. De Tonty and Cassion were at swords points over a charge the latter made against Rene de Artigny—that he had murdered one of the party at St. Ignace."

"Hugo Chevet, the fur trader."

"Ay, that was the name. We of La Salle's company know it to be a lie. Sacre! I have served with that lad two years, and 'tis not in his nature to knife any man in the back. And so De Tonty said, and he gave Cassion the lie straight in his teeth. I heard their words, and but for De Baugis and De la Durantaye, Francois Cassion would have paid well for his false tongue. Now you can tell him the truth."

"I shall do that, but even my word, I fear, will not clear De Artigny of the charge. I believe the man to be innocent; in my heart there is no doubt, yet there is so little to be proven."

"Cassion speaks bitterly; he is an enemy."

"Monsieur Cassion is my husband," I said regretfully.

"Your pardon, Madame. Ah, I understand it all now. You were supposed to have been drowned in the great lake, but were saved by De Artigny. 'Twill be a surprise for Monsieur, but in this land, we witness strange things. Mon Dieu! see, they come yonder; 'tis Boisrondet and his men."

They approached in silence, mere shadowy figures, whose numbers I could not count, but those in advance bore a helpless body in their arms, and my heart seemed to stop its beating, until I heard De Artigny's voice in cheerful greeting.

"What, still here, Madame, and the gate beyond open," he took my hand, and lifted it to his lips. "My congratulations; your work was well done, and our lives thank you. Madame Cassion, this is my comrade, Francois Boisrondet, whose voice I was never more glad to hear than this night. I commend him to your mercy."

Boisrondet, a mere shadow in the night, swept the earth with his hat.

"I mind me the time," he said courteously, "when Rene did me equal service."

"The savages have fled?"

"'Twas short, and sweet, Madame, and those who failed to fly are lying yonder."

"Yet some among you are hurt?"

"Barbeau hath an ugly wound—ay, bear him along, lads, and have the cut looked to—but as for the rest of us, there is no serious harm done."

I was gazing at De Artigny, and marked how he held one hand to his side.

"And you, Monsieur; you are unscathed?"

"Except for a small wound here, and a head which rings yet from savage blows—no more than a night's rest will remedy. Come, Madame 'tis time we were within, and the gates closed."