"Is there still danger then? Surely now that we are under protection there will be no attack?"

"Not from those we have passed, but 'tis told me there are more than a thousand Iroquois warriors in the valley, and the garrison has less than fifty men all told. It was luck we got through so easily. Ay, Boisrondet, we are ready."

That was my first glimpse of the interior of a frontier fort, and, although I saw only the little open space lighted by a few waving torches, the memory abides with distinctness. A body of men met us at the gate, dim, indistinct figures, a few among them evidently soldiers from their dress, but the majority clothed in the ordinary garb of the wilderness. Save for one Indian squaw, not a woman was visible, nor did I recognize a familiar face, as the fellows, each man bearing a rifle, surged about us in noisy welcome, eagerly questioning those who had gone forth to our rescue. Yet we were scarcely within, and the gates closed, when a man pressed his way forward through the throng, in voice of authority bidding them stand aside. A blazing torch cast its red light over him, revealing a slender figure attired in frontier garb, a dark face, made alive by a pair of dense brown eyes, which met mine in a stare of surprise.

"Back safe, Boisrondet," he exclaimed sharply, "and have brought in a woman. 'Tis a strange sight in this land. Were any of our lads hurt?"

"None worth reporting, Monsieur. The man they carried was a soldier of M. de la Durantaye. He was struck down before we reached the party. There is an old comrade here."

"An old comrade! Lift the torch, Jacques. Faith, there are so few left I would not miss the sight of such a face."

He stared about at us, for an instant uncertain; then took a quick step forward, his hand outstretched.

"Rene de Artigny!" he cried, his joy finding expression in his face. "Ay, an old comrade, indeed, and only less welcome here than M. de la Salle himself. 'Twas a bold trick you played tonight, but not unlike many another I have seen you venture. You bring me message from Monsieur?"

"Only that he has sailed safely for France to have audience with Louis. I saw him aboard ship, and was bidden to tell you to bide here in patience, and seek no quarrel with De Baugis."

"Easy enough to say; but in all truth I need not seek quarrel—it comes my way without seeking. De Baugis was not so bad—a bit high strung, perhaps, and boastful of his rank, yet not so ill a comrade—but there is a newcomer here, a popinjay named Cassion, with whom I cannot abide. Ah, but you know the beast, for you journeyed west in his company. Sacre! the man charged you with murder, and I gave him the lie to his teeth. Not two hours ago we had our swords out, but now you can answer for yourself."

De Artigny hesitated, his eyes meeting mine.

"I fear, Monsieur de Tonty," he said finally, "the answer may not be so easily made. If it were point of sword now, I could laugh at the man, but he possesses some ugly facts difficult to explain."

"Yet 'twas not your hand which did the deed?"

"I pledge you my word to that. Yet this is no time to talk of the matter. I have wounds to be looked to, and would learn first how Barbeau fares. You know not the lady; but of course not, or your tongue would never have spoken so freely—Monsieur de Tonty, Madame Cassion."

He straightened up, his eyes on my face. For an instant he stood motionless; then swept the hat from his head, and bent low.

"Your pardon, Madame; we of the wilderness become rough of speech. I should have known, for a rumor reached me of your accident. You owe life, no doubt, to Sieur de Artigny."

"Yes, Monsieur; he has been my kind friend."

"He would not be the one I love else. We know men on this frontier, Madame, and this lad hath seen years of service by my side." His hand rested on De Artigny's shoulder. "'Twas only natural then that I should resent M. Cassion's charge of murder."

"I share your faith in the innocence of M. de Artigny," I answered firmly enough, "but beyond this assertion I can say nothing."

"Naturally not, Madame. Yet we must move along. You can walk, Rene?"

"Ay, my hurts are mostly bruises."

The torches led the way, the dancing flames lighting up the scene. There was hard, packed earth under our feet, nor did I realize yet that this Fort St. Louis occupied the summit of a great rock, protected on three sides by precipices, towering high above the river. Sharpened palisades of logs surrounded us on every side, with low log houses built against them, on the roofs of which riflemen could stand in safety to guard the valley below.

The central space was open except for two small buildings, one from its shape a chapel, and the other, as I learned later, the guardhouse. A fire blazed at the farther end of the enclosure, with a number of men lounging about it, and illumined the front of a more pretentious building, which apparently extended across that entire end. This building, having the appearance of a barrack, exhibited numerous doors and windows, with a narrow porch in front, on which I perceived a group of men.

As we approached more closely, De Tonty walking between De Artigny and myself, a soldier ran up the steps, and made some report. Instantly the group broke, and two men strode past the fire, and met us. One was a tall, imposing figure in dragoon uniform, a sword at his thigh, his face full bearded; the other whom I recognized instantly with a swift intake of breath, was Monsieur Cassion. He was a stride in advance, his eyes searching me out in the dim light, his face flushed from excitement.

"Mon Dieu! what is this I hear," he exclaimed, staring at the three of us as though doubting the evidence of his own eyes. "My wife alive? Ay, by my faith, it is indeed Adele." He grasped me by the arm, but even at that instant his glance fell upon De Artigny, and his manner changed.

"Saint Anne! and what means this! So 'tis with this rogue you have been wandering the wilderness!"

He tugged at his sword, but the dragoon caught his arm.

"Nay, wait, Cassion. 'Twill be best to learn the truth before resorting to blows. Perchance Monsieur Tonty can explain clearly what has happened."

"It is explained already," answered the Italian, and he took a step forward as though to protect us. "These two, with a soldier of M. de la Durantaye, endeavored to reach the fort, and were attacked by Iroquois. We dispatched men to their rescue, and have all now safe within the palisades. What more would you learn, Messieurs?"

Cassion pressed forward, and fronted him, angered beyond control.

"We know all that," he roared savagely. "But I would learn why they hid themselves from me. Ay, Madame, but I will make you talk when once we are alone! But now I denounce this man as the murderer of Hugo Chevet, and order him under arrest. Here, lads, seize the fellow."



CHAPTER XXVI

IN DE BAUGIS' QUARTERS

De Tonty never gave way an inch, as a dozen soldiers advanced at Cassion's order.

"Wait men!" he said sternly. "'Tis no time, with Iroquois about, to start a quarrel, yet if a hand be laid on this lad here in anger, we, who are of La Salle's Company, will protect him with our lives—"

"You defend a murderer?"

"No; a comrade. Listen to me, Cassion, and you De Baugis. I have held quiet to your dictation, but no injustice shall be done to comrade of mine save by force of arms. I know naught of your quarrel, or your charges of crime against De Artigny, but the lad is going to have fair play. He is no courier du bois to be killed for your vengeance, but an officer under Sieur de la Salle, entitled to trial and judgment."

"He was my guide; I have authority."

"Not now, Monsieur. 'Tis true he served you, and was your engage on the voyage hither. But even in that service, he obeyed the orders of La Salle. Now, within these palisades, he is an officer of this garrison, and subject only to me."

De Baugis spoke, his voice cold, contemptuous.

"You refuse obedience to the Governor of New France?"

"No, Monsieur; I am under orders to obey. There will be no trouble between us if you are just to my men. La Barre is not here to decide this, but I am." He put his hand on De Artigny's shoulder. "Monsieur Cassion charges this man with murder. He is an officer of my command, and I arrest him. He shall be protected, and given a fair trial. What more can you ask?"

"You will protect him! help him to escape, rather!" burst out Cassion. "That is the scheme, De Baugis."

"Your words are insult, Monsieur, and I bear no more. If you seek quarrel, you shall have it. I am your equal, Monsieur, and my commission comes from the King. Ah, M. de la Durantaye, what say you of this matter?"

A man, broad shouldered, in the dress of a woodsman, elbowed his way through the throng of soldiers. He had a strong, good-humored face.

"In faith, I heard little of the controversy, yet 'tis like I know the gist of it, as I have just conversed with a wounded soldier of mine, Barbeau, who repeated the story as he understood it. My hand to you, Sieur de Artigny, and it seems to me, Messieurs, that De Tonty hath the right of it."

"You take his side against us who hath the authority of the Governor?"

"Pah! that is not the issue. Tis merely a question of justice to this lad here. I stand for fair trial with Henri de Tonty, and will back my judgment with my sword."

They stood eye to eye, the four of them, and the group of soldiers seemed to divide, each company drawing together. Cassion growled some vague threat, but De Baugis took another course, gripping his companion by the arm.

"No, Francois, 'tis not worth the danger," he expostulated. "There will be no crossing of steel. Monsieur Cassion, no doubt, hath reason to be angered—but not I. The man shall have his trial, and we will learn the right and wrong of all this presently. Monsieur Tonty, the prisoner is left in your charge. Fall back men—to your barracks. Madame, permit me to offer you my escort."

"To where, Monsieur?"

"To the only quarters fitted for your reception," he said gallantly, "those I have occupied since arrival here."

"You vacate them for me?"

"With the utmost pleasure," bowing gallantly. "I beg of you their acceptance; your husband has been my guest, and will join with me in exile."

I glanced at De Tonty, who yet stood with hand on De Artigny's shoulder, a little cordon of his own men gathered closely about them. My eyes encountered those of the younger officer. As I turned away I found myself confronted by Cassion. The very sight of his face brought me instant decision, and I spoke my acceptance before he could utter the words trembling on his lips.

"I will use your quarters gladly, Captain de Baugis," I said quietly, "but will ask to be left there undisturbed."

"Most assuredly, Madame—my servant will accompany you."

"Then good-night, Messieurs," I faced Cassion, meeting his eyes frankly. "I am greatly wearied, and would rest; tomorrow I will speak with you, Monsieur. Permit me to pass."

He stood aside, unable to affront me, although the anger in his face, was evidence enough of brewing trouble. No doubt he had boasted of me to De Baugis, and felt no desire now to have our true relations exposed thus publicly. I passed him, glancing at none of the others, and followed the soldier across the beaten parade. A moment later I was safely hidden within a two-roomed cabin.

Everything within had an appearance of neatness, almost as if a woman had arranged its furnishings. I glanced about in pleased surprise, as the soldier placed fresh fuel on the cheerful fire blazing in the fireplace, and drew closer the drapery over the single window.

"Madame will find it comfortable?" he said, pausing at the door.

"Quite so," I answered. "One could scarcely anticipate so delightful a spot in this Indian land."

"Monsieur de Baugis has the privilege of Sieur de la Salle's quarters," he answered, eager to explain, "and besides brought with him many comforts of his own. But for the Iroquois we would be quite happy."

"They have proven dangerous?"

"Not to us within the fort. A few white men were surprised without and killed, but, except for shortness of provisions and powder and ball, we are safe enough here. Tomorrow you will see how impregnable is the Rock from savage attack."

"I have heard there are a thousand Iroquois in the valley."

"Ay, and possibly more, and we are but a handful in defense, yet their only approach is along that path you came tonight. The cowardly Illini fled down the river; had they remained here we would have driven the vermin out before this, for 'tis said they fight well with white leaders."

I made no reply, and the man disappeared into the darkness, closing the heavy door behind him, and leaving me alone. I made it secure with an oaken bar, and sank down before the fire on a great shaggy bear skin. I was alone at last, safe from immediate danger, able to think of the strange conditions surrounding me, and plan for the future. The seriousness of the situation I realized clearly, and also the fact that all depended on my action—even the life of Rene de Artigny.

I sat staring into the fire, no longer aware of fatigue, or feeling any sense of sleepiness. The thick log walls of the cabin shut out all noise; I was conscious of a sense of security, of protection, and yet comprehended clearly what the new day would bring. I should have to face Cassion, and in what spirit could I meet him best? Thus far I had been fortunate in escaping his denunciation, but I realized the reason which had compelled his silence—pride, the fear of ridicule, had sealed his lips. I was legally his wife, given to him by Holy Church, yet for weeks, months, during all our long wilderness journey, I had held aloof from him, mocking his efforts, and making light of his endeavors. It had been maddening, no doubt, and rendered worse by his growing jealousy of De Artigny.

Then I had vanished, supposedly drowned in the great lake. He had sought me vainly along the shore, and finally turned away, convinced of my death, and that De Artigny had also perished.

Once at the fort, companioning with De Baugis, and with no one to deny the truth of his words, his very nature would compel him to boast of his marriage to Adele la Chesnayne. No doubt he had told many a vivid tale of happiness since we left Quebec. Ay, not only had he thus boasted of conquests over me, but he had openly charged De Artigny with murder, feeling safe enough in the belief that we were both dead. And now when we appeared before him alive and together, he had been for the moment too dazed for expression. Before De Baugis he dare not confess the truth, yet this very fact would only leave him the more furious. And I knew instinctively the course the man would pursue. His one thought, his one purpose, would be revenge—nothing would satisfy him except the death of De Artigny. Personally I had little to fear; I knew his cowardice, and that he would never venture to use physical force with me. Even if he did I could rely upon the gallantry of De Tonty, and of De Baugis for protection. No, he would try threats, entreaties, slyness, cajolery, but his real weapon to overcome my opposition would be De Artigny. And there he possessed power.

I felt in no way deceived as to this. The ugly facts, as Cassion was able to present them, would without doubt, condemn the younger man. He had no defense to offer, except his own assertion of innocence. Even if I told what I knew it would only strengthen the chain of circumstance, and make his guilt appear clearer.

De Tonty would be his friend, faithful to the end; and I possessed faith in the justice of De Baugis, yet the facts of the case could not be ignored—and these, unexplained, tipped with the venom of Cassion's hatred, were sufficient to condemn the prisoner. And he was helpless to aid himself; if he was to be saved, I must save him. How? There was but one possible way—discovery of proof that some other committed the crime. I faced the situation hopelessly, confessing frankly to myself that I loved the man accused; that I would willingly sacrifice myself to save him.

I felt no shame at this acknowledgment, and in my heart there was no shadow of regret. Yet I sat there stunned, helpless, gazing with heavy eyes into the fire, unable to determine a course of action, or devise any method of escape.

Unable longer to remain quiet, I got to my feet, and my eyes surveyed the room. So immersed in thought I had not before really noted my surroundings, but now I glanced about, actuated by a vague curiosity. The hut contained two rooms, the walls of squared logs, partially concealed by the skins of wild animals, the roof so low I could almost touch it with my hand.

A table and two chairs, rudely made with axe and knife, comprised the entire furniture, but a small mirror, unframed, hung suspended against the farther wall. I glanced at my reflection in the glass, surprised to learn how little change the weeks had made in my appearance. It was still the face of a girl which gazed back at me, with clear, wide-open eyes, and cheeks flushed in the firelight. Strange to say the very sight of my youthfulness was a disappointment and brought with it doubt. How could I fight these men? how could I hope to win against their schemes, and plans of vengeance?

I opened the single window, and leaned out, grateful for the fresh air blowing against my face, but unable to perceive the scene below shrouded in darkness. Far away, down the valley, was the red glow of a fire, its flame reflecting over the surface of the river. I knew I stared down into a great void, but could hear no sound except a faint gurgle of water directly beneath. I closed the window shutter, and, urged by some impulse, crossed over to the door leading to the other apartment. It was a sleeping room, scarcely more than a large closet, with garments hanging on pegs against the logs, and two rude bunks opposite the door. But the thing which captured my eyes was a bag of brown leather lying on the floor at the head of one of the bunks—a shapeless bag, having no distinctive mark about it, and yet which I instantly recognized—since we left Quebec it had been in our boat.

As I stood staring at it, I remembered the words of De Baugis, "your husband has been my guest." Ay, that was it—this had been Cassion's quarters since his arrival, and this was his bag, the one he kept beside him in the canoe, his private property. My heart beat wildly in the excitement of discovery, yet there was no hesitation; instantly I was upon my knees tugging at the straps. They yielded easily, and I forced the leather aside, gaining glimpse of the contents.



CHAPTER XXVII

I SEND FOR DE TONTY

I discovered nothing but clothes at first—moccasins, and numerous undergarments—together with a uniform, evidently new, and quite gorgeous. The removal of these, however, revealed a pocket in the leather side, securely fastened, and on opening this with trembling fingers, a number of papers were disclosed.

Scarcely venturing to breathe, hardly knowing what I hoped to find, I drew these forth, and glanced hastily at them. Surely the man would bear nothing unimportant with him on such a journey; these must be papers of value, for I had noted with what care he had guarded the bag all the way. Yet at first I discovered nothing to reward my search—there was a package of letters, carefully bound with a strong cord, a commission from La Barre, creating Cassion a Major of Infantry, a number of receipts issued in Montreal, a list of goods purchased at St. Ignace, and a roster of men composing the expedition.

At last from one corner of the pocket, I drew forth a number of closely written pages, evidently the Governor's instruction. They were traced in so fine a hand that I was obliged to return beside the fire to decipher their contents. They were written in detail, largely concerned with matters of routine, especially referring to relations with the garrison of the fort, and Cassion's authority over De Baugis, but the closing paragraph had evidently been added later, and had personal interest. It read: "Use your discretion as to De Artigny, but violence will hardly be safe; he is thought too well of by La Salle, and that fox may get Louis' ear again. We had best be cautious. Chevet, however, has no friends, and, I am told, possesses a list of the La Chesnayne property, and other documents which had best be destroyed. Do not fail in this, nor fear results. We have gone too far to hesitate now."

I took this page, and thrust it into my breast. It was not much, and yet it might prove the one needed link. I ran through the packet of letters, but they apparently had no bearing on the case. Several were from women; others from officers, mere gossipy epistles of camp and field. Only one was from La Barre, and that contained nothing of importance, except the writer urged Cassion to postpone marriage until his return from the West, adding, "there is no suspicion, and I can easily keep things quiet until then."

Assured that I had overlooked nothing, I thrust the various articles back, restrapped the bag, and returned to the outer room. As I paused before the fire, someone rapped at the door. I stood erect, my fingers gripping the pistol which I still retained. Again the raps sounded, clearly enough defined in the night, yet not violent, or threatening.

"Who is there?" I asked.

"Your husband, my dear—Francois Cassion."

"But why do you come? It was the pledge of De Baugis that I was to be left here alone."

"A fair pledge enough, although I was not consulted. From the look of your eyes little difference if I had been. You are as sweet in disposition as ever, my dear; yet never mind that—we'll soon settle our case now, I warrant you. Meanwhile I am content to wait until my time comes. 'Tis not you I seek tonight, but my dressing case."

"Your dressing case?"

"Ay, you know it well, a brown leather bag I bore with me during our journey."

"And where is it, Monsieur?"

"Beneath the bunk in the sleeping room. Pass it out to me, and I will ask no more."

"'Twill be safer if you keep your word," I said quietly, "for I still carry Hugo Chevet's pistol, and know how to use it. Draw away from the door, Monsieur, and I will thrust out the bag."

I lowered the bar, opening the door barely wide enough to permit the bag's passage. The light from the fire gleamed on the barrel of the pistol held in my hand. It was the work of an instant, and I saw nothing of Cassion, but, as the door closed, he laughed scornfully.

"Tis your game tonight, Madame," he said spitefully, "but tomorrow I play my hand. I thank you for the bag, as it contains my commission. By virtue of it I shall assume command of this Fort St. Louis, and I know how to deal with murderers. I congratulate you on your lover, Madame—good night."

I dropped into the nearest seat, trembling in every limb. It was not personal fear, nor did I in my heart resent the insult of his last words. De Artigny was my lover, not in mere lip service, but in fact. I was not ashamed, but proud, to know this was true. The only thing of which I was ashamed was my relationship with Cassion; and my only thought now was how that relationship could be ended, and De Artigny's life saved. The paper I had found was indeed of value, yet I realized it alone was not enough to offset the charges which Cassion would support by his own evidence and that of his men. This mere suggestion in La Barre's handwriting meant nothing unless we could discover also in Cassion's possession the documents taken from Chevet And these, beyond doubt, had been destroyed. Over and over again in my mind I turned these thoughts, but only to grow more confused and uncertain. All the powers of hate were arrayed against us, and I felt helpless and alone.

I must have slept finally from sheer exhaustion, although I made no attempt to lie down. It was broad daylight, when I awoke, aroused by pounding on the door. To my inquiry a voice announced food, and I lowered the bar, permitting an orderly to enter bearing a tray, which he deposited on the table. Without speaking he turned to leave the room, but I suddenly felt courage to address him.

"You were not of our party," I said gravely. "Are you a soldier of M. de Baugis?"

"No, Madame," and he turned facing me, his countenance a pleasant one. "I am not a soldier at all, but I serve M. de Tonty."

"Ah, I am glad of that. You will bear to your master a message?"

"Perhaps, Madame," his tone somewhat doubtful. "You are the wife of Monsieur Cassion?"

"Do not hesitate because of that," I hastened to say, believing I understood his meaning. "While it is true I am legally the wife of Francois Cassion, my sympathies now are altogether with the Sieur de Artigny. I would have you ask M. de Tonty to confer with me."

"Yes, Madame."

"You have served with De Artigny? You know him well?"

"Three years, Madame; twice he saved my life on the great river. M. de Tonty shall receive your message."

I could not eat, although I made the endeavor, and finally crossed to the window, opened the heavy wooden shutters, and gazed without. What a marvelous scene that was! Never before had my eyes looked upon so fair a view, and I stood silent, and fascinated. My window opened to the westward, and I gazed down from the very edge of the vast rock into the wide valley. Great tree tops were below, and I had to lean far out to see the silvery waters lapping the base of the precipice, but, a little beyond, the full width of the noble stream became visible, decked with islands, and winding here and there between green-clad banks, until it disappeared in the far distance. The sun touched all with gold; the wide meadows opposite were vivid green, while many of the trees crowning the bluffs had already taken on rich autumnal coloring. Nor was there anywhere in all that broad expanse, sign of war or death. It was a scene of peace, so silent, so beautiful, that I could not conceive this as a land of savage cruelty. Far away, well beyond rifle shot, two loaded canoes appeared, skimming the surface of the river. Beyond these, where the meadows swept down to the stream, I could perceive black heaps of ashes, and here and there spirals of smoke, the only visible symbols of destruction. A haze hid the distant hills, giving to them a purple tinge, like a frame encircling the picture. It was all so soft in coloring my mind could not grasp the fact that we were besieged by warriors of the Iroquois, and that this valley was even now being swept and harried by those wild raiders of the woods.

I had neglected to bar the door, and as I stood there gazing in breathless fascination, a sudden step on the floor caused me to turn in alarm. My eyes encountered those of De Tonty, who stood hat in hand.

"Tis a fair view, Madame," he said politely. "In all my travels I have seen no nobler domain."

"It hath a peaceful look," I answered, still struggling with the memory. "Can it be true the savages hold the valley?"

"All too true—see, yonder, where the smoke still shows, dwelt the Kaskaskias. Not a lodge is left, and the bodies of their dead strew the ground. Along those meadows three weeks since there were the happy villages of twelve tribes of peaceful Indians; today those who yet live are fleeing for their lives."

"And this fort, Monsieur?"

"Safe enough, I think, although no one of us can venture ten yards beyond the gate. The Rock protects us, Madame, yet we are greatly outnumbered, and with no ammunition to waste. 'Twas the surprise of the raid which left us thus helpless. Could we have been given time to gather our friendly Indians together the story would be different."

"They are not cowards then?"

"Not with proper leadership. We have seen them fight often since we invaded this land. 'Tis my thought many of them are hiding now beyond those hills, and may find some way to reach us. I suspected such an effort last night, when I sent out the rescue party which brought you in. Ah, that reminds me, Madame; you sent for me?"

"Yes, M. de Tonty. I can speak to you frankly? You are the friend of Sieur de Artigny?"

"Faith, I hope I am, Madame, but I know not what has got into the lad—he will tell me nothing."

"I suspected as much, Monsieur. It was for that reason I have sent for you. He has not even told you the story of our journey?"

"Ay, as brief as a military report—not a fact I could not have guessed. There is a secret here, which I have not discovered. Why is M. Cassion so wild for the lad's blood? and how came there to be trouble between Rene, and the fur trader? Bah! I know the lad is no murderer, but no one will tell me the facts."

"Then I will, Monsieur," I said gravely. "It was because of my belief that Sieur de Artigny would refuse explanation that I sent for you. The truth need not be concealed; not from you, at least, the commander of Fort St. Louis—"

"Pardon, Madame, but I am not that. La Salle left me in command with less than a dozen men. De Baugis came later, under commission from La Barre, but he also had but a handful of followers. To save quarrel we agreed to divide authority, and so got along fairly well, until M. Cassion arrived with his party. Then the odds were altogether on the other side, and De Baugis assumed command by sheer force of rifles. 'Twas La Salle's wish that no resistance be made, but, faith, with the Indians scattered, I had no power. This morning things have taken a new phase. An hour ago M. Cassion assumed command of the garrison by virtue of a commission he produced from the Governor La Barre, naming him major of infantry. This gives him rank above Captain de Baugis, and, besides, he bore also a letter authorizing him to take command of all French troops in this valley, if, in his judgment, circumstances rendered it necessary. No doubt he deemed this the proper occasion."

"To assure the conviction, and death of De Artigny?" I asked, as he paused. "That is your meaning, Monsieur?"

"I cannot see it otherwise," he answered slowly, "although I hesitate to make so grave a charge in your presence, Madame. Our situation here is scarcely grave enough to warrant his action, for the fort is in no serious danger from the Iroquois. De Baugis, while no friend of mine, is still a fair minded man, and merciful. He cannot be made a tool for any purpose of revenge. This truth Major Cassion has doubtless learned, and hence assumes command himself to carry out his plans."

I looked into the soldier's dark, clear-cut face, feeling a confidence in him, which impelled me to hold out my hand.

"M. de Tonty," I said, determined now to address him in all frankness. "It is true that I am legally the wife of this man of whom you speak, but this only enables me to know his motives better. This condemnation of Sieur de Artigny is not his plan alone; it was born in the brain of La Barre, and Cassion merely executes his orders. I have here the written instructions under which he operates."

I held out to him the page from La Barre's letter.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE COURT MARTIAL

De Tonty took the paper from my hand, glanced at it, then lifted his eyes inquiringly to mine.

"'Tis in the governor's own hand. How came this in your possession?"

"I found it in Cassion's private bag last night, under the berth yonder. Later he came and carried the bag away, never suspecting it had been opened. His commission was there also. Read it, Monsieur."

He did so slowly, carefully, seeming to weigh every word, his eyes darkening, and a flush creeping into his swarthy cheeks.

"Madame," he exclaimed at last. "I care not whether the man be your husband, but this is a damnable conspiracy, hatched months ago in Quebec."

I bowed my head.

"Beyond doubt, Monsieur."

"And you found nothing more? no documents taken from Hugo Chevet?"

"None, Monsieur; they were either destroyed in accordance with La Barre's instructions, or else M. Cassion has them on his person."

"But I do not understand the reason for such foul treachery. What occurred back in New France to cause the murder of Chevet, and this attempt to convict De Artigny of the crime?"

"Sit here, Monsieur," I said, my voice trembling, "and I will tell you the whole story. I must tell you, for there is no one else in Fort St. Louis whom I can trust."

He sat silent, and bareheaded, his eyes never leaving my face as I spoke. At first I hesitated, my words hard to control, but as I continued, and felt his sympathy, speech became easier. All unconsciously his hand reached out and rested on mine, as though in encouragement, and only twice did he interrupt my narrative with questions. I told the tale simply, concealing nothing, not even my growing love for De Artigny. The man listening inspired my utmost confidence—I sought his respect and faith. As I came to the end his hand grasp tightened, but, for a moment, he remained motionless and silent, his eyes grave with thought.

"'Tis a strange, sad case," he said finally, "and the end is hard to determine. I believe you, Madame, and honor your choice. The case is strong against De Artigny; even your testimony is not for his defense. Does M. Cassion know you saw the young man that night?"

"He has dropped a remark, or two, which shows suspicion. Possibly some one of the men saw me outside the Mission House, and made report."

"Then he will call you as witness. If I know the nature of Cassion his plan of trial is a mere form, although doubtless he will ask the presence of Captain de Baugis, and M. de la Durantaye. Neither will oppose him, so long as he furnishes the proof necessary to convict. He will give his evidence, and call the Indian, and perchance a soldier or two, who will swear to whatever he wishes. If needed he may bring you in also to strengthen the case. De Artigny will make no defense, because he has no witnesses, and because he has a fool notion that he might compromise you by telling the whole truth."

"Then there is no hope? nothing we can do?"

"No, Madame; not now. I shall not be consulted, nor asked to be present. I am under strict order from La Salle not to oppose La Barre's officers, and, even if I were disposed to disobey my chief, I possess no force with which to act. I have but ten men on whom I could rely, while they number over forty." He leaned closer, whispering, "Our policy is to wait, and act after the prisoner has been condemned."

"How? You mean a rescue?"

"Ay, there lies the only hope. There is one man here who can turn the trick. He is De Artigny's comrade and friend. Already he has outlined a plan to me, but I gave no encouragement. Yet, now, that I know the truth, I shall not oppose. Have you courage, Madame, to give him your assistance? 'Tis like to be a desperate venture."

I drew a deep breath, but with no sense of fear.

"Yes, Monsieur. Who is the man I am to trust?"

"Francois de Boisrondet, the one who led the rescue party last night."

"A gallant lad."

"Ay, a gentleman of France, a daring heart. Tonight—"

The door opened, and the figure of a man stood outlined against the brighter glow without. De Tonty was on his feet fronting the newcomer, ere I even realized it was Cassion who stood there, glaring at us. Behind him two soldiers waited in the sunshine.

"What is the meaning of this, M. de Tonty?" he exclaimed, with no pretense at friendliness. "A rather early morning call, regarding which I was not even consulted. Have husbands no rights in this wilderness paradise?"

"Such rights as they uphold," returned the Italian, erect and motionless. "I am always at your service, M. Cassion. Madame and I have conversed without permission. If that be crime I answer for it now, or when you will."

It was in Cassion's heart to strike. I read the desire in his eyes, in the swift clutch at his sword hilt; but the sarcastic smile on De Tonty's thin lips robbed him of courage.

"'Tis best you curb your tongue," he snarled, "or I will have you in the guardhouse with De Artigny. I command now."

"So I hear. Doubtless you could convict me as easily."

"What do you mean?"

"Only that your whole case is a tissue of lies."

"Pah! you have her word for it, no doubt. But you will all sing a different song presently. Ay, and it will be her testimony which will hang the villain."

"What is this you say, Monsieur—my testimony?"

"Just that—the tale of what you saw in the Mission garden at St. Ignace. Sacre, that shot hits, does it! You thought me asleep, and with no knowledge of your escapade, but I had other eyes open that night, my lady. Now will you confess the truth?"

"I shall conceal nothing, Monsieur."

"'Twill be best that you make no attempt," he sneered, his old braggart spirit reasserting itself as De Tonty kept silent. "I have guard here to escort you to the Commandant's office."

"You do me honor." I turned to De Tonty. "Shall I go, Monsieur?"

"I think it best, Madame," he replied soberly, his dark eyes contemptuously surveying Cassion. "To refuse would only strengthen the case against the prisoner. M. Cassion will not, I am sure, deny me the privilege of accompanying you. Permit me to offer my arm."

I did not glance toward Cassion, but felt no doubt as to the look on his face; yet he would think twice before laying hand on this stern soldier who had offered me protection. The guard at the door fell aside promptly, and permitted us to pass. Some order was spoken, in a low tone, and they fell in behind with rifles at trail. Once in the open I became, for the first time, aware of irregular rifle firing, and observed in surprise, men posted upon a narrow staging along the side of the log stockade.

"Is the fort being attacked?" I asked.

"There has been firing for some days," he answered, "but no real attack. The savages merely hide yonder amid the rocks and woods, and strive to keep us from venturing down the trail. Twice we have made sortie, and driven them away, but 'tis a useless waste of fighting." He called to a man posted above the gate. "How is it this morning, Jules?"

The soldier glanced about cautiously, keeping his head below cover.

"Thick as flies out there, Monsieur," he answered, "and with a marksman or two among them. Not ten minutes since Bowain got a ball in his head."

"And no orders to clear the devils out?"

"No, Monsieur—only to watch that they do not form for a rush."

The Commandant's office was built against the last stockade—a log hut no more pretentious than the others. A sentry stood at each side of the closed door, but De Tonty ignored them, and ushered me into the room. It was not large, and was already well filled, a table littered with papers occupying the central space, De Baugis and De la Durantaye seated beside it, while numerous other figures were standing pressed against the walls. I recognized the familiar faces of several of our party, but before I recovered from my first embarrassment De Baugis arose, and with much politeness offered me a chair.

De Tonty remained beside me, his hand resting on my chair back, as he coolly surveyed the scene. Cassion pushed past, and occupied a vacant chair, between the other officers, laying his sword on the table. My eyes swept about the circle of faces seeking De Artigny, but he was not present. But for a slight shuffling of feet, the silence was oppressive. Cassion's unpleasant voice broke the stillness.

"M. de Tonty, there is a chair yonder reserved for your use."

"I prefer remaining beside Madame Cassion," he answered calmly. "It would seem she has few friends in this company."

"We are all her friends," broke in De Baugis, his face flushing, "but we are here to do justice, and avenge a foul crime. 'Tis told us that madame possesses certain knowledge which has not been revealed. Other witnesses have testified, and we would now listen to her word. Sergeant of the guard, bring in the prisoner."

He entered by way of the rear door, manacled, and with an armed soldier on either side. Coatless and bareheaded, he stood erect in the place assigned him, and as his eyes swept the faces, his stern look changed to a smile as his glance met mine. My eyes were still upon him, seeking eagerly for some message of guidance, when Cassion spoke.

"M. de Baugis will question the witness."

"The court will pardon me," said De Artigny. "The witness to be heard is Madame?"

"Certainly; what means your interruption?"

"To spare the lady unnecessary embarrassment. She is my friend, and, no doubt, may find it difficult to testify against me. I merely venture to ask her to give this court the exact truth."

"Your words are impertinent."

"No, M. de Baugis," I broke in, understanding all that was meant. "Sieur de Artigny has spoken in kindness, and has my thanks. I am ready now to bear witness frankly."

Cassion leaned over whispering, but De Baugis merely frowned, and shook his head, his eyes on my face. I felt the friendly touch of M. de Tonty's hand on my shoulder, and the slight pressure brought me courage.

"What is it you desire me to tell, Monsieur?"

"The story of your midnight visit to the Mission garden at St. Ignace, the night Hugo Chevet was killed. Tell it in your own words, Madame."

As I began my voice trembled, and I was obliged to grip the arms of the chair to keep myself firm. There was a mist before my eyes, and I saw only De Artigny's face, as he leaned forward eagerly listening. Not even he realized all I had witnessed that night, and yet I must tell the truth—the whole truth, even though the telling cost his life. The words came faster, and my nerves ceased to throb. I read sympathy in De Baugis' eyes, and addressed him alone. Twice he asked me questions, in so kindly a manner as to win instant reply, and once he checked Cassion when he attempted to interrupt, his voice stern with authority. I told the story simply, plainly, with no attempt at equivocation, and when I ceased speaking the room was as silent as a tomb. De Baugis sat motionless, but Cassion stared at me across the table, his face dark with passion.

"Wait," he cried as though thinking me about to rise. "There are questions yet."

"Monsieur," said De Baugis coldly. "If there are questions it is my place to ask them."

"Ay," angrily beating his hand on the board, "but it is plain to be seen the woman has bewitched you. No, I will not be denied; I am Commandant here, and with force enough behind me to make my will law. Scowl if you will, but here is La Barre's commission, and I dare you ignore it. So answer me, Madame—you saw De Artigny bend over the body of Chevet—was your uncle then dead?"

"I know not, Monsieur; but there was no movement."

"Why did you make no report?—was it to shield De Artigny?"

I hesitated, yet the answer had to be made.

"The Sieur de Artigny was my friend, Monsieur. I did not believe him guilty, yet my evidence would have cast suspicion upon him. I felt it best to remain still, and wait."

"You suspected another?"

"Not then, Monsieur, but since."

Cassion sat silent, not overly pleased with my reply, but De Baugis smiled grimly.

"By my faith," he said, "the tale gathers interest. You have grown to suspicion another since, Madame—dare you name the man?"

My eyes sought the face of De Tonty, and he nodded gravely.

"It can do no harm, Madame," he muttered softly. "Put the paper in De Baugis' hand."

I drew it, crumpled, from out the bosom of my dress, rose to my feet, and held it forth to the Captain of Dragoons. He grasped it wonderingly.

"What is this, Madame?"

"One page from a letter of instruction. Read it, Monsieur; you will recognize the handwriting."



CHAPTER XXIX

CONDEMNED

He opened the paper gravely, shadowing the page with one hand so that Cassion was prevented from seeing the words. He read slowly, a frown on his face.

"'Tis the writing of Governor La Barre, although unsigned," he said at last.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"How came the page in your possession?"

"I removed it last night from a leather bag found beneath the sleeping bunk in the quarters assigned me."

"Do you know whose bag it was?"

"Certainly; it was in the canoe with me all the way from Quebec—M. Cassion's."

"Your husband?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

De Baugis' eyes seemed to darken as he gazed at me; then his glance fell upon Cassion, who was leaning forward, his mouth open, his face ashen gray. He straightened up as he met De Baugis' eyes, and gave vent to an irritating laugh.

"Sacre, 'tis quite melodramatic," he exclaimed harshly. "But of little value else. I acknowledge the letter, M. de Baugis, but it bears no relation to this affair. Perchance it was unhappily worded, so that this woman, eager to save her lover from punishment—"

De Tonty was on his feet, his sword half drawn.

"'Tis a foul lie," he thundered hotly. "I will not stand silent before such words."

"Messieurs," and De Baugis struck the table. "This is a court, not a mess room. Be seated, M. de Tonty; no one in my presence will be permitted to besmirch the honor of Captain la Chesnayne's daughter. Yet I must agree with Major Cassion that this letter in no way proves that he resorted to violence, or was even urged to do so. The governor in all probability suggested other means. I could not be led to believe he countenanced the commission of crime, and shall ask to read the remainder of his letter before rendering decision. You found no other documents, Madame?"

"None bearing on this case."

"The papers supposed to be taken from the dead body of Chevet?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Then I cannot see that the status of the prisoner is changed, or that we have any reason to charge the crime to another. You are excused, Madame, while we listen to such other witnesses as may be called."

"You wish me to retire?"

"I would prefer you do so."

I arose to my feet, hesitating and uncertain. It was evident enough that the court intended to convict the prisoner. All the hatred and dislike engendered by years of controversy with La Salle, all the quarrels and misunderstandings of the past few months between the two rival commanders at the fort, was now finding natural outlet in this trial of Rene de Artigny. He was officer of La Salle, friend of De Tonty, and through his conviction they could strike at the men they both hated and feared. More, they realized also that such action would please La Barre. Whatever else had been accomplished by my exhibit of the governor's letter, it had clearly shown De Baugis that his master desired the overthrow of the young explorer. And while he felt slight friendship for Cassion, he was still La Barre's man, and would obey his orders. He wished me out of the way for a purpose. What purpose? That I might not hear the lying testimony of those soldiers and Indians, who would swear as they were told.

Tears misted my eyes, so the faces about me were blurred, but, before I could find words in which to voice my indignation, De Tonty stood beside me, and grasped my arm.

"There is no use, Madame," he said coldly enough, although his voice shook. "You only invite insult when you deal with such curs. They represent their master, and have made verdict already—let us go."

De Baugis, Cassion, De la Durantaye were upon their feet, but the dragoon first found voice.

"Were those words addressed to me, M. de Tonty?"

"Ay, and why not! You are no more than La Barre's dog. Listen to me, all three of you. 'Twas Sieur de la Salle's orders that I open the gates of this fort to your entrance, and that I treat you courteously. I have done so, although you took my kindness to be sign of weakness, and have lorded it mightily since you came. But this is the end; from now it is war between us, Messieurs, and we will fight in the open. Convict Rene de Artigny from the lies of these hirelings, and you pay the reckoning at the point of my sword. I make no threat, but this is the pledged word of Henri de Tonty. Make passage there! Come, Madame."

No one stopped us; no voice answered him. Almost before I realized the action, we were outside in the sunlight, and he was smiling into my face, his dark eyes full of cheer.

"It will make them pause and think—what I said," he exclaimed, "yet will not change the result."

"They will convict?"

"Beyond doubt, Madame. They are La Barre's men, and hold commission only at his pleasure. With M. de la Durantaye it is different, for he was soldier of Frontenac's, yet I have no hope he will dare stand out against the rest. We must find another way to save the lad, but when I leave you at the door yonder I am out of it."

"You, Monsieur! what can I hope to accomplish without your aid?"

"Far more than with it, especially if I furnish a good substitute. I shall be watched now, every step I take. 'Tis like enough De Baugis will send me challenge, though the danger that Cassion would do so is slight. It is the latter who will have me watched. No, Madame, Boisrondet is the lad who must find a way out for the prisoner; they will never suspicion him, and the boy will enjoy the trick. Tonight, when the fort becomes quiet, he will find way to explain his plans. Have your room dark, and the window open."

"There is but one, Monsieur, outward, above the precipice."

"That will be his choice; he can reach you thus unseen. 'Tis quite possible a guard may be placed at your door."

He left me, and walked straight across the parade to his own quarters, an erect, manly figure in the sun, his long black hair falling to his shoulders. I drew a chair beside the door, which I left partially open, so that I might view the scene without. There was no firing now, although soldiers were grouped along the western stockade, keeping guard over the gate. I sat there for perhaps an hour, my thoughts sad enough, yet unconsciously gaining courage and hope from the memory of De Tonty's words of confidence. He was not a man to fail in any deed of daring, and I had already seen enough of this young Boisrondet, and heard enough of his exploits, to feel implicit trust in his plans of rescue. Occasionally a soldier of the garrison, or a courier du bois, of La Salle's company, passed, glancing at me curiously, yet I recognized no familiar face, and made no attempt to speak, lest the man might prove an enemy. I could see the door of the guardhouse, and, at last, those in attendance at the trial emerged, talking gravely, as they scattered in various directions. The three officers came forth together, proceeding directly across toward De Tonty's office, evidently with some purpose in view. No doubt, angered at his words, they sought satisfaction. I watched until they disappeared within the distant doorway, De Baugis the first to enter. A moment later one of the soldiers who had accompanied us from Quebec, a rather pleasant-faced lad, whose injured hand I had dressed at St. Ignace, approached where I sat, and lifted his hand in salute.

"A moment, Jules," I said swiftly. "You were at the trial?"

"Yes, Madame."

"And the result?"

"The Sieur de Artigny was held guilty, Madame," he said regretfully, glancing about as though to assure himself alone. "The three officers agreed on the verdict, although I know some of the witnesses lied."

"You know—who?"

"My own mate for one—Georges Descartes; he swore to seeing De Artigny follow Chevet from the boats, and that was not true, for we were together all that day. I would have said so, but the court bade me be still."

"Ay, they were not seeking such testimony. No matter what you said, Jules, De Artigny would have been condemned—it was La Barre's orders."

"Yes, Madame, so I thought."

"Did the Sieur de Artigny speak?"

"A few words, Madame, until M. Cassion ordered him to remain still. Then M. de Baugis pronounced sentence—it was that he be shot tomorrow."

"The hour?"

"I heard none mentioned, Madame."

"And a purpose in that also to my mind. This gives them twenty-four hours in which to consummate murder. They fear De Tonty and his men may attempt rescue; 'tis to find out the three have gone now to his quarters. That is all, Jules; you had best not be seen talking here with me."

I closed the door, and dropped the bar securely into place. I knew the worst now, and felt sick and faint. Tears would not come to relieve, yet it seemed as though my brain ceased working, as if I had lost all physical and mental power. I know not how long I sat there, dazed, incompetent to even express the vague thoughts which flashed through my brain. A rapping on the door aroused me. The noise, the insistent raps awoke me as from sleep.

"Who wishes entrance?"

"I—Cassion; I demand speech with you."

"For what purpose, Monsieur?"

"Mon Dieu! Does a man have to give excuse for desiring to speak with his own wife? Open the door, or I'll have it broken in. Have you not yet learned I am master here?"

I drew the bar, no longer with any sense of fear, but impelled by a desire to hear the man's message. I stepped back, taking refuge behind the table, as the door opened, and he strode in, glancing first at me, then suspiciously about the apartment.

"You are alone?"

"Assuredly, Monsieur; did you suspect others to be present?"

"Hell's fire! How did I know; you have time enough to spare for others, although I have had no word with you since you came. I come now only to tell you the news."

"If it be the condemnation of Sieur de Artigny, you may spare your words."

"You know that! Who brought you the message?"

"What difference, Monsieur? I would know the result without messenger. You have done your master's will. What said De Tonty when you told him?"

Cassion laughed, as though the memory was pleasant.

"Faith, Madame, if you base your hopes there on rescue you'll scarce meet with great result. De Tonty is all bark. Mon Dieu! I went in to hold him to account for his insult, and the fellow met us with such gracious speech, that the four of us drank together like old comrades. The others are there yet, but I had a proposition to make you—so I left them."

"A proposition, Monsieur?"

"Ay, a declaration of peace, if you will. Listen Adele, for this is the last time I speak you thus fairly. I have this De Artigny just where I want him now. His life is in my hands. I can squeeze it out like that; or I can open my fingers, and let him go. Now you are to decide which it is to be. Here is where you choose, between that forest brat and me."

"Choose between you? Monsieur you must make your meaning more clear."

"Mon Dieu, is it not clear already? Then I will make it so. You are my wife by law of Holy Church. Never have you loved me, yet I can pass that by, if you grant me a husband's right. This De Artigny has come between us, and now his life is in my hands. I know not that you love the brat, yet you have that interest in him which would prevent forgiveness of me if I show no mercy. So now I come and offer you his life, if you consent to be my wife in truth. Is that fair?"

"It may so sound," I answered calmly, "yet the sacrifice is all mine. How would you save the man?"

"By affording him opportunity to escape during the night; first accepting his pledge never to see you again."

"Think you he would give such pledge?"

Cassion laughed sarcastically.

"Bah, what man would not to save his life! It is for you to speak the word."

I stood silent, hesitating to give final answer. Had I truly believed De Artigny's case hopeless I might have yielded, and made pledge. But as I gazed into Cassion's face, smiling with assurance of victory, all my dislike of the man returned, and I shrank back in horror. The sacrifice was too much, too terrible; besides I had faith in the promises of De Tonty, in the daring of Boisrondet. I would trust them, aye, and myself, to find some other way of rescue.

"Monsieur," I said firmly, "I understand your proposition, and refuse it. I will make no pledge."

"You leave him to die?"

"If it be God's will. I cannot dishonor myself, even to save life. You have my answer. I bid you go."

Never did I see such look of beastly rage in the face of any man. He had lost power of speech, but his fingers clutched as though he had my throat in their grip. Frightened, I stepped back, and Chevet's pistol gleamed in my hand.

"You hear me, Monsieur—go!"



CHAPTER XXX

I CHOOSE MY FUTURE

He backed out the door, growling and threatening. I caught little of what he said, nor did I in the least care. All I asked, or desired, was to be alone, to be free of his presence. I swung the door in his very face, and fastened the bar. Through the thick wood his voice still penetrated in words of hatred. Then it ceased, and I was alone in the silence, sinking down nerveless beside the table, my face buried in my hands.

I had done right; I knew I had done right, yet the reaction left me weak and pulseless. I saw now clearly what must be done. Never could I live with this Cassion; never again could I acknowledge him as husband. Right or wrong, whatever the Church might do, or the world might say, I had come to the parting of the ways; here and now I must choose my own life, obey the dictates of my own conscience. I had been wedded by fraud to a man I despised; my hatred had grown until now I knew that I would rather be dead than live in his presence.

If this state of mind was sin, it was beyond my power to rid myself of the curse; if I was already condemned of Holy Church because of failure to abide by her decree, then there was naught left but for me to seek my own happiness, and the happiness of the man I loved.

I lifted my head, strengthened by the very thought, the red blood tingling again through my veins. The truth was mine; I felt no inclination to obscure it. The time had come for rejoicing, and action. I loved Rene de Artigny, and, although he had never spoken the word, I knew he loved me. Tomorrow he would be in exile, a wanderer of the woods, an escaped prisoner, under condemnation of death, never again safe within reach of French authority. Ay, but he should not go alone; in the depths of those forests, beyond the arm of the law, beyond even the grasp of the Church, we should be together. In our own hearts love would justify. Without a qualm of conscience, without even a lingering doubt, I made the choice, the final decision.

I know not how long it took me to think this all out, until I had accepted fate; but I do know the decision brought happiness and courage. Food was brought me by a strange Indian, apparently unable to speak French; nor would he even enter the room, silently handing me the platter through the open door. Two sentries stood just without—soldiers of De Baugis, I guessed, as their features were unfamiliar. They gazed at me curiously, as I stood in the doorway, but without changing their attitudes. Plainly I was held prisoner also; M. Cassion's threat was being put into execution. This knowledge merely served to strengthen my decision, and I closed, and barred the door again, smiling as I did so.

It grew dusk while I made almost vain effort to eat, and, at last, pushing the pewter plate away, I crossed over, and cautiously opened the wooden shutter of the window. The red light of the sunset still illumined the western sky, and found glorious reflection along the surface of the river. It was a dizzy drop to the bed of the stream below, but Indians were on the opposite bank, beyond rifle shot, in considerable force, a half-dozen canoes drawn up on the sandy shore, and several fires burning. They were too far away for me to judge their tribe, yet a number among them sported war bonnets, and I had no doubt they were Iroquois.

So far as I could perceive elsewhere there was no movement, as my eyes traveled the half circle, over a wide vista of hill and dale, green valley and dark woods, although to the left I could occasionally hear the sharp report of a rifle, in evidence that besieging savages were still watchful of the fort entrance. I could not lean out far enough to see in that direction, yet as the night grew darker the vicious spits of fire became visible. Above me the solid log walls arose but a few feet—a tall man might stand upon the window ledge, and find grip of the roof; but below was the sheer drop to the river—perchance two hundred feet beneath. Already darkness shrouded the water, as the broad valley faded into the gloom of the night.

There was naught for me to do but sit and wait. The guard which M. Cassion had stationed at the door prevented my leaving the room, but its more probable purpose was to keep others from communicating with me. De Tonty had evidently resorted to diplomacy, and instead of quarreling with the three officers when they approached him, had greeted them all so genially as to leave the impression that he was disposed to permit matters to take their natural course. He might be watched of course, yet was no longer suspicioned as likely to help rescue the prisoner. All their fear now was centered upon me, and my possible influence.

If I could be kept from any further communication with either De Artigny, or De Tonty, it was scarcely probable that any of the garrison would make serious effort to interfere with their plans. De Tonty's apparent indifference, and his sudden friendliness with De Baugis and Cassion, did not worry me greatly. I realized his purpose in thus diverting suspicion. His pledge of assistance had been given me, and his was the word of a soldier and gentleman. In some manner, and soon—before midnight certainly—I would receive message from Boisrondet.

Yet my heart failed me more than once as I waited. How long the time seemed, and how deadly silent was the night. Crouched close beside the door I could barely hear the muttered conversation of the soldiers on guard; and when I crossed to the open window I looked out upon a black void, utterly soundless. Not even the distant crack of a rifle now broke the solemn stillness, and the only spot of color visible was the dull red glow of a campfire on the opposite bank of the river. I had no way of computing time, and the lagging hours seemed centuries long, as terrifying doubts assailed me.

Every new thought became an agony of suspense. Had the plans failed? Had Boisrondet discovered the prisoner so closely guarded as to make rescue impossible? Had his nerve, his daring, vanished before the real danger of the venture? Had De Artigny refused to accept the chance? What had happened; what was happening out there in the mystery?

All I could do was pray, and wait. Perhaps no word would be given me—the escape might already be accomplished, and I left here to my fate. Boisrondet knew nothing of my decision to accompany De Artigny in his exile. If the way was difficult and dangerous, he might not consider it essential to communicate with me at all. De Tonty had promised, to be sure, yet he might have failed to so instruct the younger man. I clung to the window, the agony of this possibility, driving me wild.

Mon Dieu! was that a noise overhead? I could see nothing, yet, as I leaned further out, a cord touched my face. I grasped it, and drew the dangling end in. It was weighted with a bit of wood. A single coal glowed in the fireplace, and from this I ignited a splinter, barely yielding me light enough to decipher the few words traced on the white surface: "Safe so far; have you any word?"

My veins throbbed; I could have screamed in delight, or sobbed in sudden joy and relief. I fairly crept to the window on hands and knees, animated now with but one thought, one hope—the desire not to be left here behind, alone. I hung far out, my face upturned, staring into the darkness. The distance was not great, only a few feet to the roof above, yet so black was the night that the edge above me blended imperceptibly against the sky. I could perceive no movement, no outline. Could they have already gone? Was it possible that they merely dropped this brief message, and instantly vanished? No, the cord still dangled; somewhere in that dense gloom, the two men peered over the roof edge waiting my response.

"Monsieur," I called up softly, unable to restrain my eagerness.

"Yes, Madame," it was De Artigny's voice, although a mere whisper. "You have some word for me?"

"Ay, listen; is there any way by which I can join you?"

"Join me—here?" astonishment at my request made him incoherent. "Why, Madame, the risk is great—"

"Never mind that; my reason is worthy, nor have we time now to discuss the matter. Monsieur Boisrondet is there a way?"

I heard them speak to each other, a mere murmur of sound; then another voice reached my ears clearly.

"We have a strong grass rope, Madame, which will safely bear your weight. The risk will not be great. I have made a noose, and will lower it."

I reached it with my hand, but felt a doubt as my fingers clasped it.

"'Tis very small, Monsieur."

"But strong enough for double your weight, as 'twas Indian woven. Put foot in the noose, and hold tight. There are two of us holding it above."

The memory of the depth below frightened me, yet I crept forth on the narrow sill, clinging desperately to the taut rope, until I felt my foot safely pressed into the noose, which tightened firmly about it.

"Now," I said, barely able to make my lips speak. "I am ready."

"Then swing clear, Madame; we'll hold you safe."

I doubt if it was a full minute in which I swung out over that gulf amid the black night. My heart seemed to stop beating, and I retained no sense other than to cling desperately to the swaying cord which alone held me from being dashed to death on the jagged rocks below. Inch by inch they drew me up, the continuous jerks yielding a sickening sensation, but the distance was so short, I could scarcely realize the full danger, before De Artigny grasped me with his hands, and drew me in beside him on the roof. I stood upon my feet, trembling from excitement, yet encouraged in my purpose, by his first words of welcome.

"Adele," he exclaimed, forgetful of the presence of his comrade. "Surely you had serious cause for joining us here."

"Am I welcome, Monsieur?"

"Can you doubt? Yet surely it was not merely to say farewell that you assumed such risk?"

"No, Monsieur, it was not to say farewell. I would accompany you in your flight. Do not start like that at my words; I cannot see your face—perhaps if I could I should lose courage. I have made my choice, Monsieur. I will not remain the slave of M. Cassion. Whether for good or evil I give you my faith."

"You—you," his hands grasped mine. "You mean you will go with me into exile, into the woods?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"But do you realize what it all means? I am a fugitive, a hunted man; never again can I venture within French civilization. I must live among savages. No, no, Adele, the sacrifice is too great. I cannot accept of it."

"Do you love me, Monsieur?"

"Mon Dieu—yes."

"Then there is no sacrifice. My heart would break here. God! Would you doom me to live out my life with that brute—that murderer? I am a young woman, a mere girl, and this is my one chance to save myself from hell. I am not afraid of the woods, of exile, of anything, so I am with you. I would rather die than go to him—to confess him husband."

"The lady is right, Rene," Boisrondet said earnestly. "You must think of her as well as yourself."

"Think of her! Mon Dieu, of whom else do I think. Adele, do you mean your words? Would you give up all for me?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"But do you know what your choice means?"

I stood before him, brave in the darkness.

"Monsieur I have faced it all. I know; the choice is made—will you take me?"

Then I was in his strong arms, and for the first time, his lips met mine.



CHAPTER XXXI

WE REACH THE RIVER

It was the voice of Boisrondet which recalled us to a sense of danger.

"It is late, and we must not linger here," he insisted, touching De Artigny's sleeve. "The guard may discover your absence, Rene, before we get beyond the stockade. Come, we must move quickly."

"Ay, and with more than ever to give us courage, Francois. Yet how can we get Madame safely over the logs?"

"She must venture the same as we. Follow me closely, and tread with care."

So dark was the night I was obliged to trust entirely to De Artigny's guidance, but it was evident that both men were familiar with the way, and had thoroughly considered the best method of escape. No doubt De Tonty and his young lieutenant had arranged all details, so as to assure success. We traversed the flat roofs of the chain of log houses along the west side of the stockade until we came to the end. The only light visible was a dull glow of embers before the guardhouse near the center of the parade, which revealed a group of soldiers on duty. The stockade extended some distance beyond where we halted, crouched low on the flat roof to escape being seen. There would be armed men along that wall, especially near the gates, guarding against attack, but the darkness gave us no glimpse. There was no firing, no movement to be perceived. The two men crept to the edge, and looked cautiously over, and I clung close to De Artigny, nervous from the silence, and afraid to become separated. Below us was the dense blackness of the gorge.

"This is the spot," whispered De Artigny, "and no alarm yet. How far to the rocks?"

"De Tonty figured the distance at forty feet below the stockade; we have fifty feet of rope here. The rock shelf is narrow, and the great risk will be not to step off in the darkness. There should be an iron ring here somewhere—ay, here it is; help me draw the knot taut, Rene."

"Do we—do we go down here, Monsieur?" I questioned, my voice faltering.

"Here, or not at all; there are guards posted yonder every two yards. This is our only chance to escape unseen." Boisrondet tested the rope, letting it slip slowly through his hands down into the darkness below, until it hung at full length. "It does not touch," he said, "yet it cannot lack more than a foot or two. Faith! We must take the risk. I go first Rene—hush! 'tis best so—the lady would prefer that you remain, while I test the passage. The devil himself may be waiting there." He gazed down, balancing himself on the edge, the cord gripped in his hands.

"Now mind my word; once on the rock below I will signal with three jerks on the cord. Haul up then slowly, so as to make no noise; make a noose for the lady's foot, and lower her with care. You have the strength?"

"Ay, for twice her weight."

"Good; there will be naught to fear, Madame, for I will be below to aid your footing. When I give the signal again Rene will descend and join us."

"The rope is to be left dangling?"

"Only until I return. Once I leave you safe beyond the Iroquois, 'tis my part to climb this rope again. Some task that," cheerfully, "yet De Tonty deems it best that no evidence connect us with this escape. What make you the hour?"

"Between one and two."

"Which will give me time before daydawn; so here, I chance it."

He swung himself over the edge, and slipped silently down into the black mystery. We leaned over to watch, but could see nothing, our only evidence of his progress, the jerking of the cord. De Artigny's hand closed on mine.

"Dear," he whispered tenderly, "we are alone now—you are sorry?"

"I am happier than I have ever been in my life," I answered honestly. "I have done what I believe to be right, and trust God. All I care to know now is that you love me."

"With every throb of my heart," he said solemnly. "It is my love which makes me dread lest you regret."

"That will never be, Monsieur; I am of the frontier, and do not fear the woods. Ah! he has reached the rock safely—'tis the signal."

De Artigny drew up the cord, testing it to make sure the strands held firm, and made careful noose, into which he slipped my foot.

"Now, Adele, you are ready?"

"Yes, sweetheart; kiss me first."

"You have no fear?"

"Not with your strong hands to support, but do not keep me waiting long below."

Ay, but I was frightened as I swung off into the black void, clinging desperately to that slight rope, steadily sinking downward. My body rubbed against the rough logs, and then against rock. Once a jagged edge wounded me, yet I dare not release my grip, or utter a sound. I sank down, down, the strain ever greater on my nerves. I retained no knowledge of distance, but grew apprehensive of what awaited me below. Would the rope reach to the rock? Would I swing clear? Even as these thoughts began to horrify, I felt a hand grip me, and Boisrondet's whisper gave cheerful greeting.

"It is all right, Madame; release your foot, and trust me. Good, now do not venture to move, until Rene joins us. Faith, he wastes little time; he is coming now."

I could see nothing, not even the outlines of my companion, who stood holding the cord taut. I could feel the jagged face of the rock, against which I stood, and ventured, by reaching out with one foot, to explore my immediate surroundings. The groping toe touched the edge of the narrow shelf, and I drew back startled at thought of another sheer drop into the black depths. My heart was still pounding when De Artigny found foothold beside me. As he swung free from the cord, his fingers touched my dress.

"A fine test of courage that, Adele," he whispered, "but with Francois here below there was small peril. Now what next?"

"A ticklish passage for a few yards. Stand close until I get by; now cling to the wall, and follow me. Once off this shelf we can plan our journey. Madame, take hold of my jacket. Rene, you have walked this path before."

"Ay, years since, but I recall its peril."

We crept forward, so cautiously it seemed we scarcely moved, the rock shelf we traversed so narrow in places that I could scarce find space in which to plant my feet firmly. Boisrondet whispered words of guidance back to me, and I could feel De Artigny touch my skirt as he followed, ready to grip me if I fell. Yet then I experienced no fear, no shrinking, my every thought centered on the task. Nor was the way long. Suddenly we clambered onto a flat rock, crossed it, and came to the edge of a wood, with a murmur of water not far away. Here Boisrondet paused, and we came close about him. There seemed to be more light here, although the tree shadows were grim, and the night rested about us in impressive silence.

"Here is where the river trail comes down," and Boisrondet made motion to the left. "You should remember that well, Rene."

"I was first to pass over it; it leads to the water edge."

"Yes; not so easily followed in the night, yet you are woodsman enough to make it. So far as we know from above the Iroquois have not discovered there is a passage here. Listen, Rene; I leave you now, for those were De Tonty's orders. He said that from now on you would be safe alone. Of course he knew nothing of Madame's purpose."

"Monsieur shall not find me a burden," I interrupted.

"I am sure of that," he said gallantly, "and so think it best to return while the night conceals my movements. There will be hot words when M. Cassion discovers your escape, and my chief may need my sword beside him, if it comes to blows. Is my decision to return right, Rene?"

"Ay, right; would that I might be with you. But what plan did M. de Tonty outline for me to follow?"

"'Twas what I started to tell. At the edge of the water, but concealed from the river by rocks, is a small hut where we keep hidden a canoe ready fitted for any secret service. 'Twas Sieur de la Salle's thought that it might prove of great use in time of siege. No doubt it is there now just as we left it, undiscovered of the Iroquois. This will bear you down the river until daylight, when you can hide along shore."

"There is a rifle?"

"Two of them, with powder and ball." He laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "There is nothing more to say, and time is of value. Farewell, my friend."

"Farewell," their fingers clasped. "There will be other days, Francois; my gratitude to M. de Tonty." Boisrondet stepped back, and, hat in hand, bowed to me.

"Adieu, Madame; a pleasant journey."

"A moment, Monsieur," I said, a falter in my voice. "You are M. de Artigny's friend, an officer of France, and a Catholic."

"Yes, Madame."

"And you think that I am right in my choice? that I am doing naught unworthy of my womanhood?"

Even in the darkness I saw him make the symbol of the cross, before he bent forward and kissed my hand.

"Madame," he said gravely, "I am but a plain soldier, with all my service on the frontier. I leave to the priests the discussion of doctrines, and to God my punishment and reward. I can only answer you as De Artigny's friend, and an officer of France. I give you honor, and respect, and deem your love and trust far more holy than your marriage. My faith, and my sword are yours, Madame."

I felt his lips upon my hand, yet knew not he had gone. I stood there, my eyes blinded with tears at his gallant words, only becoming conscious of his disappearance, when De Artigny drew me to him, his cheek pressed against my hair.

"He has gone! we are alone!"

"Yes, dear one; but I thank God for those last words. They have given me courage, and faith. So my old comrades believe us right the criticism of others does not move me. You love me, Adele? you do not regret?"

My arms found way about his neck; my lips uplifted to his.

"Monsieur, I shall never regret; I trust God, and you."

How he ever found his way along that dim trail I shall never know. Some memory of its windings, together with the instinct of a woodsman, must have given guidance, while no doubt his feet, clad in soft Indian moccasins, enabled him to feel the faint track, imperceivable in the darkness. It led along a steep bank, through low, tangled bushes, and about great trees, with here and there a rock thrust across the path, compelling detour. The branches scratched my face, and tore my dress, confusing me so that had I not clung to his arm, I should have been instantly lost in the gloom. Our advance was slow and cautious, every step taken in silence. Snakes could not have moved with less noise, and the precaution was well taken. Suddenly De Artigny stopped, gripping me in warning. For a moment there was no sound, except the distant murmur of waters, and the chatter of some night bird. Yet some instinct of the woods held the man motionless, listening. A twig cracked to our left, and then a voice spoke, low and rumbling. It sounded so close at hand the fellow could scarcely have been five yards away. Another voice answered, and we were aware of bodies, stealing along through the wood; there was a faint rustling of dead leaves, and the occasional swish of a branch. We crouched low in the trail, fairly holding our breath, every nerve tense. There was no sound from below, but in the other direction one warrior—I could see the dim outline of his naked figure—passed within reach of my outstretched hand.

Assured that all had passed beyond hearing De Artigny rose to his feet, and assisted me to rise, his hand still grasping mine.

"Iroquois, by the look of that warrior," he whispered, "and enough of them to mean mischief. I would I knew their language."

"'Twas the tongue of the Tuscaroras," I answered. "My father taught me a little of it years ago. The first words spoken were a warning to be still; the other answered that the white men are all asleep."

"And I am not sure but that is true. If De Tonty was in command the walls would be well guarded, but De Baugis and Cassion know nothing of Indian war."

"You believe it to be an assault?"

"It hath the look; 'tis not Indian nature to gather thus at this night hour, without a purpose. But, pouf, there is little they can do against that stockade of logs for all their numbers. It is our duty to be well away by daylight."

The remaining distance to the water's edge was not far—a direct descent amid a litter of rocks, shadowed by great trees. Nothing opposed our passage, nor did we hear any sound from the savages concealed in the forest above. De Artigny led the way along the shore until we reached the log hut. Its door stood open; the canoe was gone.



CHAPTER XXXII

WE MEET SURPRISE

Not until we had felt carefully from wall to wall did we admit our disappointment. There were no overshadowing trees here, and what small glimmer of light came from the dull skies found reflection on river and rocks, so that we could perceive each other, and gain dim view of our surroundings.

Of the canoe there was absolutely no trace, and, if arms had been hidden there also, they had likewise disappeared. The very fact that the door stood wide open, its wooden lock broken, told the story clearly. I remained silent, staring about through the semi-darkness of the interior, rendered speechless by a feeling of utter helplessness. De Artigny, after an utterance of disappointment, felt his way along the walls; as he came back to the open door our eyes met, and he must have read despair in mine, for he smiled encouragingly.

"Swept bare, little girl," he said. "Not so much as an ounce of powder left. The savages got here before us, it seems. Never mind; we shall have to travel a ways on woodcraft, and it will not be the first wilderness journey I have made without arms. Did De Tonty mention to you where he believed the Illini were in hiding?"

"No, Monsieur—are they Indians?"

"Yes; the river tribes, the most loyal of all to La Salle. It was one of their villages we saw on the bank of the stream as we approached the fort from the west, I told Boisrondet that it stood there deserted, but not destroyed, and it was our judgment the inhabitants were hiding among the river bluffs. Without canoes they could not travel far, and are probably concealed out yonder. If we can find them our greatest peril is past."

"They are friendly?"

"Ay, and have never shed white blood. I know them well, and with leadership they would be a match even for the Iroquois. De Tonty led them once against these same warriors, and they fought like fiends. Come, we will follow the stream, and see if we cannot find trace of their covert."

It was but a cluster of rocks where the hut stood, and a few yards below we found the forest creeping down to the very bank of the river. The sky had lightened above us, the obscuring clouds opening to let the silver gleam of stars through, and we paused a moment gazing back, and upward at the vast rock on which perched the beleaguered fort. We could dimly perceive the vague outline of it silhouetted against the lighter arch of sky. In massive gloom and silence it seemed to dominate the night, the grim forest sweeping up to its very walls. Not a gleam of light appeared; not a sound reached us. I felt De Artigny's arm about me.

"I would that I really knew what was going on yonder 'neath the screen of trees," he said gravely. "Some Indian trick, perchance, which it might be in my power to circumvent—at least bear to the lads fair warning."

"You would risk life for that?"

"Ay, my own readily. That is a lesson of the wilderness; the duty of a comrade. But for your presence I should be climbing the hill seeking to learn the purpose of those savages—else I was no true soldier of France."

"What think you their purpose is, Monsieur?"

"An attack in force at dawn. Those who passed us were heavily armed, and crept forward stealthily, stripped and painted for war. There were other parties, no doubt, creeping up through the woods from all sides. 'Tis my thought the hour has struck for them to make their great effort. They have scattered the friendly Indians, killed them, or driven them in terror down the river. Their villages have been destroyed. Now all the warriors who have been at that business have returned, filled with blood lust, and eager to strike at the French."

"But they cannot win? Surely they cannot capture the fort, Monsieur? Why it is all rock?"

"On three sides—yes; but to the south there is ample space for attack in force. Those woods yonder would conceal a thousand savages within a few hundred yards of the fort gates. And what of the defense? Opposing them is one hundred and fifty feet of stockade, protected at best by fifty rifles. There are no more in the fort, officers, Indians, and all; and Boisrondet says scarcely a dozen rounds of powder and ball to a man. If the Iroquois know this—and why should they not?—'twill be no great feat of arms to batter their way in. I would do that which is right, Adele, if I saw clearly."

I clung to his hands, staring back still at the grim outline of the silent fort. I understood his thoughts, his desire to aid his comrades; but, for a moment, my mind was a blank. I could not let him go, alone, to almost certain death. No, nor would he abandon me on such a mission! Was there no other way by which we could serve? Suddenly a thought crept into my mind.

"Monsieur," I asked breathlessly, "where do you suppose those Illini Indians to be?"

"Back from the river, in a glen of caves and rocks."

"How far from here?"

"Four or five miles; there is a trail from the mouth of the creek."

"And you know the way? and there might be many warriors there? they will remember you, and obey your orders?"

He straightened up, aroused as the full meaning of my questioning occurred to him.

"Ay, there is a chance there, if we find them in time, and in force enough to make foray. Sacre! I know not why such thought has not come to me before. Could we but fall on those devils from the rear in surprise, even with a third their number, they would run like cats. Mon Dieu! I thank you for the thought."

We plunged into the forest, no longer endeavoring to advance silently, but inspired with a desire to achieve our goal as soon as possible. At the mouth of a stream entering the river, De Artigny picked me up in his arms, and waded across. On the opposite bank he sought eagerly on hands and knees for the old trace he dimly remembered. At last he stood erect.

"Ay, lass, it's here, and to be easily followed. What hour do you make it now?"

"About three."

"So I would have said; and 'tis not daylight until after five. We can scarce make it, yet we will try."

It was not as dark here away from the gloom of the Rock; the forest was open, and yet I will never know how De Artigny succeeded in following that dim trail at so rapid a gait. As for me I could see nothing of any path, and merely followed him blindly, not even certain of the nature of the ground under my feet. Again and again I tripped over some obstacles—a root, a tuft of grass—and continually unnoted branches flapped against my face. Once I fell prone, yet so noiselessly that Rene passed beyond view before he realized my misfortune, and returned to help me regain my feet. Not until then, I think, did he comprehend the rapidity of his movements.

"Your pardon, dear girl," and his lips brushed my hair, as he held me in his arms. "I forgot all but our comrades yonder. The night is dark to your eyes."

"I can see nothing," I confessed regretfully, "yet you have no difficulty."

"'Tis a woodsman's training. I have followed many a dim trail in dark forests, and this is so plain I could keep to it on a run if necessary. Ah! the fort is awake and vigilant—that was rifle fire."

I had not only heard the sharp reports, but seen the flash of fire cleaving the darkness.

"The discharges came from the woods yonder—they were Indian guns, Monsieur. See! those two last were from the stockade; I could perceive the logs in the flare."

"Ay, and that is all; the lads will waste no ammunition in the gloom, except to tell the savages they are awake and ready."

"How far have we traveled, Monsieur?"

"A mile, perhaps. At the crooked oak yonder we leave the stream. You met with no harm when you fell?"

"No more than a bruise. I can go on now."

We turned to the right, and plunged into the thicket, the way now so black that I grasped his jacket in fear of becoming lost. We were clambering up a slight hill, careless of everything but our footing, when there was a sudden rustling of the low branches on either side our path. De Artigny stopped, thrusting me back, while at that very instant, indistinct forms seemed to leap forth from the covert. It occurred so quickly, so silently, that before I even realized danger, he was struggling madly with the assailants. I heard the crash of blows, an oath of surprise, a guttural exclamation, a groan of pain. Hands gripped me savagely; I felt naked bodies, struggled wildly to escape, but was flung helplessly to the ground, a hand grasping my hair. I could see nothing only a confused mass of legs and arms, but De Artigny was still on his feet, struggling desperately. From some hand he had grabbed a rifle, and swung it crashing into the faces of those grappling him. Back he came step by step, fighting like a fiend, until he stood over me. With one wide sweep of his clutched weapon he struck me free, a blow which shattered the gun stock, and left him armed only with the iron bar. But the battle fury was on him; dimly I could see him towering above me, bareheaded, his clothes torn to rags, the grim barrel poised for a blow.

"St. Ann!" he cried exultantly. "'Tis a good fight so far—would you have more of it?"

"Hold!" broke in a French voice from out the darkness. "What means this? Are you of white blood?"

"I have always supposed so."

"A renegade consorting with devils of the Iroquois?"

"Mon Dieu! No! an officer of Fort St. Louis."

I could see the white man thrust aside the Indian circle, and strike through. His face was invisible, although I was upon my knees now, but he was a short, heavily built fellow.

"Stand back! ay, make room. Saint Guise, we are fighting our own friends. If you are of the garrison name yourself."

De Artigny, still clasping his rifle barrel, reached out his other hand, and lifted me to my feet.

"Perchance," he said coolly, "if I were a stickler for etiquette, I might ask you first for some explanation of this attack. However, we have made some heads ring, so I waive that privilege. I am the Sieur de Artigny, a lieutenant of La Salle's."

"Mon Dieu!" the other stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "'Tis no unknown name to me, although we have never before met by some chance—I am Francois de la Forest."

"La Forest! You were in France three months ago."

"Aye; I was there when Sieur de la Salle landed. He told me the whole tale. I was with him when he had audience with Louis. I am here now bearing the orders of the King, countersigned by La Barre at Quebec, restoring De Tonty to command at Fort St. Louis, and bidding De Baugis and that fool Cassion return to New France."

De Artigny crushed the man's hand in both his own, dropping the rifle barrel to the ground. His voice trembled as he made answer.

"He won the King's favor? he convinced Louis?"

"No doubt of that—never saw I a greater miracle."

"And the Sieur de la Salle—has he returned?"

"Nay; he remains in France, to fit out an expedition to sail for the mouth of the Great River. He hath special commission from the King. To me was given the honor of bearing his message. Ah! but La Barre raved like a mad bull when I handed him the King's order. I thought he would burst a blood vessel, and give us a new governor. But no such luck. Pah! I stood there, struggling to keep a straight face, for he had no choice but obey. 'Twas a hard dose to swallow, but there was Louis' orders in his own hand, all duly sealed; and a command that I be dispatched hither with the message."

"How made you the journey in so short a time?"

"Overland from Detroit, the same trail you traveled with La Salle; 'tis much the shorter."

"Alone?"

"With two courier de bois; they are with me now. But what is this De Artigny you have with you—a woman?"



CHAPTER XXXIII

WARRIORS OF THE ILLINI

"Yes, M. de la Forest," I said, stepping forward to save Rene from a question which would embarrass him. "I am the daughter of Captain la Chesnayne, whom the Sieur de Artigny hath taken under his protection."

"La Chesnayne's daughter! Ah, I heard the story told in Quebec—'twas La Barre's aid who gave me the facts with many a chuckle as though he held it an excellent joke. But why are you here, Madame? Is not M. Cassion in the fort yonder?"

"'Tis a long tale, La Forest," broke in De Artigny, laying his hand on the other's shoulder, "and will bide a better time for telling. I am a soldier, and you may trust my word. We are La Salle's men; let it go at that, for there is graver duty fronting us now than the retelling of camp gossip. Madame is my friend, and my hand will defend her reputation. Is that enough, comrade?"

"Ay, enough. My best regards, Madame," and he bowed low before me, his words ringing true. "Whoever Sieur de la Salle has learned to trust hath my faith also. You have come from the fort I take it, De Artigny? How are matters there?"

"Ill enough; the officers at swords' points, and the men divided into three camps, for where De la Durantaye stands there is no evidence. M. Cassion holds command by virtue of La Barre's commission, and knows no more of Indian war than a Quebec storekeeper. The garrison numbers fifty men all told; two-thirds soldiers, and a poor lot."