"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Herouville, glancing boldly at the Chevalier.

"Some day your habit will choke you to death."

D'Herouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of his boots.

"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became quiet.

This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he had come upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And that memory was all he had. She did not love him!

The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out and struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the fire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon a glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughter resounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of pain.

With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully. There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave's wrists in a grip of iron. The Oneida was a strong youth, but he wrestled in vain. The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength, and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibers unyielding as oak. Gradually he turned the Indian around. The others watched the engagement with breathless interest. Presently the Indian came to his knees. Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon his face, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into the fire. There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter. Without seeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among the evil-tempered dogs. So long as he continued to smile, the Indians saw nothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which caused Victor his pain. The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloak around his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.

"Hoh!" grunted the fighting braves, who frankly admired this exhibition of strength.

"Curse it, why didn't I think of that?" said the vicomte, his hand seeking his injured mouth again.

"God bless you for that, Paul," murmured Victor, the sparkle of tears in his eyes. "My hands do not hurt half so much now."

"Would to God, lad, you had gone to Spain. I am content to suffer alone; that is my lot; but it triples my sufferings to see you in pain."

"Good!" said D'Herouville. "The cursed fool of a medicine man has stopped his din. We shall be able to sleep." He doubled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them.

A squaw gave Victor some bears' grease, and he rubbed his palms with it, easing the pain and the smart.

One by one the Indians dozed off, some on their bellies, some on their backs, some with their heads upon their knees, while others curled themselves up among the warm-bodied dogs. Monsieur Chouan hooted once more; the panther's whine died away in the distance; from another part of the village a cur howled: and stillness settled down.

Victor, kept awake by his throbbing hands, which he tried to ease by gently rocking his body, listened dully to all these now familiar sounds. Across his shoulders was flung the historic grey cloak. In the haste to pursue madame's captors, it had mysteriously slipped into the bundle they had packed. Like a Nemesis it followed them relentlessly. This inanimate witness of a crime had followed them with a purpose; the time for its definition had not yet arrived. The Chevalier refused to touch it, and heaped curses upon it each time it crossed his vision. But Victor had ceased to feel any qualms; it kept out the chill at night and often served as a pillow. Many a time D'Herouville and the vicomte discovered each other gaping at it. If caught by D'Herouville, the vicomte shrugged and smiled; on the other hand, D'Herouville scowled and snarled his beard with his fingers. There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to that grey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would. Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, and a woman's hand if not her heart.

Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escaped him.

"Does it pain you much, lad?" asked the Chevalier, turning his head.

"I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."

The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomte and the poet alone were awake and watchful.

A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer. The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A dog lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, human and designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth, uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin and entered the hut.

"Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.

The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white men respectfully brushed them with their lips. It was a tribute less to his office than to his appearance; for not one of them saw in his coming aught else than a good presage and probable liberation.

Chaumonot was accompanied by Father Dablon, the Black Kettle,—now famous among his Onondaga brothers as the one who had crossed the evil waters, and two friendly Oneida chiefs. There ensued a prodigious harangue; but at the close of it the smile on Chaumonot's face signified that he had won his argument.

"You are free, my sons," he said. "It took some time to find you, but there is nothing like perseverance in a good cause. At dawn you will return with me to Onondaga. Monsieur," addressing the Chevalier; "and how is the health of Monsieur le Marquis, your kind father?"

The smile died from the Chevalier's face. "Monsieur le Marquis is at Quebec; I can not say as regards his health."

"In Quebec?"

"Yes, Father," Victor interposed.

"How did you know that we were here ?" asked the vicomte.

"Pauquet, in his wanderings, finally arrived at Onondaga two weeks ago. Upon hearing his story I at once began a search. We are virtually at peace with the Senecas and the Oneidas."

"And . . . the women?" inquired Victor, his heart's blood gushing to his throat.

The two Jesuits solemnly shook their heads.

Victor laid his head against the Chevalier's arm to hide the bitter tears.

"No sign?" asked the Chevalier calmly. All the joy of the rescue was gone.

"None. They were taken by a roving band of Senecas, of whom nothing has been heard. They are not at the Senecas' chief village."

However great the vicomte's disappointment may have been, his face remained without any discernible emotion. But he turned to D'Herouville, his tone free from banter and his dark eyes full of menace:

"Monsieur le Comte, you and I shall soon straighten out our accounts."

"For my part, I would it were to-morrow. Our swords will be given back to us. Take heed, Vicomte," holding out a splendid arm, as if calling the vicomte's attention to it.

The vicomte twisted his shoulder and made a grimace. "I will kill you as certainly as we stand here. It is written. And after you . . ."

D'Herouville could not piece together this broken sentence.

Four days later, the first of October, they came to the mission. The lake of Onondaga lay glittering in the sunshine, surrounded by green valleys, green hills, and crimsoning forests. As they arrived at the palisade and fort, Du Puys, sighting them, fired a salute of welcome. The echoes awoke, and hurried to the hills and back again with thrilling sound. The deer lifted his lordly antlers and trembled; the bear, his jaws dripping with purloined honey, flattened his ears restlessly; the dozing panther opened his eyes, yellow and round as a king's louis; and from the dead arms of what was once a kingly pine, the eagle rose and described circles as he soared heavenward. The gaze of the recent captives roved. Here were fruitful valley and hill; pine, oak, beech, maple and birch; luscious grape and rosy apple; corn and golden pumpkin. They saw where the beaver burrowed in his dams, and in the golden shallows and emerald deeps of the lake caught glimpses of trout, bass, salmon and pickerel. And what a picture met their eyes as they entered the palisades: the black-robed priests, the shabby uniforms of the soldiers and their quaint weapons and dented helmets, the ragged garbs of the French gentlemen who had accompanied the expedition, the painted Indian and his ever-inconsolable dog.

"Here might a man dwell in peace," said the Chevalier.

"Not with ambition for his bride," was the vicomte's observation.

The beginning of the end came on the seventh of October, after a famous hunting day. A great fire was built on the shores of the lake. The moon, crooked in shape and mellow as a fat pumpkin, hung low over the forest crests. The water was golden and red: the moon and the flames. The braves were holding a hunting dance in honor of the kill. There were at this time about sixty warriors encamped around the mission. The main body was at the Long House, far back among the hills. A weird chanting broke the stillness of the night. The outer circle was composed of the older braves and chieftains, the colonists, the Jesuits, and the four unhappy men who were their guests. None of the four took particular interest in the unique performance. Here they were, but little better situated than at Oneida. True, they were no longer ill-treated and food was plentiful, but they were held here in a captivity no less irksome. They were prisoners of impotency. Chance and the god of whims had put them upon a sorry highway to the heart's desire. It mattered nothing that madame had said plainly that she loved none of them. The conceit of man is such that, like hope, it dies only when he dies. Perhaps the poet's heart was the most peaceful: he had bravely turned over the alluring page.

The dance grew wilder and noisier.

Chaumonot guilelessly pushed his inquiries regarding Monsieur le Marquis. Those thousand livres had done so much! That generosity was so deeply imbedded in his mind! And what had brought Monsieur le Marquis to Quebec, and how long was he to remain? The Chevalier's jaws knotted and knotted; but he succeeded in answering each question courteously or avoiding it adroitly by asking a question himself. More than once he felt the desire to leap up and dash into the forest. Anything but that name . . . Monsieur le Marquis! "Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!" It had been a cup of gall indeed that he drank outside his father's chamber.

All this while D'Herouville smiled and smiled; the vicomte labored over the rust on his blade. When at length the good Father moved to another side of the circle, where Du Puys and Nicot sat, the Chevalier stood up and stepped before D'Herouville.

"Rise, Monsieur," he said. His voice was even.

D'Herouville rose, wondering. Victor ceased to inspect his hands, and the vicomte let the blade sink to his knees.

"You have laughed, Monsieur D'Herouville; you have laughed at misfortune." The Chevalier still spoke quietly. Only Victor surmised the raging fire beneath those quiet tones.

"And will," retorted D'Herouville, his eyes lighting with intelligence.

"At Quebec you held an unmanly threat above my head. Come with me; there is no woman here."

"Fight you? I believe we have settled that matter," insolently.

The Chevalier brought the back of his hand swiftly against D'Herouville's mouth.

The laugh which sounded came from the vicomte. This would be interesting if no one interfered. But he was up almost as quickly as Victor, who rushed between the two men. D'Herouville's sword was half free.

"Wherever you say!" he cried hoarsely.

"A moment, gentlemen!" said the vicomte, pointing toward the dancing circle.

A tall figure had stepped quietly into the dancing circle, raising his hands to command silence. It was the Black Kettle, son of Atotarho.

"Two stranger canoes are coming up the river. Let us go to meet them," said the Black Kettle. "Either they are friends, or they are enemies."

"Let us wait and see what this is," and the vicomte touched the Chevalier on the arm.

"Curse you all!" cried D'Herouville passionately. "Liar!" He turned upon Victor. "But for your lying tongue, I should not be here."

"After Monsieur le Chevalier," said the poet, forgetting that he could not hold a sword.

"Rather say after me, Saumaise;" and the vicomte smiled significantly.

"All of you, together or one at a time!" D'Herouville was mad with rage.

"One at a time," replied the banterer; "the Chevalier first, and if he leaves anything worth fighting, I; as for you, my poet, your chances are nil."

Meanwhile a dozen canoes had been launched. A quarter of an hour passed anxiously; and then the canoes returned, augmented by two more. Father Chaumonot hailed. An answering hail came back.

"Father Chaumonot?"

"Who calls me by name?" asked the Jesuit.

"Brother Jacques!"

Brother Jacques! The human mind moves quickly from one thing to another. For the time being all antagonism was gone; a single thought bound the four men together again.

"Are you alone?" asked Chaumonot. His voice quavered in spite of his effort.

"No!" sang out Brother Jacques's barytone; and there was a joyous note in it. "Two daughters of Onontio are captives with me."

Two daughters of Onontio; two women from the Chateau St. Louis! A rare wine seemed to infuse the Chevalier's blood. He forgot many things in that moment.

"Women?" murmured Father Chaumonot, in perplexity. "Oh, this is fortunate and yet unfortunate! What shall we do with them here? I can spare no men to take them back to Quebec; and the journey would only plunge them into danger even worse."

The Senecas, sullen but dignified, and their captives were brought ashore and led toward the fire. The Onondagas crowded around. These, then, were the fair flowers which grew in the gardens of the white man; and the young braves, who had never before set eyes upon white women, gazed wonderingly and curiously at the two marvels. The women sustained with indifference and composure this mild investigation. They had gone through so much that they were not interested in what they saw. The firelight illumined their sadly arrayed figures and played over their worn and weary faces. Father Chaumonot extended his hands toward them reassuringly; and they followed his every gesture with questioning eyes. Corn Planter, the Seneca chief, began to harangue. Since when had the Onondaga brother taken it upon himself to meddle with the affairs of the Senecas? Was not the law written plainly? Did the Onondaga wish to defy the law of their forefathers? The prisoners were theirs by right of their cunning. Let the Senecas proceed with their captives, as their villages were yet very far away, and they had spent much time in loitering.

"We will buy," said Father Chaumonot, knowing the savage's cupidity. "Two belts of wampum."

The Corn Planter made a negative sign.

"Ten beaver skins," said the priest.

"The daughters of Onontio are worth a thousand beaver skins."

"Well, then," said leather Chaumonot, reaching down and taking a musket from the ground, "this with powder and ball to go with it."

The Corn Planter wavered. He took the gun and inspected it, turned it over to his companions that they might also pass judgment upon it; and they whispered among themselves for a space.

"Corn Planter accepts the thunderer for himself and ten beaver skins for his brave warriors," and the barter was consummated.

It was now that madame saw four familiar faces beyond the fire. These men, these men; even here, in the heart of the wilderness! With an odd little smile she extended her hands, swayed, and became limp upon Brother Jacques's arm.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FLASH FROM THE SPURT OF FLAME

The presence of the women in the settlement brought about a magic change. Beards were clipped, locks were trimmed, clothes overhauled, and the needle and thread performed an almost forgotten office; the jest was modified, and the meal hours were quiet and decorous. The women were given a separate cabin in which they were to sleep, and every one contributed something toward their comfort. Father Le Mercier even went so far as to delay mass the first morning in order that the women might be thoroughly rested. Thus, a grain of humor entered into the lives of these grim men.

"Madame," said the Chevalier, "permit me to felicitate you upon your extraordinary escape." This was said during the first morning.

Madame courtesied. Her innate mockery was always near the surface.

"Will you grant me the pleasure of showing you the mission?"

"No, Monsieur le Chevalier; Monsieur de Saumaise and Brother Jacques have already offered to do that service. Monsieur," decidedly, "is it to be peace or war?"

"Should I be here else?"

"Else what, peace or war?"

"Neither. I shall know no peace. I have followed you, as I said, though indirectly."

"Ah! then you really followed me this time? Did you read that letter which I sent to you?"

"Letter? I have seen no letter from you."

"I believe I sent you one . . . after that morning."

"I have not seen it."

She breathed a sigh of relief. He did not know, then? So the comedy must go on as of old. "So you followed me," as if musing.

"Ah, Madame, what else could I do?"

"Why, you might not have followed me;" and with this ambiguous retort, she moved away,

The Chevalier shouldered his ax and made off toward a clump of maples where several woodsmen were at work. His heart was gay rather than sad. For would she not be forced to remain here indefinitely? And whenever Father Chaumonot could spare the men, would he not be one of them to return to Quebec with her?

The poet and Brother Jacques escorted the two women about the mission; and squaws, children, and young braves followed them curiously. When they arrived at the rude chapel, all four knelt reverently. Piles of lumber, the harvest of the forest, lay on the ground. The women breathed long and deeply the invigorating odor which hangs like incense over freshly hewn wood. They drank the bubbling waters of the Jesuits' well, and wandered about the salt marshes, Victor going ahead with a forked stick in case the rattlesnake should object to their progress. Madame was in great spirits. She laughed and sang snatches of song. Never had Victor seen her more blithe.

"And it was here that Hiawatha came with his white canoe!" she cried; and tried to conjure up a picture of a venerable Indian with white hair.

"Yes," said Brother Jacques, but without enthusiasm. He could never hear again that name without experiencing the keenest pain and chagrin.

"Do not look so sad, Brother Jacques," Anne requested. "The terrible journey is over, and you were not to blame."

Brother Jacques looked out over the water. It was the journey to come which appalled him. Ah, but that journey which was past! Were he but free from these encumbering robes; were he but a man like the poet or the Chevalier! Alas, Brother Jacques!

"Victor," said madame, on the return to the palisade, "stay with me as much as possible. Do not let Cevennes, D'Herouville, or the vicomte come near me alone."

"Gabrielle, in the old days you were not quite fair to me."

"I know it, Victor; pardon, pardon," pressing his hand. "I am very unhappy over what I have done." As, indeed, she was.

"Do you love the Chevalier?" he asked, quietly.

"Love him?" The scorn which may be thrown into two words! "Love him, Victor?" She laughed. "As I love the vicomte; as I love D'Herouville! Victor, I am proud. Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes ground a portrait of mine under his heel . . . . without so much as a glance at it. Neither my vanity nor my pride will forgive that."

"He did not know. Had he but glanced at that miniature, he would have sought you to the ends of the world. Gabrielle, Gabrielle! how could he help it?"

"If you talk like that, Victor, you will make me cry. I am wretched. Why did I leave France?"

"I am very curious to know," with a faint smile. "You were to become a nun?"

"But the sight of those grim walls of the Ursulines!"

"Mademoiselle de Vaudemont intends to enter them."

"She is not frivolous, changeable, inconsistent, like me."

"Nor so lovable!" he whispered.

"What did you say then?" she asked.

"Nothing. I will do what I can to aid you to avoid those you dislike." And how, with madame here, to keep these three men from killing each other? He would that morning speak to Du Puys. The soldier might find a way.

"Victor, what has Monsieur le Chevalier done that he comes to this land?"

"He and his father had a difference of opinion; that is all I can say."

"But here, in this wilderness! Why not back to Paris, where Mazarin restored him to favor?"

"Who can explain?"

The day wore on. Madame was very successful in her manoeuvers to keep out of the way of her persecutors, as she had now come to call them. They saw her only at the evening meal, seated at a table some distance from the regular mess; and the presence of the Father Superior kept them from approaching.

It was a brave meal; the Frenchmen noisy and hungry, the priests austere and quiet, the Indian converts solemnly impressed by their new dignity. When the meal was over and the women had repaired to their cabin for the night. Major du Puys signified that he desired to speak in private to Messieurs d'Herouville, d'Halluys, and du Cevennes; and they wonderingly followed him into the inclosure.

"Messieurs," began the major, "there must he no private quarrels here. Men found with drawn swords shall be shot the following morning without the benefit of court-martial."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed D'Herouville.

The Chevalier stamped restlessly, and the vicomte frowned.

"Have the patience to hear me through. There is ill-blood between you three. The cause does not interest me, but here my word is law. The safety of the mission depends wholly upon our order and harmony. The savage is always quarreling, and he looks with awe upon the tranquillity with which we go about our daily affairs. To maintain this awe there must be no private quarrels. Digest this carefully. Draw your weapons in a duel, just or unjust, and I promise to have you shot."

"That appears to be final," remarked the vicomte. He was chagrined, but it was not noticeable in his tones. "What industrious friend has acquainted you with the state of affairs?"

"I was watching your actions last night," replied the major.

"And you saw the blow Monsieur du Cevennes struck me?" snarled D'Herouville.

"When you arrive again in Quebec, Messieurs, you may fight as frequently as you please; but here I am master. I am giving you this warning in a friendly spirit, and I hope you will accept it as such. Good evening."

"Bah!" The vicomte slapped his sword angrily; "how many more acts are there to this comedy? Eh, well, Chevalier, let us go and play dominoes with Monsieur Nicot."

"All this is strangely fortunate for you two gentlemen," said D'Herouville, as they moved toward the fort.

"Or for you, Monsieur d'Herouville," the vicomte sent back.

Three days trickled through the waist of the glass of time. The afternoon of the fourth day was sunless, and the warning of an autumn storm spoke from the flying grey clouds and the buoyant wind which blew steadily from the west. Madame and her companion sat upon the shore, attracted by the combing swells as they sifted and shifted the yellow sand, deadwood, and weed. Pallid greens and browns flashed hither and thither over the tops of the whispering rushes; and from their deeps the blackbird trilled a querulous note. A flock of crows sped noisily along the shore, and a brace of loons winged toward the north in long and graceful loops of speed, and the last yellow butterflies of the year fluttered about the water's edge. Far away to the southwest the moving brown patch was a deer, brought there by his love of salt. From behind, from the forest, came the faint song of the ax. A short distance from the women Brother Jacques was mending a bark canoe; and from time to time he looked up from his labor and smiled at them.

The women were no longer in rags. Atotarho had presented to them dresses which Huron captives had made for his favorite wife. Not in many days had they laughed genuinely and with mirth; but the picture made for each other's eyes,—in fringed blouse, fringed skirt, fringed pantaloons,—overcame their fugitive melancholy; and from that hour they brightened perceptibly. Trouble never prolongs its acquaintance with youth, for the heart and shoulders of youth are strong.

Madame watched the quick movements of Brother Jacques's arms.

"How strong this life makes a man!"

"And I should have died but for those strong arms of Brother Jacques. What would we have done without him?" Anne shuddered as she recalled the long nights in the forests and upon the dark waters.

Far away madame discerned the Chevalier and Victor dragging logs toward the palisade. "To the ends of the world!" A fear settled upon her and darkened for the nonce her new-found gaiety. She was paying dearly for her mad caprice. All these months she might have been snug in the Bearn Chateau or in Spain. What lay behind the veil of days to come? How she hated all these men!

At length Brother Jacques pushed the canoe into the water and came toward the women. He spoke to them cheerily, all the while his melancholy thoughts drawing deeper lines in his face. Madame noted his nervous fingers as they ran up and down his beads, and she was puzzled. Indeed, this black gown had always puzzled her.

"I must go," he said presently. Whither did not matter; only to get away by himself. He strode rapidly into the eternal twilight of the forest, to cast himself down full length on the earth, to hide his face in his arms, to weep!

Ah, cursed heart to betray him thus! That he should tremble in the presence of a woman, become abstracted, to lose the vigor and continuity of thought . . . to love! Never he stood beside her but his flesh burned again beneath the cool of her arms; never he saw her lips move but he felt the sweet warm breath upon his throat. He wept. Who had loved him save Father Chaumonot? None. Like an eagle at sea, he was alone. God had given him a handsome face, but He had also given him an alternate—starvation or the robes. He was a beggar; the gown was his subsistence. By and by his sobs subsided, and he heard a voice.

"So the little Father grows weak?" And the Black Kettle leaned against a tree and looked curiously down upon the prostrate figure in black. "Is he thinking of the house of his fathers; or, has he looked too long upon Onontio's daughter? I have seen; the eagle's eye is not keener than the Black Kettle's, nor his flight swifter than the Black Kettle's thought. Her cheeks are like the red ear; her eyes are like the small blue flower that grows hidden in the forest at springtime; her hair is like the corn that dries in the winter; but she is neither for the Black Kettle nor for his brother who weeps. Why do you wear the black robe, then? I have seen my brother weep! I have seen him face the torture with a smile—and a woman makes him weep!"

Brother Jacques was up instantly. He grasped the brawny arms of the Onondaga and drew him toward him.

"The little Father has lost none of his strength," observed the Onondaga, smiling.

"No, my son; and the tears in his eyes are of rage, not of weakness. Let Dominique forget what he has seen."

"He has already forgotten. And when will my brother start out for the stone house of Onontio?"

"As soon as possible." Aye, how fared Monsieur le Marquis these days?

"But not alone," said the Black Kettle. "The silence will drive him mad, like a brother of his I knew."

"The Great Master of Breath wills it; I must go alone," said Brother Jacques. He was himself again. The tempest in his soul was past.

"I should like to see Onontio's house again;" and the Indian waited.

"Perhaps; if the good Fathers can spare you."

And together they returned to the shore of the lake. The vibrant song of the bugle stirred the hush. It was five o'clock. The soldiers had finished the day's work, and the settlers had thrown down the ax. All were mustered on the parade ground before the palisade. The lilies of France fluttered at the flagstaff. There were fifty muskets among the colonists, muskets of various makes and shapes. They shone dully in the mean light. Here and there a comparatively new uniform brightened the rank and file. They had been here for more than a year, and the seventeenth of May, the historic date of their departure from Quebec, seemed far away. Few and far between were the notes which came to their ears from the old world, the world they all hoped to see again some day. The drill was a brave sight; for the men went through their manoeuvers with all the pomp of the king's musketeers. A crowd of savages looked on, still awed. But some of the Onondagas laughed or smiled. There was something going on at the Long House in the hills which these Frenchmen knew nothing about. And other warriors watched the scene with the impassiveness of a spider who sees a fly moving toward the web.

The pioneers were hardy men; that some wore skins of beasts, ragged silks and velvets which had once upon a time aired themselves among the fashionable in Paris, and patched and faded uniforms, mattered but little. They were men; and even the Iroquois were impressed by this fact more than any other. Du Puys and Nicot saw that there was no slipshod work; for while the drilling was at present only for show and to maintain awe, the discipline would prove effective in time of need. Neither of these good soldiers had the faith in the Iroquois which made the Jesuit Fathers so trustful. Who could say that all this was not a huge trap, the lid of which might fall any day?

Madame had wandered off by herself to view the scene from a distance; but her interest soon died away and her thoughts became concerned with her strange fate. She regretted her beauty; for she was conscious that she possessed this physical attribute. It had been her undoing; she had used it in play, to this miserable end. It was only when large drops of rain splashed on her face that she realized where she was or that a storm had burst upon the valley.

"Madame, will you do me the honor to accept my cloak?"

Drearily she inclined her head toward the voice, and became awake to the actualities of the moment. For the speaker was D'Herouville. It was the first opportunity he had found to address her, and he was determined to make the most of it.

"Will you accept my cloak, Madame?" he repeated. "It is raining."

"Accept your cloak? Touch anything which belongs to you? I think not, Monsieur!" She went on. She even raised her face toward the cold, sweet-smelling torrents.

"Madame!"

"Monsieur, is it not a grey cloak which you have to offer?" with sudden inspiration. For madame had been thinking lately of that garment which had played so large a part in her destiny. "Have you not the cloak to offer which made me a widow? Monsieur, the sight of you makes me ill. Pray, go about your affairs and leave me in peace. Love you? I abhor you. I can not speak in plainer language."

He muttered an oath inarticulately.

"Take care, Madame!" standing in front of her. How easily he might crush the life from that delicate throat! He checked his rage. Within three hundred yards was the palisade. "I would not be here in these cursed wilds but for your sake. You know the persistence of my love; take heed lest you learn the quality of my hate."

"Neither your love nor your hate shall in the future disturb me. There are men yonder. Do you wish me to shame you by calling them?"

"I have warned you!"

He stepped aside, and she passed on, the rain drenching her hair and face. His gaze, freighted with love and hate and despair, followed her. She was lost to him. He knew it. She had always been lost to him, only her laughter and her smiles had blinded him to the truth. Suddenly all that was good in him seemed to die. This woman should be his; since not honestly, dishonestly. Revenge, upon one and all of them, priests, soldiers, and women, and the other three fools whom madame had tricked as she had him. One of his furies seized him. Some men die of rage; D'Herouville went mad. He looked wildly around for physical relief, something upon which to vent his rage. The blood gushed into his brain—something to break, to rend, to mangle. He seized a small sapling, bore it to the ground, put his foot on it and snapped it with ease. He did not care that he lacerated his hands or that the branches flying back scratched his face. He laughed fiercely. The Chevalier first, that meddling son of the left-hand whom his father had had legitimatized; then the vicomte and the poet. As for madame . . . Yes, yes! That would be it. That would wring her proud heart. Agony long drawn out; agony which turns the hair grey in a single night. That would be it. He could not return to the fort yet; he must regain his calm. Money would buy what he wanted, and the ring on his finger was worth many louis, the only thing of value he had this side of France. But it was enough. A deer fled across his path, and a partridge blundered into his face. They had played him the man in the motley; let them beware of the fool's revenge.

At seven the storm had passed. Around the mess-table sat the men, eating. Victor had thrown his grey cloak over the back of his chair. Occasionally his glance wandered toward madame and Anne. Brother Jacques sat opposite, and the vicomte sat at his side. As they left the table to circle round the fire in the living-room, Victor forgot his cloak, and the vicomte threw it around his own shoulders, intending to follow the poet and join him in a game of dominoes. A spurt of flame crimson-hued his face and flashed over the garment.

Brother Jacques started, his mouth agape.



CHAPTER XXIX

A JOURNEY INTO THE HILLS AND THE TEN LIVRES OF CORPORAL FREMIN

"Madame, you have studiously avoided me." The vicomte twirled his hat.

"And with excellent reason, you will agree."

"You have been here six days, and you have not given me the barest chance of speaking to you." There was a suspicion of drollery in his reproachful tones.

"Monsieur," replied madame, who, finding herself finally trapped with no avenue of escape, quickly adapted herself to the situation, the battle of evasion, "our last meeting has not fully escaped my recollection."

"All is fair in love and war. It came near being a good trick,—that blank paper."

"Not quite so near as might be. It is true that I did not suspect your ruse; but it is also true that I had but one idea and one intention, to gain the paper."

"And supposing it had been real, genuine?"

"Why, then, I should have at least half of it, which would be the same thing as having all of it." Contact with this man always put a delicate edge to her wit and sense of defense. She could not deny a particle of admiration for this strange man, who proceeded toward his ends with the most intricate subterfuge, and who never drew a long face, who accepted rebuffs with smiles and banter.

"You know, Madame, that whatever I have done or shall do is out of love for you."

"I would you were out of love with me!"

"The quality of my love . . ."

"Ah, that is what disturbs me—the quality!" shrewdly.

"There is quality and quantity without end. I am not a lover who pines and goes without his meals. Madame, observe me—I kneel. I tell you that I adore you. Will you be my wife?"

"No, a thousand times no! I know you to be a brave man, Monsieur le Vicomte; but who can put a finger on your fancy? To-day it is I; to-morrow, elsewhere. You would soon tire of me who could bring you no dowry save lost illusions and confiscated property. Doubtless you have not heard that his Eminence the cardinal has posted seals upon all that which fell to me through Monsieur de Brissac."

"What penetration!" thought the vicomte, rising and dusting his knees.

"And yet, Monsieur," impulsively, "I would not have you for an enemy."

"One would think that you are afraid of me."

"I am," simply.

"Why?"

"You are determined that I shall love you, and I am equally determined that I shall not."

"Ah! a matter of the stronger mind and will."

"My will shall never bend toward yours, Monsieur. What I fear is your persecution. Let us put aside love, which is impossible, and turn our attention to something nearer and quite possible—friendship." She extended her hand, frankly, without reservation. If only she could in some manner disarm this man!

"What!" mockingly, "you forgive my attempt at Quebec to coerce you?"

"Frankly, since you did not succeed, Monsieur, I have seen too much of men not to appreciate a brilliant stroke. Had I not torn that paper from your hand, you might have scored at least half a trick. There is a high place somewhere in this world for a man of your wit and courage."

"Mazarin's interpretation of that would be a gibbet on Montfaucon."

"I am offering you friendship, Monsieur." The hand remained extended.

The vicomte bowed, placed his hands behind his back and bowed again. "Friendship and love; oil and water. Madame, when they mix well, I will come in the guise of a friend. Sometimes I've half a mind to tell the Chevalier who you are; for, my faith! it is humorous in the extreme. I understand that you and he were affianced, once upon a time; and here he is, making violent love to you, not knowing your name any more than Adam knew Eve's."

"Very well, then, Monsieur. Since there can be no friendship, there can be nothing. Hereafter you will do me the kindness not to intrude into my affairs."

"Madame, I am a part of your destiny. I told you so long ago."

"I am a woman, and women are helpless." Madame was discouraged. What with that insane D'Herouville, the Chevalier, and this mocking suitor, her freedom was to prove but small. France, France! "And I am here in exile, Monsieur, innocent of any wrong."

"You are guilty of beautiful eyes."

"I should have thrown myself upon Mazarin's mercy."

"Which is like unto the flesh of the fish—little blood and that cold. You forget your beauty, Madame, and your wit. Mazarin would have found you very guilty of these. And is not Madame de Montbazon your mother? Mazarin loves her not overwell. Ah, but that paper! What the devil did we sign it for? I would give a year of my life could I but put my hands upon it."

"Or the man who stole it."

"Or the man who stole it," repeated he.

"When I return to France, I shall have a deal to revenge," her hands clenching.

"Let me be the sword of wrath, Madame. You have but to say the word. You love no one, you say. You are young; I will devote my life to teaching you."

Madame's gesture was of protest and of resignation. "Monsieur, if you address me again, I shall appeal to Father Le Mercier or Father Chaumonot. I will not be persecuted longer."

"Ah, well!" He moved aside for her and leaned against a tree, watching her till she disappeared within the palisade. "Now, that is a woman! She lacks not one attribute of perfection, save it be a husband, and that shall be found. I wonder what that fool of a D'Herouville was doing this morning with those dissatisfied colonists and that man Pauquet? I will watch. Something is going on, and it will not harm to know what." He laughed silently.

Before the women entered the wilderness to create currents and eddies in the sluggish stream which flowed over the colonists, Victor began to compile a book on Indian lore. He took up the work the very first night of his arrival; took it up as eagerly as if it were a gift from the gods, as indeed it was, promising as it did to while away many a long night. He depended wholly upon Father Chaumonot's knowledge of the tongue and the legends; and daring the first three nights he and Chaumonot divided a table between them, the one to scribble his lore and the other to add a page to those remarkable memoirs, the Jesuit Relations. The Chevalier watched them both from a corner where he sat and gravely smoked a wooden pipe.

And then the manuscript of the poet was put aside.

"Why?" asked Chaumonot one night. He had been greatly interested in the poet's work.

Victor flushed guiltily. "Perhaps it may be of no value. There are but half a dozen thoughts worth remembering."

"And who may say that immortality does not dwell in these thoughts?" said the priest. "All things are born to die save thought; and if in passing we leave but a single thought which will alleviate the sufferings of man or add beauty to his existence, one does not live and die in vain." Chaumonot's afterthought was: "This good lad is in love with one or the other of these women."

But Clio knew Victor no more. On the margins he drew faces or began rondeaux which came to no end.

"Laughter has a pleasant sound in my ears, Paul," said Victor; "and I have not heard you laugh in some time."

"Perhaps the thought has not occurred to me," replied the Chevalier, glancing at the entrance to the palisade. Madame had only that moment passed through, having left the vicomte. "I have lost the trick of laughing. No thought of mine is spontaneous. With a carpenter's ell I mark out each thought; it is all edges and angles."

"Something must be done, then, to make you laugh. Madame and mademoiselle have promised to take a canoe trip back into the hills this afternoon. Come with us."

"They suggested . . . ?" the Chevalier stammered.

"No. But haven't you the right? At least you know madame."

"Madame?"

"Madame, always madame. Here formalities would only be ridiculous. You will go with us for safety's sake, if for nothing more."

"I will go . . . with that understanding. Ah, lad, if only I knew what you know!"

"We should still be where we are," evasively. The poet had a plan in regard to madame and the Chevalier. It twisted his brave heart, yet he clung to it.

Caprice is an exquisite trait in a woman; a woman who has it—and what woman has not?—is all the seasons of the year compressed into an hour—the mildness of spring, the warmth of summer, the glory of autumn, and the chill of winter. And when madame saw the Chevalier that afternoon, she put a foot into the canoe, and immediately withdrew it.

"What is it?" asked Victor.

"Is Monsieur le Chevalier going?"

"Yes." Victor waited. "Why?" he said finally.

"Nothing, nothing." Madame took her place in the canoe.

"It is necessary for our general safety, Madame, that the Chevalier goes with us."

"There is danger, then?"

"There will he none," emphatically.

"Let us be off," was madame's rejoinder.

The Chevalier stepped in and took the paddle, while Victor pushed the canoe into the water. He and Anne followed presently. Madame sat in the bow, her back to the Chevalier, her hands resting lightly on the sides. The rings which the Chevalier had seen on those beautiful hands while in Quebec were gone, even to the wedding ring. They were doubtless bedecking the pudgy digits of one Corn Planter's wife, far away in the Seneca country. The canoe quivered as the Chevalier's strong arms swung the narrow-bladed paddle. Past marshes went the painted canoes; they swam the singing shallows; they glided under shading willow; they sped by wild grape-vine and spreading elm. The stream was embroidered with a thousand grasses, dying daisies, paling goldenrod, berry bushes, and wild-rose thorn. A thousand elusive perfumes rose to greet them, a thousand changing scenes. October, in all her gorgeous furbelows, sat upon her throne. The Chevalier never uttered a word, but studied madame's half-turned cheek. Once he was conscious that the color on that cheek deepened, then faded.

"It is the wind," he thought. "She is truly the most beautiful woman in all the world; and fool that I am, I have vowed to her face that I shall make her love me!" He could hear Victor's voice from time to time, coming with the wind.

"Monsieur," madame said abruptly, when the silence Could no longer be endured, "since you are here . . . Well, why do you not speak?"

The paddle turned so violently that the canoe came dangerously near upsetting.

"What shall I say, Madame?"

"Eh! must I think for you?" impatiently.

The fact that her eye was not upon him, gave him a vestige of courage. "It is a far cry from the galleries of the Louvre, Madame, to this spot."

"We have gone back to the beginning of the world. No music save Nicot's violin, which he plays sadly enough; no masks, no parties, no galloping to the hunt, no languishing in the balconies. Were it not pregnant with hidden dangers, I should love this land. I wonder who is the latest celebrity at the old Rambouillet; a poet possibly, a swashbuckler, more probably."

"Move back a little, Madame. We shall land on that stretch of sand by the willows."

Madame did as he required, and with a dexterous stroke the Chevalier sent the craft upon the beach and jumped out. This manoeuver to assist her did not pass, for she was up and out almost as soon as he. In a moment Victor came to the spot. The two canoes were hidden with a cunning which the Chevalier had learned from the Indian.

Above them was a hill which was almost split in twain by a gorge or gully, down through which a brook leaped and hounded and tumbled, rolling its musical "r's." The four started up the long incline, the women gathering the belated flowers and the men picking up curious sticks or sending boulders hurtling down the hillside. Higher and higher they mounted till the summit was reached. Hill after hill rolled away to the east, to the south, to the west, while toward the north the lake glittered with all the brilliancy of a cardinal's plate.

"Can it be," said Victor, breaking the spell, "can it be that we once knew Paris?"

"Paris!" repeated madame. Her eyes took in her beaded skirt and moccasins and replaced them with glowing silks and shimmering laces.

Paris! Many a phantom was stirred from its tomb at the sound of this magic name.

Anne perched herself upon a boulder and the Chevalier rested beside her, while madame and the poet strolled a short distance away.

"Shall we ever see our dear Paris again, Gabrielle?" asked the poet.

"I hope so; and soon, soon!"

"How came you to sign that paper?"

"He would have broken my arm, else. How I hated him! Tricks, subterfuges, lies, menaces; I was surrounded by them. And I believed in so many things those early days!"

"How softly breathes this last, lingering ghost of summer," he said. "How lovingly the pearls and opals and amethysts of heaven linger on the crimsoning hills! See how the stream runs like a silver thread, laughing and singing, to join the grave river. We can not see the river from here, but we know how gravely it journeys to the sea. Can you not smell the odor of mint, of earth, of the forest, and the water? Hark! I hear a bird singing. There he goes, a yellow bird, a golden rouleau of song. How the yellow flower stands out against the dark of the grasses! It is all beautiful. It is the immortality in us which nature enchants. See how the wooded lands fade and fade till they and the heavens meet and dissolve! And all this is yours, Gabrielle, for the seeing and the hearing. Some day I shall know all things, but never again shall I know the perfect beauty of this day. Some day I shall know the reason for this and for that, why I made a bad step here and a short one there; but never again, this hour." He picked up a chestnut-bur and opened it, extending the plump chestnuts to her.

How delicately this man was telling her that he still loved her! Absently her hand closed over the chestnuts, and the thought in her eyes was far away. If only it had been written that she might love him!

"Monsieur de Saumaise," said Anne, "will you take me to the pool? You told me that it would make a fine mirror, and I have not seen my face in so long a time that I declare I have quite forgotten how it looks."

"Come along, Mademoiselle; into the heart of the wood. I had a poem to recite to you, but I have forgotten part of it. It is heroic, and begins like this:

"Laughing at fate and her chilling frown, Plunging through wilderness, cavern, and cave, Building the citadel, fortress, and town, Fearing nor desert, the sea, nor the grave: Courage finds her a niche in the knave, Fame is not niggard with laurel or pain; Pathways with blood and bones do they pave: These are the hazards that kings disdain!

"Bright are the jewels they add to the crown, Levied on savage and pilfered from slave: Under the winds and the suns that brown, Fearing nor desert, the sea, nor the grave! High shall the Future their names engrave, For these are lives that are not spent in vain, Though their reward be a tomb 'neath the wave. These are the hazards that kings disdain!

"I will try to remember the last stanza and the envoi as we go along," added Victor.

And together they passed down the ravine, two brave hearts assuming a gaiety which deceived only the Chevalier, who still reclined against the boulder and was proceeding silently to inspect the golden plush of an empty bur. Two or three minutes passed; Victor's voice became indistinct and finally was heard no longer, Madame surveyed the Chevalier with a lurking scornful smile. This man was going to force her to love him!

"Monsieur, you seem determined to annoy me. I shall not ask you to speak again."

"Is it possible that I can still annoy you, Madame?"

Madame crushed a bur with her foot . . . and gasped. She had forgotten the loose seam in her moccasin. The delicate needles had penetrated the flesh. This little comedy, however, passed over his head.

"I did not ask you to accompany me to-day."

"So I observed. Nor did I ask to come. That is why I believed in silence. Besides, I have said all I have to say," quietly. He cast aside the bur.

"Then your vocabulary consists of a dozen words, such as, 'It is a far cry from the Louvre to this spot'?"

"I believe I used the word 'galleries.'" Their past was indissolubly linked to this word.

"On a certain day you vowed that you should force me to love you. What progress have you made, Monsieur? I am curious."

"No man escapes being an ass sometimes, Madame. That was my particular morning."

Decidedly, this lack of interest on his part annoyed her. He had held her in his arms one night, and had not kissed her; he had vowed to force her to love him, and now he sat still and unruffled under her contempt. What manner of man was it?

"When are we to be returned to Quebec? I am weary, very weary, of all this. There are no wits; men have no tongues, but purposes."

"Whenever Father Chaumonot thinks it safe and men can be spared, he will make preparations. It will be before the winter sets in."

Madame sat down upon an adjacent boulder, and reflected.

"Shall I gather you some chestnuts, Madame? They are not so ripe as they might be, but I daresay the novelty of eating them here in the wilderness will appeal to your appetite."

"If you will be so kind," grudgingly.

So he set to work gathering the nuts while she secretly took off her moccasin in a vain attempt to discover the disquieting bur-needles. He returned presently and deposited a hatful of nuts in her lap. Then he went back to his seat from where he watched her calmly as she munched the starchy meat. It gradually dawned on him that the situation was absurd; and he permitted a furtive smile to soften his firm lips. But furtive as it was, she saw it, and colored, her quick intuition translating the smile.

"It is absurd; truthfully, it is." She swept the nuts to the ground.

"But supposing I change all this into something more than absurd? Supposing I should suddenly take you in my arms? There is no one in sight. I am strong. Supposing, then, I kissed you, taking a tithe of your promises?"

She looked at him uneasily. Starting a fire was all very well, but the touch of it!

"Supposing that I took you away somewhere, alone, with me, to a place where no one would find us? I do not speak, you say; but I am thinking, thinking, and every thought means danger to you, to myself, to the past and the future. How do these suppositions appeal to you, Madame?"

Had he moved, madame would have been frightened; but as he remained in the same easy attitude, her fear had no depths.

"But I shall do none of these things because . . . because it would be hardly worth while. I tried to win your love honestly; but as I failed, let us say no more about it. I shall make no inquiries into your peculiar purpose; since you have accomplished it, there is nothing more to be said, save that you are not honest."

"Let us be going," she said, standing. "It will be twilight ere we reach the settlement."

"Very well;" and he halloed for Victor.

The way back to the fort was one of unbroken silence. Neither madame nor the Chevalier spoke again.

The Chevalier had some tasks to perform that evening which employed his time far beyond the meal hour. When he entered the mess-room it was deserted save for the presence of Corporal Fremin, one of the dissatisfied colonists. Several times he had been found unduly under the influence of apricot brandy. Du Puys had placed him in the guardhouse at three different periods for this misdemeanor. Where he got the brandy none could tell, and the corporal would not confess to the Jesuit Fathers, nor to his brother, who was a priest. Unfortunately, he had been drinking again to-day. He sat opposite the Chevalier, smoking moodily, his little eyes blinking, blinking.

"Corporal," said the Chevalier, "will you pass me the corn?"

"Reach for it yourself," replied the corporal, insolently. He went on smoking.

The Chevalier sat back in his chair, dumfounded. "Pass me that corn!" peremptorily.

The intoxicated soldier saw nothing in the flashing eyes; so he shrugged. "I am not your lackey."

The Chevalier was up in an instant. Passing quickly around the table he inserted his fingers between the corporal's collar and his neck, twisting him out of his chair and literally lifting him to his feet.

"What do you mean by this insolence? Pah!" scenting the brandy; "you have been drinking."

"What's that to you? You are not my superior officer. Let go of my collar."

"I am an officer in the king's army, and there is an unwritten law that all non-commissioned officers are my inferiors, here or elsewhere, and must obey me. You shall go to the guardhouse. I asked nothing of you but a common courtesy, and you became insolent. To the guardhouse you shall go."

"My superior, eh?" tugging uselessly at the hand of iron gripping his collar. "I know one thing, and it is something you, fine gentleman that you are, do not know. I know who my mother was . . ."

The corporal lay upon his back, his eyes bulging, his face purple, his breaths coming in agonizing gasps.

"Who told you to say that? Quick, or you shall this instant stand in judgment before the God who made you! Quick!"

There was death in the Chevalier's eyes, and the corporal saw it. He struggled.

"Quick!"

"Monsieur d'Herouville! . . . You are killing me!"

The Chevalier released the man's throat.

"Get up," contemptuously.

The corporal crawled to his knees and staggered to his feet. "By God, Monsieur! . . ." adjusting his collar.

"Not a word. How much did he pay you to act thus basely?"

"Pay me?"

"Answer!" taking a step forward.

"Ten livres," sullenly.

The Chevalier's hands opened and closed, convulsively. "Give me those livres," he commanded.

"To you?" The corporal's jaw fell. "What do you . . . ?"

"Be quick about it, man, if you love your worthless life!"

There was no gainsaying the devil in the Chevalier's eyes.

Scowling blackly, the corporal emptied his pockets. Immediately the Chevalier scooped up the coin in his hand.

"When did D'Herouville give these to you?"

"This afternoon."

"You lie, wretch!"

Both the corporal and the Chevalier turned. D'Herouville's form stood, framed in the doorway.

"Leave the room!" pointing toward the door.

D'Herouville stepped aside, and the corporal slunk out.

The two men faced each other.

"He lies. If I have applied epithets to you, it has been done openly and frankly. I have not touched you over some one's shoulder, as in the De Leviston case. I entertain for you the greatest hatred. It will be a pleasure some day to kill you."

The Chevalier looked at the coin in his hand, at D'Herouville, then back at the coin.

"Believe me or not, Monsieur. I overheard what took place, and in justice to myself I had to speak." D'Herouville touched his hat and departed.

The Chevalier stood alone, staring with blurred eyes at the sinister contents of his hand.



CHAPTER XXX

THE VICOMTE D'HALLUYS RECEIVES BROTHER JACQUES' ABSOLVO TE

The fort had four large compartments which consisted of a mess-room already described, a living-room, general sleeping quarters for the Jesuit Fathers, lay brothers and officers, and a large room for stores. A roomy loft extended over the mess-room, to be resumed again over the sleeping quarters, the living-room being situated between. Unknown to the Iroquois, a carpenter's shop had been established in the loft for the purpose of constructing some boats.

From the living-room there came to the Chevalier the murmur of voices, sometimes a laugh. He was unaware of how much time passed. He was conscious only of the voices, the occasional laugh, and the shining pieces of silver in his hand. The perpendicular furrow above his nose grew deeper and deeper, the line of his lips grew thinner and thinner, and the muscles of his jaws became and remained hard and square. Presently he shook his head as a lion shakes his when about to leap. He righted the corporal's chair and pushed his own under the table. He had forgotten his hunger. With the coin closed tightly in his fist, he started toward the door which gave into the living-room. He stopped still when his foot touched the threshold, and leaned against the jamb, gloomily surveying the occupants of the room. He saw Victor seated at his table, making corrections on the pages of what was to be his book of lore. Father Chaumonot and Brother Jacques shared the table with the poet, and both were reading. The gentlemen who had been forced either by poverty or the roving hand of adventure to take parts in this mission drama were gathered before the fire, discussing the days of prosperity and the court of Louis XIII. A few feet from the poet's table stood another, and round this sat Major du Puys, Nicot, and the vicomte, engaged in a friendly game of dominoes. D'Herouville, Corporal Fremin, Jean Pauquet and a settler named The Fox, were not among the assemblage.

Victor saw his friend, nodded and smiled. But the Chevalier did not return the smile. Had Victor looked closer he would have seen the pall of impending tragedy on the Chevalier's darkened brow.

"Ha!" said the vicomte, as he stirred the dominoes about; "there you are, Chevalier. Come and take a hand." He smiled encouragingly.

The Chevalier went slowly toward the table, never taking his eyes from the vicomte's face. When he finally stood beside the vicomte's stool, he stretched out his arm and opened his hand.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," he said, "do you recognize these ten pieces of silver?"

Not a man among them all but felt the ice of a chill strike his spine at the sound of the Chevalier's voice. Every head in the room turned.

"Recognize?" The vicomte looked from the hand to the owner's face upon which lay a purpose as calm and relentless as it was deadly. "Recognize? What do you mean, Monsieur?"

The Chevalier answered with a repellent laugh. "Your economy does you credit; you have sold me to a drunken corporal for ten pieces of silver." With a swift movement he flung the silver into the vicomte's upturned face.

The vicomte covered his face with his hands and sprang to his feet. But no sound escaped him. When he withdrew his hands his lips were bleeding and there were blue ridges on his cheeks and forehead.

Confusion. Priests and soldiers and adventurers gathered quickly around. Du Puys took the Chevalier by the shoulders and pressed him back from the table, while Brother Jacques threw his arms around the vicomte. Only the Chevalier and the victim of his rage were apparently calm.

"Are you mad, Chevalier?" demanded Du Puys. "What the devil!"

"Be seated, Messieurs," said the vicomte, wiping his lips. "You are all witnesses to this unprovoked assault. There can be but one result. You shall die, Monsieur," to the Chevalier.

"It is possible." The Chevalier brushed aside Du Puys's hands and tried to reach his sword.

"I will have one or the other of you shot, or both of you," roared Du Puys. But his heart was not in his voice.

"That is a small matter," said the Chevalier.

"What is the meaning of all this?" cried Chaumonot.

"Tell him, Monsieur le Chevalier," laughed the vicomte; "tell him!"

The Chevalier was mute; but his chest heaved and his eyes glowed with a terrible fury.

"Monsieur," continued the vicomte, "you and I will step outside. There is moonlight."

"You will do nothing of the sort, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Brother Jacques coolly.

"I will brook no interference from priests!" declared the vicomte. His calm was gradually leaving him. But before he could prevent it, Brother Jacques had whipped out the vicomte's rapier and had broken it across his knee. "Curse you, you meddling Jesuit!" He wrenched loose a hand and struck Brother Jacques violently in the face.

Brother Jacques caught the wrist. "He grows profane," he said blandly. "Be quiet, Monsieur, or I will break your wrist so badly that you will never be able to handle a sword again."

The vicomte in his rage struck out with the other hand, but the young priest was too quick for him. Both the vicomte's wrists were imprisoned as securely as though bauds of iron encircled them. He struggled for a space, then became still.

"That is more sensible," Brother Jacques said smoothly.

"In Heaven's name, Paul," cried Victor, "what does this all mean?"

"It means, lad, that there are no more masks. That is all. I am sorry, Messieurs, that Monsieur le Vicomte's sword has been broken. Will one of you lend him one?"

"I place you both under arrest," declared Du Puys, emphatically.

"Major," interposed Brother Jacques, "leave Monsieur le Vicomte to me. There will be no duel between these two gentlemen. I will arrange the affair. Unless Monsieur le Chevalier desires to apologize."

"Nothing of the kind!" replied the Chevalier harshly.

"Release my wrists, sneaking priest!"

Brother Jacques nodded toward the Chevalier to signify that he would depend upon his own offices. "Monsieur le Vicomte, listen to me. Will you follow me to your cabin?"

"You?"

"Even so. I have something to say to you."

"Well, I have nothing to say to you. Will you let go of my wrists?"

Brother Jacques lost none of his blandness. "I have only a single question to ask of you. I will first whisper it. If that does not convince you, I will ask it aloud. There are those here who will understand its value." He leaned toward the angry man and whispered a dozen words into his ear, then drew back, still holding the straining wrists.

The vicomte looked steadily into the priest's eyes. There was something lurking in his gaze which would have caused many a brave man to lower his eyes, But there was a vein of fine metal in this priest's composition; and the vicomte's glance broke harmlessly.

"Stare as long and as hard as you please, Monsieur. Shall I ask this question before all these men?"

"I will accompany you." The vicomte had suddenly recovered all his mental balance.

Brother Jacques released his wrists, took up a lighted candle; and the two of them left the room, followed by wondering glances, not the least of these being the Chevalier's, who was at loss to explain the vicomte's sudden docility. The priest and the vicomte soon entered the latter's cabin, and the former placed the candle on the table.

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, where were you on the night of the nineteenth of last February?"

"What is that to you?"

"To me? Nothing. To you? Everything."

"That is a curious question."

"It had power enough to bring you here with me," replied Brother Jacques complacently.

"Why do you wish to know?"

"I saw you," briefly.

"A great many persons saw me that night. I was on guard at the Louvre."

"Between the hours of eleven and twelve?"

Silence. A spider, seeing the light, swung down in jerks from the beams and dangled at the side of the candlestick. Suddenly the priest reached over and caught the vicomte's restless hand.

"Rest assured, Jesuit, that when you broke my sword you left me weaponless."

"I did well to break that sword. It was an evil one."

"You are very strong for a priest," coolly.

"Oh, do not doubt that there is a man within these robes. Listen. Your path and that of the Chevalier du Cevennes must not cross again."

"You speak in riddles."

"Not to you. Behind De Leviston you struck first; now from behind a drunken soldier. It was you all the time. You tricked us cleverly. You were such a good fellow, laughing, witty, debonair. For my part, I would have sworn that D'Herouville was the man. Besides you, Monsieur, D'Herouville is a tyro, a Mazarin to a Machiavelli."

"You flatter me. But why not D'Herouville instead of me?"

"Monsieur, your very audacity betrayed you. Last night you put on the grey cloak. A log spurted a flame, and at once I remembered all."

"Indeed," ironically.

"Yes. You knocked a priest into the gutter that night as you were flying from the scene of your crime. I was that priest. But for the cloak and your remarkable nerve in putting it on, I should have remained in total darkness."

"Beginning with a certain day, you will ever remain in darkness." The vicomte's face was not very pleasant just then.

"The first time you annoy Monsieur le Chevalier, who is the legitimate son of the Marquis de Perigny. . . ."

"Are you quite sure?" the old banter awakening. Suddenly he stared into the priest's face. "My faith, but that would be droll! What is your interest in the Chevalier's welfare? . . . They say the marquis was a gay one in his youth, and handsome, and had a way with the women. Yes, yes; that would be more than droll. You are quite sure of the Chevalier's standing?"

"So sure, Monsieur," said Brother Jacques, "that if you continue to annoy him I shall denounce you."

"The marquis will die some day. How would it please your priestly ear to be called 'Monsieur le Marquis'?"

"Annoy either the Chevalier or Madame de Brissac, and I will denounce you. That is all I have to say to you, Monsieur. To a man of your adroit accomplishments it should be enough. I have no interest in the Perigny family save a friendly one."

"I dare say." The vicomte let his gaze fall till the spider came within vision. He put a finger under it, and the insect began to climb frantically toward its web.

"Thus, you see there will be no duel between you and the Chevalier."

The vicomte turned and looked out of the window; moonlight and glooms and falling leaves. He remained there for some time. Brother Jacques waited patiently to learn the vicomte's determination. He was curious, too, to test this man's core. Was it rotten, or hard and sound? There was villainy, but of what kind? The helpless villainy of a Nero, or the calculating villainy of a Tiberius? When the vicomte presented his countenance to Brother Jacques, it had undergone a change. It was masked with humility; all the haughtiness was gone. He plucked nervously at his chin.

"I will confess to you," he said simply.

"To me?" Brother Jacques recoiled. "Let me call Father Chaumonot."

"To you or to no one."

"Give me a moment to think." Brother Jacques was secretly pleased to have tamed this spirit.

"To you or to no one," repeated the vicomte. "Do you believe in the holiness and sacredness of your office?"

"As I believe in God," devoutly. Fervor had at once elevated Brother Jacques's priestly mind above earthly cunning.

"You will hear my confession?"

"Yes."

The vicomte knelt. From time to time he made a passionate gesture. It was not a long confession, but it was compact and telling.

"Absolvo te," murmured Brother Jacques mechanically, gazing toward Heaven.

Immediately the solemnity of the moment was jarred by a laugh. The vicomte was standing, all piety gone from his face; and a rollicking devil shone from his eyes.

"Now, my curious friend," tapping the astonished priest on the breast, "I have buried my secret beneath this black gown; tell it if you dare."

"You have tricked me in the name of God?" horrified.

"Self-preservation; your knowledge forced me to it. And it was a pretty trick, you will admit, casuist that you are."

"And if I should break my vows?" furiously.

"Break your vows and I promise to kill you out of hand."

"From behind?"

"In whatever manner appears most expedient. That fool of a Brissac; he simply committed suicide. There was no other mode of egress open to me. It was my life or his. That cloak! Well, that was to tell tales in case I was seen from a distance. It nearly succeeded. And I will make an additional confession," throwing back his head, his eyes narrowing, his whole attitude speaking a man's passion. "Yes, your keen intuition has put its finger on the spot. I hate the Chevalier, hate him with a strong man's hate, the unending hate of wounded vanity, of envy, of thwarted desires. There was a woman, once, whom he lured away from me; he gained the commission in the Guards over my head; he was making love to Madame de Brissac, while I, poor fool, loitered in the antechamber. I should have sought all means to bring about his ruin, had he not taken the labor from my hands. But a bastard!" Brother Jacques shuddered. "Bah! What could I do? I could become only a spectator. My word for it, it has been a fine comedy, this bonhomie of mine, this hail-fellow well met. And only to-night he saw the pit at his feet. If that fool of a corporal had not been drunk."

"Wretch!" cried the priest, trembling as if seized with convulsion. Duped!

The vicomte opened the door, and bowed with his hand upon his heart.

"Till the morning prayers, Father," with mock gravity; "till the morning prayers."



CHAPTER XXXI

THE EPIC OF THE HUNTING HUT

So the amiable dog became a lion, bold, impudent, mocking; the mask was gone forever, both from his face and his desires. He wore his empty scabbard with all the effrontery of a man who had fought and won his first duel. Du Puys had threatened to hang the man who gave the vicomte a sword. As the majority of the colonists were ignorant of what lay behind this remarkable quarrel, they naturally took sides with the man whose laugh was more frequent than his frown. Thus, the vicomte still shuffled the ebon dominoes of a night and sang out jovially, "Doubles!" Whenever the man he had so basely wronged passed him, he spat contemptuously and cried: "See, Messieurs, what it is to be without a sword!" And as for Brother Jacques, it was: "And how is Monsieur Jacques's health this fine morning?" or "What a handsome rogue of a priest you are!" or "Can you tell me where I may find a sword?" He laughed at D'Herouville, and bantered the poet on his silence,—the poet whose finer sense and intuition had distrusted the vicomte from the first.

One day madame came out to feed the mission's chickens. Her hand swung to and fro, and like a stream of yellow gold the shelled corn trailed through the air to the ground. The fowls clustered around her noisily. She was unaware of the vicomte, who leaned against the posts of the palisade.

There was in his glance which said: "Madame, I offered to make you my wife; now I shall make you something less." And seeing the Chevalier stirring inside the fort, he mused: "My faith, but that old marquis must have had an eye. The fellow's mother must have been a handsome wench."

Once the vicomte came secretly upon D'Herouville, Fremin, Pauquet, and the woodsman named The Fox because of his fiery hair and beard, peaked face and beady eyes. When the party broke up, the vicomte emerged from his hiding place, wearing a smile which boded no good to whatever plot or plan D'Herouville had conceived. And that same night he approached each of D'Herouville's confederates and spoke. What passed only they themselves knew; but when the vicomte left them they were irrevocably his.

"Eye of the bull!" murmured Corporal Fremin, "but this vicomte is much of a man. As for the Chevalier, what the devil! his fingers have been sunken into my throat."

A mile from the mission, toward the north, of the lake, stood a hut of Indian construction. It had been erected long before the mission. It served as a half-way to the savages after days of hunting in the northern confines of the country of the Onondagas. Here the savages would rest of a night before carrying the game to the village in the hills. It was well hidden from the eyes, thick foliage and vines obscuring it from the view of those at the mission. But there was a well worn path leading to it. It was here that tragedy entered into the comedy of these various lives.

Indian summer. The leaves rustled and sighed upon the damp earth. The cattails waved their brown tassels. Wild ducks passed in dark flocks. A stag sent a challenge across the waters. The lord-like pine looked lordlier than ever among the dismantled oak and maple. The brown nuts pattered softly to the ground, and the chatter of the squirrel was heard. The Chevalier stood at the door of the hunting hut, and all the varying glories of the dying year stirred the latent poetry in his soul. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he read and reread. There was a mixture of joy and puzzlement in his eyes. Diane. It had a pleasant sound; what had she to say that necessitated this odd trysting place? He glanced at the writing again. Evidently she had written it in a hurry. What, indeed, had she to say? They had scarce exchanged a word since the day in the hills when he told her that she was not honest.

A leaf drifted lazily down from the overhanging oak, and another and still another; and he listened. There was in the air the ghostly perfume of summer; and he breathed. He was still young. Sorrow had aged his thought, not his blood; and he loved this woman with his whole being, dishonest though she might be. He carried the note to his lips. She would be here at four. What she had to tell him must be told here, not at the settlement. There was the woman and the caprice. Strange that she had written when early that morning it had been simple to speak. And the Indian who had given him the note knew nothing.

He entered the hut and looked carelessly around. A rude table stood at one side. On the top of it Victor had carved his initials. The Chevalier's eyes filled. Brave poet! Always ready with the jest, light of heart and cheery, gentle and tender, brave as a lion, too. Here was a man such as God intended all men to be. A beggar himself, he gave his last crown to the beggar; undismayed, he would borrow from his friend, paying the crown back in golden louis. How he loved the lad! Only that morning he had romped about the mess-room like a boy escaped from the school-room; imitated Mazarin, Uncle Gaston, the few great councillors, and the royal actors themselves. Even the austere visage of the Father Superior had relaxed and Du Puys had roared with laughter. What was this sudden chill? Or was it his fancy? He stepped into the open again, and found it warm.

"She will be here soon. It is after four. What can she have to say?"

Even as he spoke he heard a sound. It was madame, alone, and she was hurrying along the path. A moment later and they stood together before the threshold of the hut. There was mutual embarrassment which was difficult to analyze. The exertion of the walk had filled her cheeks with a color as brilliant as the bunch of maple leaves which she had fastened at her throat. She was first to speak.

"Well, Monsieur," not over warmly, "what is it you have to say to me which necessitates my coming so far? I believed we had not much more to say." There was no distrust in her eyes, only a cold inquiry. "Are you going to apologize for applying to me the term 'dishonest'?"

The joy vanished from his face, to be replaced by an anxiety which lightened the tan on his cheeks. "Madame, it was your note which brought me here. Read it."

"A clumsy imitation," quickly; "it is not my writing. I suppose, then, that this is also a forgery?" handing him a note which was worded identically the same as his own, "Some one has been playing us a sorry trick." She was angered.

"Let us go back immediately, Madame. We stand in the midst of some secret danger."

But even as he spoke she uttered a suppressed cry and clutched his arm.

The Chevalier saw four men advancing with drawn swords. They formed a semicircle around the hut, cutting off all avenues of escape. Quickly he thrust madame into the hut, whipped out his blade, bared his arm, and waited just inside the doorway. Everything was plain to him. Eh! well, some one would take the journey with him; he would not set out alone. And madame! He was unnerved for a moment.

"Diane," he said, "forgive me as easily as I forgive you," he said quietly. "And pray for us both. I shall be too busy."

She fell upon her knees, folding her hands across her heaving bosom. Her lips moved, but without sound. She saw, possibly, farther into this dark design than the Chevalier. Women love brave men, even as brave men love woman's beauty; and persistently into her prayers stole the thought that this man who was about to defend her honor with his life was among the bravest. A sob choked her.

"D'Herouville, you black scoundrel, why do you come so slowly?" challenged the Chevalier. "The single window is too small for a man to crawl through. Think you to pass this way?"

"I am going to try!" cried D'Herouville, triumphantly. How well everything had turned out. "Now, men, stand back a little; there will be some sword play."

"I'll engage the four of you in the open, if madame is permitted to go free." The Chevalier urged, this simply to gain time. He knew what the answer would be.

D'Herouville appealed to Corporal Fremin. "Is that not an excellent joke, my Corporal?"

"Eye of the bull, yes!"

"Ho! D'Herouville, wait for me!"

Madame sprang to her feet screaming: "Vicomte, save us!" She flew to the door.

"Back, Madame," warned the Chevalier, "or you will have me killed." With his left arm he barred the door.

"Have patience, sweet bird, whom I shall soon take to an eery nest. To be sure I shall save you!" From behind a clumb of hazel the vicomte came forth, a sword in his hand.

It was the tone, not the words, which enveloped madame's heart in a film of ice. One way or the other, it did not matter, she was lost.

"Guard the Chevalier, men!" cried D'Herouville, wheeling. "We shall wipe out all bad debts while we are at it. D'Halluys, look to yourself!"

"You fat head!" laughed the vicomte, parrying in a circle. "Did I not tell you that I should kill you?"

Had he been alone the Chevalier would have rushed his opponents. God help madame when he fell, for he could not kill all these men; sooner or later he must fall. The men made no attempt to engage him. They merely held ready in case he should make a rush.

With the fury of a maddened bull, D'Herouville engaged the vicomte. He was the vicomte's equal in all save generalship. The vicomte loved, next to madame, the game of fence, and he loved it so thoroughly that his coolness never fell below the level of his superb courage. Physically, there was scarce a hair's difference in the weight of the two men. But a parried stroke, or a nicely balked assault, stirred D'Herouville's heat; if repeated the blood surged into his head, and he was often like to throw caution to the winds. Once his point scratched the vicomte's jaw.

"Very good," the vicomte admitted, lunging in flanconade. His blade grated harshly against D'Herouville's hilt. It was close work.

They disengaged. D'Herouville's weapon flashed in a circle. The vicomte's parry was so fine that his own blade lay flat against his side.

"Count, you would be wonderful if you could keep cool that fat head of yours. That is as close as I ever expect to come and pull out."

Presently the end came. D'Herouville feinted and thrust for the throat. Quick as a wind-driven shadow the vicomte dropped on a knee; his blade taking an acute angle, glided under D'Herouville's arm and slid noiselessly into the broad chest of his opponent, who opened his mouth as if to speak, gasped, stumbled and fell upon his face, dead. The vicomte sank his blade into the earth to cleanse it.

Madame had covered her eyes. The Chevalier, however, had watched the contest, but without any sign of emotion on his face. He had nothing to do but wait. He had gained some advantage; one of these men would be tired.

The vicomte came within a yard of the hut, and stopped. He smiled evilly and twisted his mustache. By the attitude of the men, the Chevalier could see that the vicomte had outplanned D'Herouville.

"Chevalier," the vicomte began softly, "for me this is the hour of hours. You will never learn who your mother was. Gabrielle, sweet one with the shadowful eyes, you once asked me why this fellow left France. I will tell you. His father is Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, but his mother . . . who can say as to that?"

He could see the horror gather and grow in madame's eyes, but he misinterpreted it.

"Gabrielle, Gabrielle Diane de Brissac, Montbazon that was, it has been a long chase. Offer me your congratulations. 'Twas I who made you so charming a widow. That grey cloak! It has played the very devil with us all. The tailor who made it must have sprinkled it with the devil's holy water. I wanted only that paper, but the old fool made me fight for it. Monsieur, but for me you would still have lorded it in France. 'Twas the cloak that brought you to Rochelle, induced your paternal parent to declare your illegitimacy, made you wind up the night by flaunting abroad your spotted ticket."

"I am waiting for you," suggested the Chevalier.

"Presently. But what a fine comedy it has been! My faith, it was your poet who had the instinct. Somehow he saw vaguely through the screen, but he could not join the separate parts. It was all droll, my word for it, when I paid you those fifty pistoles that night. But see! those who stand in my path go out of it one by one; De Brissac, D'Herouville, and now comes your turn. D'Herouville planned it well; but it is the old story of the monkey and the cat and the chestnuts in the fire. You shall wear a crown of agony, Chevalier. The waiting has been worth while. We shall not kill you; we shall only crucify your heart . . . by the way of possessing madame."

"Over my body!" The Chevalier cared nothing for these vile insults. He knew the history of his birth; he knew that he was Madame la Marquise's son. He refused to allow these taunts to affect his calm as the vicomte had hoped they would. If he passed through this crisis, he would tell madame the truth. . . . De Brissac! A blur swept across his eyes, and for a moment his hand shook. De Brissac, De Montbazon! It came to him now, the truth of all this coquetry, this fast and loose, this dangling of promises: the vengeance of a woman's vanity. The irony of this moment, the stinging, bitter irony!

The vicomte never knew how close victory was to him in that moment.

"Monsieur le Comte," said madame, "fight bravely, and God be with you. As for me, be easy; Monsieur le Vicomte will not so much as put a finger on me while I live." She drew a knife from the bosom of her blouse and held it in her hand significantly.

"Half the victory gone already, Vicomte!" cried the Chevalier. Madame had addressed him as "Monsieur le Comte."

"Do not disfigure your beauty, Madame; I desire that," was the vicomte's mocking retort. "Now, my friends, if you all would see la belle France again! But mind; the man who strikes the Chevalier a fatal blow shall by my own hand peg out."

In a twinkling of an eye the bright tongues of steel met, flashed, sparkled, ground upon each other, pressed and beat down. As the full horror of the situation came to her, madame saw the figures reel, and there were strangling sensations in her throat and bubbling noises in her ears. The knife slipped from her fingers. She rocked on her knees, sobbing. The power to pray had gone; she could only watch, watch, watch. Ah God! if he should die before her eyes! Her hands rose from her bosom and pressed against her cheeks. Dimly she could hear the gonk-gonk of flying water-fowl: that murder should be done in so fair a place!

The unequal duel went on. Presently The Fox stepped back, his arm gashed. He cursed and took up his sword with his left hand. They tried to lure the Chevalier from his vantage point; but he took no step, forward or backward. He was like a wall. The old song of battle hummed in his ears. Would that Victor were here. It would be a good fight.

"These Perignys are living sword blades," murmured the vicomte. "Come, come; this must end."

They were all hardy men, the blood was rich, the eye keen, the wrist sure; but they could not break down the Chevalier's guard. They knew that in time they must wear him out, but time was very precious to the vicomte. The Chevalier's point laid open the rascal's cheek, it ripped open Fremin's forehead, it slid along Pauquet's hand. A cold smile grew upon the Chevalier's lips and remained there. They could not reach him. There was no room for four blades, and soon the vicomte realized this.

"Satan of hell, back, three of you! We can gain nothing this way. Let me have him alone for a while."

The vicomte's allies drew away, not unreluctantly; and the two engaged. Back a little, then forward a little, lunging, parrying, always that strange, nerve-racking noise of grating steel. It seemed to madame that she must eventually go mad. The vicomte tried all the tricks at his command, but to no avail; he could make no impression on the man in the doorway. Indeed, the vicomte narrowly escaped death three or four different times. The corporal, alive to the shade of advantage which the Chevalier was gaining and to the disaster which would result from the vicomte's defeat, crept slowly up from the side. Madame saw him; but her cry of warning turned into a moan of horror. It was all over. The Chevalier lay motionless on the ground, the blood trickling from a ragged cut above the temple. The corporal had used the hilt of his heavy sword, and no small power had forced the blow.

The vicomte sprang forward just as madame was groping for the knife. He put his foot on it, laughing.

"Not at present, Madame; later, if you are inclined that way. That was well done, Corporal."

The vicomte bound the Chevalier's hands and ankles securely and took the dripping hat from Pauquet, dashing the contents into the Chevalier's face.

"Help me set him up against the wall."

The Chevalier shuddered, and by and by opened his eyes. The world came back to him. He looked at his enemies calmly.

"Well?" he said. He would waste no breath asking for mercy. There was no mercy here.

"You shall be left where you are, Monsieur," replied the vicomte, "while I hold converse with madame inside. You are where you can hear but not see. Corporal, take the men to the canoe and wait for me. Warn me if there is any danger. I shall be along presently. Chevalier, I compliment you upon your fight. I know but a dozen men in all France who are your match."

"What are you going to do?" The Chevalier felt his heart swell with agony.

"What am I going to do? Listen. You shall hear even if you can not see." The vicomte entered the hut.

Madame was standing in a corner. . . . The Chevalier lived. If she could but hold the vicomte at arm's length for a space!

"Well, Madame, have you no friendly welcome for one who loves you fondly? I offered to make you my wife; but now! What was it that Monsieur Shakspere says? . . . 'Sit you down, sweet, till I wring your heart'? Was that it?"

All her courage returned at the sound of his voice. Her tongue spoke not, but the hate in her eyes was a language he read well enough.

"Mine! . . . For a day, or a week, or for life! Has it not occurred to you, sweet? You are mine. Here we are, alone together, you and I; and I am a man in all things, and you are a beautiful woman." His glance, critical and admiring, ran over her face and form. "You would look better in silks. Well, you shall have them. You stood at the door of a convent; why did you not enter? You love the world too well; eh? . . . Like your mother."

Her eyes were steady.

"In my father's orchards there used to be a peach-tree. It had the whimsical habit of bearing one large peach each season. When it ripened I used to stand under it and gloat over it for hours, to fill my senses with its perfect beauty. At length I plucked it. I never regretted the waiting; the fruit tasted only the sweeter. . . . You are like that peach, Madame. By the Cross, over which these Jesuits mumble, but you are worth a dance with death!"

"Had you a mother, Monsieur?"

This unexpected question made him widen his eyes. "Truly, else I had not been here."

"Did she die in peace?"

He frowned. "It matters not how she died." He sat on the edge of the table and swung one leg to and fro. "Some men would give their chance of heaven for a taste of those lips."

"Your chance of heaven, Monsieur, is remote." The setting sun came in through the door and filled her eyes with a golden haze. If there was any fear, the pride on her face hid it.

"Ye gods, but you are a beauty! I can wait no longer for that kiss."

His leg slid from the table. He walked toward her, and she shrank back till she met with the wall. He sprang forward, laughing. She struggled in his strong arms, uselessly. With one hand he pressed up her chin and kissed her squarely on the lips. Then he let her go. She drew her hand across her mouth and spat upon the floor.

"What! So soon, Madame?"

Her bosom rose and fell quickly, as much from rage and hate as from the exertion of the struggle.

"God will punish you, Monsieur, as he punishes all men who abuse their strength as you have done,—punish you for the misery you have brought upon me."

"What! and I bring you love?"

She wiped her lips again, this time on her sleeve.

"Does it burn like that, then?" laughing.

"It is poison," simply.

Outside the Chevalier writhed and twisted and strained. The agony! She was alone in there, helpless. To be free, free! He wept, strove vainly to loose his bonds. He cried aloud in his anguish. And the vicomte heard him. He came to the door where he could see his enemy in torture and at the same time prevent madame's escape.