These newcomers were a sturdy and formidable band of hunters. They were of powerful physique, in the prime of life, and their faces inspired Jean with hope and confidence. They were clad in buckskins, and armed with muskets, hatchets, and hunting-knives. They were warriors now, ready for the fray with the slashers, their enemies of years. They were King George's men, as well, true and loyal. Several of them had the proud distinction of kneeling at Fort Howe five years before and taking the oath of fidelity to the King. They never wearied of telling about that event, and of the grand pow-wow which followed the signing of the treaty. It had been a notable time for them. After they had taken the oath of allegiance, they delivered to Colonel Francklin a string of Wampum as a solemn confirmation of their deed. Following this there was great mirth when they had drunk the King's health, and received a liberal supply of presents. The next day they had been taken on board the man-of-war lying in the harbour, when they again drank the King's health, and were presented with a pound of gunpowder each. When they at last left for their wilderness homes, they were saluted by the cannon of Fort Howe and His Majesty's ship Albany, and they in return had given three huzzas and an Indian war-whoop. Such attention and good will had made a deep impression upon those who had attended the peace-parley. After that they were ever ready to fight against King George's enemies, and they did all in their power to convert the Indians who still remained rebellious.

The story Sam now told the newly-arrived warriors about the capture of the girl by the two rebel Indians aroused their wrath, and they determined to punish the cowardly Micmacs as soon as possible. As for the slashers, they hoped to settle with them at once, which would prove a warning to others. Occasionally they glanced at Jean as she sat watching them. They knew her history now, and they admired her, for Sam had told them of her courage on the trail, and of her bright, cheerful disposition. They were much interested, too, in the little arrow at her throat, and when Jean handed it to them, they examined it intently, and talked to one another in quite an excited manner.

Not for long, however, could the Indians remain at the lodge. There was stern work ahead of them this night, and Sam was becoming uneasy. When he at length rose to his feet and picked up his gun, the visitors did likewise. They examined the priming of their weapons, the bullets in their pouches, and the quantity of powder in their powder-horns. Finding everything to their satisfaction, they were about to leave the lodge, when Jean sprang to her feet and laid a hand upon Sam's arm.

"Don't kill the white men," she pleaded. "Drive them away, but, please don't kill them."

Sam turned and looked at her in silence for a few seconds. His eyes were filled with an expression of admiration for this fair girl. He was willing to do anything for her, but he knew that she did not understand the importance of the mission upon which he and the other warriors were bent.

"You won't kill them, will you?" she asked, noting his silence.

"Slashers bad," Sam replied. "Slashers hurt babby."

"I know they would if they got the chance. But can't you drive them away without killing them? Oh, it would be terrible if you should shoot them! You killed one man, and isn't that enough?"

Sam was in a quandry. He longed for the blood of the slashers whom he hated. This was a great chance to wipe them out of existence. Never before had he had such a just cause against them, and why should he not make the most of it? But it was hard for him to resist the request of the white girl. He turned to the other Indians, and spoke to them in quick, short syllables. They replied, but what they said Jean did not know. She could only hope.

"No kill slashers, eh?" Sam queried, turning to the girl.

"Please don't. Drive them away; frighten them, but do not kill them."

"Sam no say now. See bimeby, mebbe."

To Jean Sam was the very embodiment of good nature and gentle care. And she had good reason for this high regard. But as a great bear has been known to bestow a remarkable affection upon a lost child, notwithstanding its savage nature, so it was with Sam. Could Jean have seen him that night as he led his score of followers against the slashers she would not have believed him to be the same Indian who had been so kind to her. The wild nature within him was aroused. He was on the warpath against a hated enemy. As he glided through the forest, his eyes glowed like living coals of fire, and his great body quivered with excitement. His companions, too, were intensely stirred. The slashers were against King George, and that was all-sufficient. Like weird spectres they moved through the night. Not a word did they speak, and not a twig snapped as their moccasined feet pressed the ground. Never did a girl have a more determined and thoroughly-trained body of men speeding forth on her behalf than did Jean Sterling that night in the heart of the great northern forest.

For a little over half an hour the Indians continued on their way, up hill and down, with no abatement to their speed. At length, after climbing a higher hill than usual, they paused on the eastern slope and held a low-whispered consultation. This took but a few minutes, and when they again advanced it was not in single file, but spread out to the right and left like two wings, with Sam in the centre. Down in the valley were the slashers, and toward them they moved, silently and stealthily as the panther stalking its prey. With bent, crouching bodies, and every sense keenly alert, they glided toward the unsuspecting slashers. Nearer and nearer they approached, and at length when the light of a camp fire winged its way into the forest depths, they lessened their speed, dropped upon their hands and knees, crept cautiously forward, and then stopped but a bow-shot away. Here they remained as silent and rigid as the great trees, keenly observing all that was taking place before them.

Near the fire about twenty-five men were gathered, talking in the most animated manner. They were an evil-looking group of creatures, dirty, unshaven, their clothes ill-fitting and torn. They formed the dregs of the wild, lower than the Indians and the dumb beasts of the trails. They were parasites, a menace to law and order. Honor was unknown among them, and the purity of such a girl as Jean Sterling only aroused the base passions within them. The rangers they feared, as well as the Indians who were loyal to King George. They were cunning woodsmen, subtle as the serpent, and sly as the fox. They were hard to catch, being in one place to-day, and miles away the next. When food was plentiful they were gluttons, but when it was scarce they starved for days. They had a craze for rum, and when drunk they were ugly, maudlin brutes. They were fond of a fight, and fought like demons on the slightest pretext.

Only one thing seriously affected them, and that was a superstitious fear. It hounded them wherever they went, as is so often the case with low, base minds. They had signs many, in the heavens above and the earth beneath, and to these were slaves. Therefore, when they saw Seth Lupin lying dead on the bank of the river with the marks of the clutching fingers upon his throat, some trembled with fear, and glanced apprehensively around. It was the work of the devil, so they said, and they were anxious to leave the place. Others, however, scoffed at them, declaring it was none other than Sam, the ranger, who had been seen lurking in the vicinity that very day. These latter by threats had induced the fearsome ones to accompany them into the wilderness where they knew the supposed murderer had his abode. They could easily overcome him, so they believed, and carry off the beautiful girl. But it had been a difficult journey. They had lost their way, and floundered about in valleys and swamps. Fear still possessed the hearts of more than half their number, and time and time again they were on the point of turning back. But as Sam and his followers watched from the darkness of the woods, the slashers were in better spirits. They were to attack at midnight, and carry off the girl. They discussed their plans for some time, and then curled up near the fire for a short sleep ere beginning the march.

The lurking Indians waited patiently until silence reigned around the fire. Then like unleashed hounds they swept forward, each with a musket in one hand and a hunting-axe in the other. With blood-curdling yells they leaped into the midst of the prostrate men, and as the slashers sprang to their feet, amazed and stricken with fear, they went down before the blows of their assailants like grain before the reapers. Only a few managed to escape by darting aside and losing themselves in the blackness of the forest. The others lay still where they had fallen, with their conquerors standing over them. The Indians had accomplished their task, so with grunts of satisfaction they stripped the slashers of their powder-horns, hunting-knives, muskets, and all the provisions they could find. Loaded with these, they sped back to their former place of waiting, where they cast their booty upon the ground. Here they squatted and watched the unconscious men near the fire.

For some time the Indians remained in this position, and when they began to think that their blows were heavier than they had intended, the slashers showed signs of life. First one and then another lifted his head and looked about in a dazed manner. Presently all but two or three were sitting bolt upright staring at one another. Then as the recollection of what had happened dawned upon their confused minds, they staggered to their feet and groped for their guns. Being unable to find them, they threw a few small sticks upon the dying fire. When their search for the muskets proved in vain, and when they also found that their powder-horns, knives, and provisions were also gone, they stared at one another in profound amazement. They paid no heed to their still prostrate comrades. Their only thought was for themselves. A wild insensate fear swept upon them as they huddled there, peering into the forest. This was something they had never before experienced, and it was beyond their comprehension. It could not have been the work of Indians, so they believed, for then not one of them would have been left alive. But the yells which had awakened them sounded like the yells of Indians, and several had faint recollections of dusky forms hovering over them.

"It was not Indians," one of the men declared. "It was a legion of devils which struck us. Who ever heard of Indians doing such a job? Why, they would have finished every man-jack of us. It's a warning to us to get out of this place and leave that girl alone. I said so at the first when I saw those marks upon Seth Lupin's throat. There's something d—— uncanny about this, and I'm done with it. Let's get away before anything else happens."

Seeing that the slashers were now thoroughly frightened, and would trouble them no more, Sam and his companions picked up their belongings and booty, and glided away silently among the trees. They were not altogether satisfied with their night's work, and so little was said as they sped onward. Their savage nature demanded complete revenge upon their old-time enemy. The partial knock-out blows were not to their liking. Little did the slashers realise that they owed their lives that night to the very girl whose ruin they had sought, who through her gentle influence upon her dusky defenders had caused them to stay their hands and temper their punishment toward their hated enemies.



CHAPTER XXI

THROUGH THE WILDERNESS

Jean learned about her defenders' success upon their return to the lodge. She had been anxiously awaiting their coming, and when they did arrive and she saw the booty they carried with them, her heart sank within her. The slashers must all have been slain, so she imagined. When Sam, however, told her what had happened, she was greatly relieved.

"Will they trouble us any more?" she asked.

"No more now," and Sam smiled. "White man head hurt. Sore. Slashers much 'fraid. Go 'way queek."

"Oh, I am so glad," and Jean gave a sigh of relief. She felt quite secure now, and she looked with admiration upon the hardy Indians who had done so much for her. She thanked them, and they were pleased at her words. To see this white girl happy made up somewhat for their disappointment of the night.

The next day the visitors left for their own lodges, so once again Jean and her two companions were alone. The days that followed were busy ones for the Indians. There were many things to do before starting on their long journey overland of which Jean had no idea. First of all, there was a travelling-suit to be made for the white girl. From the cache Sam brought down some soft, tanned caribou skin, and upon this Kitty began to work. Jean watched her with great interest and admiration.

"What do you call that?" she enquired, pointing to the skin. "Will you teach me some of your words? I want to speak Indian."

Kitty looked at the girl and laughed.

"Injun talk hard," she said. "Babby spik Injun, eh?"

"Yes, will you teach me? Now, what do you call this skin?"

"Mu-ka-lip-we-u," was the reply.

"And what is the name of that sinew-thread?"

"Tun-u-wan."

Jean repeated these words, and so well did she speak them that Kitty was much pleased.

"Babby learn queek," she encouraged. "Babby spik all sam' Injun bimeby."

"I am going to learn Indian," Jean declared, "and I want you to tell me the names of many things."

The studying of the Maliseet language was a new pleasure to Jean, and she made excellent progress. She asked the names of various things about the camp, and in a few days she had stored up in her mind quite a stock of words. She now spoke of the fire as "skwut," firewood as "Skwut-o-e-to'tch," the mouth as "hu-ton," eyes as "u-si-suk," hair as "pi-es." There was no end to the words she learned, and both Sam and Kitty vied with each other in teaching her. When Sam brought in a rabbit he would hold it up and say "Ma-tu-kwes," or if a partridge, "se-se-ka-ti-ke-es." Then he would laugh as Jean tried to pronounce the words.

When the ice was firm enough to venture upon, Jean watched Sam as he cut a hole, dropped down a line, and brought forth a fine speckled trout. As the fish flopped about, he exclaimed, "Sko-tum! Sko-tum!"

One day he produced a piece of ash wood, and began to make the frames of a pair of snow-shoes.

"Ha-kum-mul," he said.

"What is that?" Jean asked.

"Snow-shoes for babby. Long trip bimeby."

"What! am I to use them?"

"A-ha-ha. When wast come."

"What is wast?"

"Snow. Plenty bimeby."

When Sam had finished the frames of the snow-shoes, Kitty set at once to work to weave the web of strips of dried caribou skin. Jean was even more interested in this than she had been in the making of her travelling-suit, and she was never tired of watching the woman's skilful fingers as she fashioned the warp and woof upon the frames until the perfect webs were completed. What strong snow-shoes they were, and how graceful! Jean was anxious to try them, and longed for the snow to come.

But during this time of waiting Kitty began the training of the girl for the hard march overland. Every day she would take her into the woods for a walk. At first Jean was quite tired when she returned to the lodge, but ere long she was able to travel much farther, and came back fresh and unwearied. She understood the meaning of these trips, and enjoyed them. The harder she trained the more fitted she would be to contend with the difficulties which lay ahead. Her body thrilled with excitement, and her cheeks glowed with animation whenever she thought of the joy of going home. Seldom were her loved ones out of her mind, and she pictured her father's delight when she opened the door and walked in, clad in her caribou-suit. How the people of the settlement would throng around her, and what a story she would have to tell. She wondered what had become of Dane. She believed that he was frantically searching for her, and the hope dwelt in her heart that he might find her and they would go home together.

After a week of steady training Jean was anxious to begin the journey. When she mentioned this to Sam he shook his head and looked up at the moon which was shining above the tree-tops.

"Pu-sa-nuts se-pa-wun-ok," he said.

Seeing the puzzled expression upon the girl's face, he laughed.

"Beeg snow soon."

"How do you know?"

"Ni-pauk-set—moon-tell Sam."

"How does the moon tell you?"

"Ring round moon, see? Bimeby no moon. Beeg snow."

And in this the Indian was right. Toward morning a wind sprang up and wailed through the forest. When Jean opened her eyes the next morning the trees were swaying beneath a strong nor'easter. The sky was leaden, and the air already flecked with fine snow. In another hour the storm was upon them in full intensity, driving across the lake, and blotting out the opposite shore from view. It beat against the thicket in its frantic efforts to reach the little lodge. To keep out the stray gusts which did occasionally escape the barricade of trees, Sam hung skins and blankets across the two ends of the abode. Thus within all was snug and warm. The fire burned brightly, and the smoke poured up through the wide space overhead. The roar of the storm in the forest sounded like the raging of the sea, and the waving of the tree-tops resembled the rolling and heaving of mighty billows. It was an exciting day to Jean. Never before had she witnessed such a storm. The fiercer it raged, and the more furiously it howled and beat against the sheltering trees, the more delighted she became. From a small opening on the south of the lodge she could see the snow swirling along the shore of the lake and piling up in long drifts against several fallen trees. It was good to be in such a cosy place where she could watch unharmed the trumpeting legions of the great nor'easter.

All through the day the storm continued, and night brought no abatement. It was still raging when Jean curled herself up in her blankets and lay there watching the dancing flames and the two Indians quietly and contentedly smoking on the opposite side of the fire. At length her eyes closed, and lulled by the tempest, she was soon fast asleep.

When she awoke the next morning the sun was shining brightly, and a great peace lay upon forest and lake. It was a new world upon which she opened her eyes, a world of dazzling glory, somewhat akin to the vision vouchsafed to the ancient seer in his lonely island when he beheld a new heaven and a new earth.

Jean was all eagerness now to assay her first venture upon her new snow-shoes. The simple breakfast ended, and clad in her woodland suit, Sam taught her how to arrange the magic slippers upon her moccasined feet. How Dane's heart would have thrilled could he have seen her standing before the lodge, her lithe, supple body drawn to its full height, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling, and her furry cap poised lightly upon her head surrounded by a wealth of soft, billowy hair. The rude lodge, the great trees, and the fair girl standing there formed a scene of surpassing charm which many an artist would have given much to capture.

At first Jean found the walking on the snow-shoes somewhat difficult, and many a tumble did she receive which caused Kitty much amusement. But directed by the Indian woman, she soon overcame her awkwardness and ere long was able to move forward gracefully and rapidly. In two days she was quite an expert, and could even run upon the springing snow-shoes, much to the delight of the two natives.

"Ka-lo-ut. Ka-lo-ut—Good. Good," was Sam's comment as he watched her coming off the lake at the end of the second day of training. "Babby walk all sam' Injun now."

The next morning the Indians began to pack up their few belongings, and Jean was delighted when they told her that at last the long overland journey was to begin. The streams were now frozen, and the travelling good.

"How long will it take us to make the journey?" Jean asked Sam.

"Long tam. Wan moon, mebbe. Two moon, mebbe."

"What! two months?"

"A-ha-ha, mebbe. See bimeby."

It was near mid-day when at last everything was ready and they left the little lodge by the lake and plunged into the forest. A pang of regret smote Jean's heart as she cast a backward glance upon the humble abode. She had spent happy days there, and it had been to her a place of refuge from her pursuers. She knew that she would never see it again. Suppose Dane should come to the lodge and find it deserted!

The journey through the forest was of necessity slow. With a pack upon his back, and drawing a small sled loaded with blankets and food, Sam went ahead and broke the trail. Kitty followed, also carrying a heavy load and the musket. Jean brought up the rear, and she found the walking quite easy owing to the excellent trail beaten down by her thoughtful companions. She had insisted upon carrying something, so a small pack had been made up for her and strapped in Indian fashion across her shoulders. This pleased her, as she felt that she was doing a little, at any rate, to help.

It was a wonderful region through which they moved. Up hill and down, across wild meadows and frozen swamps. Most of the time they travelled through great forest tracts, unharmed as yet by fire or axe. The trees, thick-set and tall, reminded Jean of great masts. A brooding silence reigned in these sombre depths, broken only by an occasional chatter of a surprised squirrel, the whirr of a partridge, or the cheepings of the little chickadees as they hopped from branch to branch. Once during the afternoon they stopped and ate a little of the cooked food Kitty had brought along. Jean was glad of this rest, for notwithstanding the training she had received, she was quite weary. She was most thankful when that evening Sam halted by the side of a little brook, unslung his pack and laid it upon the snow.

"Yut-ku-lo-wut," he said.

"What does that mean?" Jean asked.

"Good camp-place."

Then he turned to his wife.

"Mu-tu-o-to," he said, which the girl knew as the order to build a fire. She was pleased that she understood this command, and it encouraged her to continue the study of the native language.

While Kitty, with Jean's assistance, gathered some dry wood, and lighted the fire, Sam erected a lean-to. Thus by the time darkness enshrouded the land they were ready for the night. It was good to lie down and rest after the march of the day, and Jean soon feel asleep.

Thus for several days they continued their journey, travelling by easy stages. Jean was more accustomed now to the trail, and the stiffness of the first two days had worn away. It was welcome news to her, however, when Sam one night told her that by sundown on the morrow they should be at the big river, the Wu-las-tukw.

"Oh, I am so glad," she fervently replied. Once on the noble St. John it would seem almost home.

The next day they passed through a wonderful forest of great white pines. Never had Jean seen anything like them. They were as straight as arrows, and their tops seemed to her to reach the clouds drifting overhead. Ere long she noticed that many of them bore the axe blaze, and examining more closely, she saw the form of a broad arrow cut deep into the bark. "What is that?" she asked.

"King George arrow," Sam explained. "All King George tree," and he waved his hand in an eloquent gesture. "White man cut'm bimeby."

"Oh, I know," Jean exclaimed as she recalled what Dane had told her. "These are for masts for the King's navy, are they not?"

"A-ha-ha."

"Are there mast-cutters near here?"

"Off dere," and Sam motioned westward.

"Will we see them?"

"No see'm now. Bimeby, mebbe."

"Where are they?"

Sam stopped, stooped and with his forefinger made two parallel lines in the snow several inches apart.

"A-jem-sek," he said, touching the nearer line. "Wu-las-tukw," and he touched the other. He next placed his finger between the two. "White man here," he explained. "Plenty King George tree."

"Is A-jem-sek a river?" Jean asked.

"A-ha-ha."

"Will we soon be there?"

"Wan sight, mebbe."

Jean had learned that these Indians measured short distances according to sight, and that they said "one sight," "two sights," "three sights," instead of miles. She now knew that the A-jem-sek, whatever that river might be, was not far away, and that it must be a branch of the St. John. And between the two, farther on, were the King's mast-cutters. Her hopes rose high. How good it would be to see white men she could trust. They would help her to reach home, she felt certain.

They were moving down a gentle slope now, and making fair progress. Suddenly Sam stopped, and examined strange straggling tracks in the snow. Kitty and Jean also looked, the latter asking what they meant.

"White man," Sam explained. "No snow-shoe."

"Are they slashers?" Jean anxiously enquired.

Sam shook his head, and examined the tracks more closely.

"No slasher, no snow-shoe," he said. "Funny track, all sam' lost."

As they proceeded, they came across other tracks, showing where men had been walking through the snow, wandering here and there, in an apparently aimless manner. Sam became very curious now, as well as cautious. He took the musket from Kitty, and carried it in readiness for any emergency. Jean was quite excited, and peered keenly ahead, not knowing what to expect next.

Except for the creaking of the snow-shoes, not a sound did they make as they sped onward, and in about half an hour the trees seemed suddenly to part and present an open space to their view. It was the A-jem-sek, a narrow stream connecting Lake K'tchi-kwis-pam with the Wu-las-tukw, so Sam explained to Jean. As they stepped out upon this river they saw two men but a short distance away, drawing a small sled loaded with wood, who stared with startled amazement at the sudden appearance of the three travellers.



CHAPTER XXII

IN DESPERATE STRAITS

As they advanced toward where the two men were standing, Jean was somewhat afraid lest they might be slashers. This fear, however, was at once removed when she beheld their pitiable condition. Their clothes were in tatters, and their bearded faces were drawn and haggard. They stared at her with eyes from which all hope had fled, and so weak did they seem that they could hardly stand. Their backs were bent as if through age, and they rested their hands upon the loaded sled for support. As Jean paused, smitten by a sudden feeling of awe, one of the men wearily lifted his hand and beckoned to her.

"Who are you?" she asked, when she had drawn near.

"We are as dead men," was the hollow reply. "But in God's name, who are you?"

"I am Jean Sterling, daughter of Colonel Sterling. I was carried away from home, but was rescued by these Indians, who are now taking me back to my father."

"Ay, we heard of you, did we not, James?" the man enquired, turning to his companion.

"Ay, we heard of you, Miss, on our way here, as William says," the other replied, "But so great have been our own cares and sorrows since then that we have forgotten about you."

"Do you live here?" Jean asked, wondering who these men could be.

"No, no, not living, but dying here, we and our wives and children. We are Loyalists, Miss, who arrived with the Fall Fleet. We came up the river in open boats, mistook this river one night for the main channel, and were frozen in here before morning. Our sufferings have been great. We are starving to death. Though," he added after a slight pause, "there are not so many to provide for now."

"What! have some died?" Jean asked.

"Seven, Miss, mostly little ones. They are all under the snow, and the rest of us will soon be with them."

"Come, come, you must not give up yet," the girl encouraged. "Sam and Kitty will help you, I am sure. Where do you live?"

"Just over there," and the man motioned to the right. "It's a poor place, and the last storm was terribly hard on us."

"Take me there, then," Jean ordered. "I want to see your women and children."

A feeling of responsibility had suddenly come to her such as she had never before known. These two men before her were in the depths of despair, so something had to be done to arouse and stimulate them with courage. Hitherto she herself had been dependent upon others, and followed their guidance. But now it was different. Here were people in a strange land, and in difficult circumstances who had for the time lost their grip of things, and needed special assistance. It all came upon her in a flash, transforming her from a follower to a leader; from dependent girlhood to the glory of responsible womanhood.

Guided by the two men, they soon reached the encampment but a hundred yards away. At sight of this Jean stopped and stared in profound amazement. It was no wonder that the women and children huddled there were cold. The ones who had fashioned these rude abodes were evidently unacquainted with life in the open, so desolate was the place, and with very little protection from the driving storms.

There were about ten families in all encamped here, and at the first glance Jean could tell that they were actually starving. The women, who received her kindly, presented as brave an appearance as possible. But their faces were worn and haggard, showing plainly the sufferings they had endured. The children, especially the younger ones, looked better, having no doubt received extra food and attention.

The arrival of the visitors caused considerable excitement and interest among the Loyalists. Men, women, and children all crowded around one fire, and listened with wonder to the tale Jean related of her capture, and how she was rescued by the two good Indians. She in return heard the pathetic story of these unfortunate people from the time they left their old homes until the present.

"It was bad enough," one woman said, "when we were all well. But when the babies began to pine and die for want of proper nourishment, then it was terrible. We gave them the best of everything, and tried to keep them warm, even pressing them against our own bodies. But it was all in vain, so we laid the little darlings to rest one by one. They are better off, I suppose, but it was very hard on us."

Her eyes, and the eyes of all were brimming with tears. Jean was deeply affected, and her heart went out in sympathy to these unfortunate people. She glanced about the rough brush abodes, and noted how few and thin were the blankets.

"You have very little bedding, I see," she remarked.

"Not nearly enough," was the reply. "We had no idea that winter would come so soon, so sent most of everything on the Polly."

"Are you out of provisions, too?"

"We have been out of food for days, excepting the few rabbits the men caught. There are moose in the woods, but our men have not the skill or strength to get any."

During this conversation Jean's mind had been very active. She knew that something had to be done, and at once, if these people were to be saved from starvation. She turned away and walked over to where Sam and Kitty were erecting a little lean-to in the midst of a small thicket of fir and spruce trees.

"Sam, I want you to do something for those people," she at once began. "They are starving."

"White man all sam' crazee," the Indian replied. "Camp bad, ugh!"

"I know that, Sam, so you must show them how to build good ones like your lodge by the lake. Will you?"

"A-ha-ha, bimeby, mebbe."

"They are starving, too, Sam, so I want you to get something for them to eat. Will you go at once? Kitty and I will finish this lean-to."

Sam, however, made no reply, but went on with his work.

"You will go, won't you?" she pleaded. "They are King George's people, and were driven out of their own country. I know you will help them."

These words had the desired effect, and electrified the Indian to keen interest. That they were King George's people was all-sufficient. He spoke to Kitty, who produced two wire snares from one of their bundles, and handed them to her husband. Sam then picked up his gun and turned to Jean.

"Me go now," he said. "Come bimeby. Get bird, mebbe."

In another minute he was away, and Jean turned her attention to the building of the lean-to. As the Indian woman began to prepare supper, Jean longed to take some of the meat to the needy ones. But it was so small that it would be of little use. She could only hope that Sam would return with a good supply of birds.

Neither was she disappointed, for shortly after dark the Indian appeared carrying several plump partridges he had snared. These were soon prepared and speedily cooked, so this night the Loyalists had a better supper than usual.

Sam now directed his attention to the rude abodes, and as he examined them he emitted several grunts of disgust. Early the next morning he found an excellent camping-spot, and took Jean over to see it.

"Good camp here," he told her. "Plenty tree, plenty wood."

"Will you help those people to build new lodges?" she asked.

"A-ha-ha, Sam help."

"And can you get more meat? Perhaps you can shoot a moose."

"Sam get feesh bimeby. Kai-u-hus, mebbe."

"What is that?"

"All sam' rat. Swim in water, build house."

"Do you mean muskrat?"

"A-ha-ha. White man call'm 'Injun turkey.' Good."

"You are a great man, Sam. You saved my life, and now you are saving the lives of those poor people."

"Sam glad," was the quiet reply. "Sam King George man. Sam help King George peep'l."

Jean went over and explained to the Loyalists Sam's idea about building the new abodes. They were much pleased at this suggestion, and the men at once followed Sam to the spot he had chosen, and began work. After he had given them full instructions, and helped them to make a start upon their new homes, he provided himself with a small supply of food, and started forth upon a hunting expedition. He took with him his sled and a single blanket.

"Will you be away all night?" Jean asked as she stood watching him ere his departure.

"Mebbe. See bimeby."

"Don't stay too long, Sam, for if you do we shall all starve. Kitty says that we have very little food left."

The Indian smiled as he stooped and arranged his right snow-shoe.

"Kitty no starve, Babby no starve," he replied. "Sam come bimeby. Plenty grub."

This was an anxious day for Jean, as she was well aware that the entire camp was on the verge of starvation. The children were already picking and sucking the bones of the partridges, and there was no food in the place. Even the little they had brought with them was gone, so she and Kitty went without any dinner. She did her best to cheer and encourage the dispirited Loyalists, telling them that Sam would soon return with plenty of meat. He was their sole dependence now, and suppose anything should happen to him! But she had confidence in his skill and judgment, so hoped for the best.

Much of the day she spent with the women and children, listening to the hardships they had endured, and playing with the little ones. At times she visited the men, and watched them as they toiled bravely at their houses. They were weak and hungry, but they uttered no word of complaint. Occasionally she saw them gnawing and chewing the bark of tender birch twigs, while some tried to find sustenance in pine, spruce, and cedar cones. But for the hope that Sam would return with a supply of food, they would have given up in despair.

The day was drawing to a close when the women and children were transferred to their new abodes. Fires were burning brightly, and fresh fir boughs made soft beds. The children were delighted with this change, and the expression in the women's eyes showed their pleasure. As Jean watched the mothers making up the beds for the night she noticed how few and thin were the blankets. She well knew that they must have more clothing if they were to be kept from perishing during the long winter ahead. And other food they must have than meat, especially the children. Her mind turned naturally to the King's mast-cutters. She must go to them, for no doubt they had a supply of provisions on hand, as well as extra blankets. She was sure that they would be willing to help these needy people.

At first she thought of getting Sam and Kitty to go. But thinking the matter over, she decided that it would be better to go herself. The Indians might not be able to explain fully the serious condition of the Loyalists, or else the mast-cutters might not pay much attention to what they said. She mentioned this to no one, however, preferring to wait until Sam returned that she might talk it over with him.

There was little rest that night for the older ones. The hungry children had cried themselves to sleep, while the helpless parents watched and listened with heavy hearts. They were beyond tears now, having shed so many in the past. The men were weary to the point of exhaustion after their day's work without any food. As they huddled there they often cast anxious glances out into the night, hoping to see the Indian coming from the forest. They themselves had done the best they could to provide game, but they were unused to hunting, and when they became weakened through lack of food, they were able to do but little. All they could do now was to trust to the Indian and await his return.

Jean decided to watch with Kitty, as she felt sure that Sam would come back before morning. But as the hours wore on, her eyes became heavy. The bed of fir boughs and blankets was comfortable, so at length she passed into a sound sleep, leaving Kitty awake and watchful.

When she opened her eyes it was daylight, and the delicious odor of frying meat pervaded the air. Kitty was stooping before the fire, while Sam was squatting but a short distance away. They both turned and smiled as the girl awoke and spoke to them.

"When did you get back, Sam?" she asked.

"Short tam' go. Plenty meat now."

"Oh, I am so glad! What did you get?"

"Feesh, Injun turkey, hut-tok."

"What, a deer!" Jean exclaimed, for she knew the meaning of the Indian word.

"A-ha-ha, hut-tok. Beeg."

"Good for you, Sam! You are a great hunter. Where is the deer?"

"White man eat'm," he replied with a smile.

"And did you haul it into camp?"

"A-ha-ha. Sam strong, beeg."

This supply of meat was a God-send to all, and there was great rejoicing among the Loyalists. They praised the Indian for what he had done, and he was looked upon as a hero, especially by the children.

When breakfast was over, and Sam was enjoying his pipe near the fire, Jean spoke to him about going to the mast-cutters for assistance. The Indian listened intently, and when the girl had finished speaking, he remained for awhile in deep silence.

"Can we do it?" Jean at length asked. "How far is it?"

"Sam go wan sleep, babby two sleep," was the reply.

Jean smiled as she drew herself to her full height.

"Don't you think I can do it in one sleep as well as you?" she bantered. "Why, I am strong now, almost like an Indian."

"Babby no all sam' Injun yet," Sam reminded. "Bimeby, mebbe."

"But will you go, Sam?"

"A-ha-ha. Wan sleep, Sam go."

"In the morning?"

"Mebbe. Sam see."

With this Jean had to be content. She was pleased that the Indian was willing to go with her, although she was well aware that he would start only when he was ready. She talked it over with the women, and a new hope rose in their hearts when they learned about the King's mast-cutters.

"What should we have done without you?" one woman remarked with a sob in her voice. "The Lord surely must have sent you and those Indians just when our needs were so great. We can never repay you for what you have done for us."



CHAPTER XXIII

SIX CANDLES AND ONE

The short winter day was drawing to a close as Jean and her two Indian companions moved down the western side of a long hill. They were making for the valley below through which ran a small brook, where they hoped to camp for the night. They had been abroad since morning, and Jean was now very tired. Her strength was not so great as she had imagined, and she recalled with amusement her proud boast the day before. Sam had been right, and she was glad that he did not try to reach the mast-cutters in "one sleep." She could not possibly do it, although it would have been easy for the Indians. They had this day regulated their speed to her feeble steps. But without her how they would have sped through the forest. They were both wonderful snow-shoers, and on several occasions she had watched them as they bounded over the snow with great swinging, tireless strides. Her admiration of these faithful, self-reliant people was unbounded.

They had almost reached the valley when the report of a gun rang through the forest, followed in a few seconds by a cry of distress. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, gripped hard his musket, and peered keenly among the trees. The next instant he was bounding forward, leaving Jean and Kitty staring after him.

"What is it?" the girl asked, her face white with fear.

"Kitty no say now," was the reply. "See bimeby."

And as they waited and listened with fast-beating hearts, another report echoed through the forest, and then all was still.

"Sam shoot," Kitty explained. "Come."

Hurrying forward, they soon reached the valley, and ere long they saw Sam bending over some object. Nearby was a large moose, with its great body and branching antlers half buried in the snow. But to this Sam gave no heed. His attention was centred upon a human being, moaning and writhing in pain. Jean saw at once that it was a man, with white hair and long, flowing beard. With a cry she rushed forward and knelt by his side.

"Are you hurt?" she asked in a tremulous voice.

At this question the man started, lifted his head, and looked curiously at the girl. An expression of defiance glowed in his eyes, which caused Jean to wonder.

"Are you hurt?" she repeated. "Can we help you?"

"Am I hurt?" the man growled. "Do I look hurt?"

These words instead of frightening the girl only tended to make her somewhat angry. She wished to do what she could to help the man, but she did not like his sarcasm. It was altogether uncalled for, so she thought.

"You look as if you are hurt," she replied. "But, then, you are the best judge of that. We are willing to do what we can for you, but if you do not want our help we shall leave you alone."

Her tone was severe, and this the man noted.

"I am hurt," he confessed in a milder voice. "That devil over there nearly made an end of me. O, Lord!" He placed his hand to his side, and his brow contracted with pain. "I guess I'm done for, anyway."

"Where do you live?" Jean asked. "We must get you home."

"Just down the valley. Sam knows where. I think I can walk with his help. He's a good Indian, and he saved my life to-day. He was just in time."

With considerable difficulty the injured man was lifted out of the snow where he was half buried, and helped to regain his feet. One of his snow-shoes was gone, but Kitty found it several yards away.

"It was that which caused all the trouble," the man explained. "When the moose charged, something went wrong with that snow-shoe, and before I could do anything the brute was upon me."

After Sam had fixed and arranged the snow-shoe upon the man's moccasined foot, he took him by the arm and started forward, with the women following. Their progress was slow, for the injured man often stopped and pressed his hand to his side. That he was suffering greatly was most apparent, and Jean felt sorry for him. She wondered who he was, and the reason for the look of defiance in his eyes. That he had called Sam by name puzzled her, for the Indian had never spoken of him to her.

She was more mystified than ever when ere long they came in sight of a log cabin nestling on the hillside at the entrance of the valley. In front of the house was a small clearing surrounded by a rough pole fence, causing Jean to believe that the owner had lived there for some time, and did a little gardening.

When, however, she entered the building her surprise was greater than ever. The main room was as comfortable and cosy as hands could make it. The floor was covered with fur rugs of various shapes and sizes. The walls, too, were adorned with skins of the bear, fox, otter, wolverine, and other animals. At the farther end of the room was a large fire-place, above which was a fine moose head with great branching antlers. Several hardwood sticks were burning upon the hearth, showing that the owner had not been long away from home. There were also other articles on the walls, such as Indian curios, bows and arrows, as well as a few pictures. In the middle of the room was a table, covered with a cloth of rich design. In the centre of this stood a candle-stick, made of wood, evidently hand-wrought. It had seven branches, and in each was a dip-candle. A well-polished silver tray, containing a pair of snuffers, was lying near. There were several books upon the table, one of which was lying open, as if the reader had hurriedly laid it down as he rose from the deep, comfortable chair nearby. There were other chairs in the room, as well as stools and benches, but this big chair excelled them all in size and quaint workmanship. It was evidently the owner's special favourite, for it showed signs of much use.

To the left of the fire-place was the one couch the room contained, and to this the injured man at once made his way. He sat upon the edge and rested for a few minutes. He was breathing hard, and most of the time he kept his right hand to his suffering side. He seemed to pay no heed to what was taking place around him, but stared straight before him as if in a dream. He aroused at length, and glanced at the three standing before him.

"Make yourselves at home," he said. "There is plenty of food in the next room. It is quite warm there, for I always keep a fire going. The women, I think, will find it comfortable. Sam, I want to speak to you alone."

Jean was not slow in taking this hint, so she opened a door to the right of the fire-place and passed into the adjoining room. This was somewhat similar to the one they had just left, excepting that it was not so cosy. The table had no cloth covering it, and upon it stood a single candle stuck in a wooden candle-stick. This she lighted with a coal from the fire-place, and then looked curiously around. Along one side of the room was an abundance of provisions, all in bags, and carefully arranged. There were blankets, too, piles of them, and nearby a stack of furs. Jean thought of the Loyalists on the A-jem-sek. Here was sufficient food and clothing to last them for some time. And why should they not have them? She would speak to the owner just as soon as possible, and no doubt he would be willing to send something to the needy ones.

As she looked toward a corner of the room opposite the food and blankets, she was astonished to see many muskets leaning against the wall. She went over and began to count, and found there were fifty in all. She also saw numerous old swords, bayonets, and boxes filled with bullets. There were cans, as well, which she believed contained powder. She grew more puzzled now than ever. Who could the man be, and why did he have so many guns? Perhaps he was a trader, and dealt with the Indians. But why had not Sam and Kitty spoken about him? Then she recalled the look of defiance in his eyes when she had first met him. What was the meaning of that?

She crossed the room to where the Indian woman was searching among the pots, pans, and other cooking utensils near the fire-place.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Cook supper," was the reply. "Plenty grub, eh?"

"There certainly is, Kitty. I wonder what that man is going to do with it all." She then lowered her voice, and glanced toward the door. "Do you know anything about him?" she enquired. "Why does he have so many guns?"

"Kitty know," was the reply. "White man beeg chief."

"What kind of a chief?"

"Kitty no say now. Bimeby, mebbe."

"Is he a trader?"

"A-ha-ha, mebbe."

This was all the information Jean could gain from the woman, and she was greatly mystified. Kitty evidently knew who the man was, and yet she would tell nothing more than that he was a big chief. She sat down before the fire and tried to puzzle it all out. But the more she thought, the more confused she became, and at last was forced to give up in despair. Perhaps she could find out for herself. Anyway, she must get food and clothing to send to the Loyalists as speedily as possible.

In the meantime Kitty had found a quantity of Indian meal and was cooking some cakes in one of the frying-pans she had found. There was also a good supply of molasses in a cask, which when served with the cakes makes fairly good eating. It was a change, at any rate, from the constant meat diet.

"Kitty cook plenty bimeby," the Indian woman announced. "Good tam, eh?"

"Some of that food must go to those starving people on the A-Jem-sek," Jean replied. "And look at those blankets. Why, there are enough to keep them all warm. You and Sam will take some, will you not?"

To this request Kitty made no response, and while Jean was wondering why she did not answer, Sam entered the room, and came close to the fire.

"Beeg chief want see babby," he announced.

"How is he?" the girl asked, rising to her feet.

"Seek here," and Sam placed his hand to his side. "Much seek. Bad!"

Jean at once went into the other room, which was lighted only by the fire, and crossed to where the injured man was lying.

"You want to see me?" she enquired. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, light the candles. It is very dark here."

Jean at once obeyed, and in a few minutes the candles were burning brightly. The effect was beautiful, and as she stood watching them she wondered why there were just seven.

"You like them?" the man asked.

"I do," Jean acknowledged. "But I am curious to know why there are just seven."

"Oh, that is a perfect number," the man explained. "It is according to the Bible, you know. Now, take the snuffers and put out six."

Jean did as she was bidden, greatly mystified, until but one candle was left burning.

"There, that will do," the man said. "Now, come over here and sit by my side. That is better," he continued when she had complied with his request.

"How are you feeling?" Jean asked.

"A little easier now. I am somewhat of a doctor, and Sam helped me. But never mind that. I want to know who you are, and why you are travelling with those Indians?"

Briefly as possible Jean told her story, and when she had ended the man remained silent for a few minutes. She could not see the expression upon his face, nor the peculiar light in his eyes owing to the darkness of the corner where he was lying. Could she have done so, she would have been more surprised than ever.

"It is a strange story you have told me, young woman," he at length remarked. "You have been wonderfully delivered. You should consider yourself very fortunate in having such friends as those Indians."

"Indeed I do," Jean declared. "They have done more for me than I can ever repay. I know now how to sympathise with others in distress, and so want to help those unfortunate Loyalists."

"So you are on your way to get food and clothing from the mast-cutters?"

"Yes, but we won't have to go to them now, as I am sure you will help out those poor people. You have plenty of supplies."

"And they will stay here, young woman."

"What! you won't send any to those people in distress?"

"Why should I? They are Loyalists, and that is enough."

Jean started and stared at the man in amazement.

Surely she had not heard aright.

"Do you mean what you say?" she asked.

"I certainly do. Those Loyalists will never receive any help from me. Let them starve and freeze; it is no more than they deserve."

These cold, inhuman words stirred Jean's fighting blood. She rose quickly to her feet, her eyes ablaze with anger.

"I don't know who you are," she began, "and I don't know why you hate the Loyalists. But—" she paused just for an instant, "some of that food and clothing will leave this place to-morrow morning."

The man sat bolt upright at this declaration, and flung out his right hand as if to hit the girl. Then he sank back upon the bed with a groan.

"You can't help yourself," Jean reminded, "so it is better for you to keep quiet. Some of those supplies are going, whether you like it or not."

"But this is a hold-up, a robbery," the man charged.

"I don't care what you call it, and I'm not worrying about that. I only know that men, women, and children are starving not far away, so while there is food here they are going to have some of it."

Jean was surprised at her boldness. But it was not time for half-way measures. If the owner would not agree to let the supplies go, she would take matters into her own hands.

"Oh, but for this confounded pain in my side I would soon teach you who is master of this house," the man shouted. "You are an impudent hussy, and I believe the story you told me about being carried away is a lie. And how do I know but what you are lying about those Loyalists? You and your Indian companions may keep what you take for yourselves."

"You can believe me or not, just as you wish," Jean quietly and firmly replied. "But those supplies are going to the Loyalists in the morning. I would be ashamed to be called Colonel Sterling's daughter if I were afraid to use strong measures to save starving people."

At these words the man suddenly lifted himself on his right elbow, and peered keenly at the girl.

"Light the rest of those candles," he ordered. "I must see your face. I want to know if you are telling me the truth."

Jean did so, and then returned to the man's side.

"Stand there," he commanded, "a little to the right, so I can see your face. Ah, that's better. Now, tell me your father's Christian name."

"James," the girl replied.

"Yes, but James what? He has a second name, has he not?"

"Witrow. James Witrow Sterling; that's his full name."

"What was your mother's name?"

"Deborah Ruth."

"But her maiden name?"

"Winslow."

"And your name?"

"Priscilla Jean, although I only get 'Jean.'"

"After whom were you named?"

"A very dear friend of my parents."

"Who was she?"

"Priscilla Jean Norman, so I have been told."

"Where is she now?"

"I do not know. She and her husband disappeared years ago, and no word has been received from them since. They were the dearest friends my father had, and he feels the loss very keenly."

"Is your mother alive?"

"No; she died several years ago."

With a deep sigh the man dropped back upon the pillow, and remained silent for a few minutes. Jean sat down by his side, lost in thought. What was the meaning of the man's sudden excitement? she asked herself. And why did he question her so closely about her parents' names? Perhaps he had known them in the past. At length the man stirred, reached out his right hand and touched hers.

"Young woman," he began, "for your parents' sake alone I give you permission to take food and clothing to those starving people."

"Oh, I am so glad!" Jean replied. "But did you know my father and mother?"

To this question the man seemed to pay no heed. His eyes were fixed upon the seven candles.

"Yes, there were seven of us," he murmured as if to himself, "seven who were all in all to one another. But six went out, and I was left alone. Put them out again, Miss, and leave just one burning. You may go now, as I want to think. Send Sam to me. He can sleep in here to-night. You will find plenty of blankets in the next room. Good night."

Quietly and almost reverently Jean extinguished six of the candles, and then left the room. She felt that there was a deep mystery surrounding this man's life of which the seven-branch candle-stick was but the outward symbol.



CHAPTER XXIV

TIMON OF THE WILDERNESS

Jean awoke the next morning much refreshed after the good night's rest. She slept upon a liberal supply of blankets which Kitty had prepared for her upon the floor. This was a treat after camp-life, and when she opened her eyes the Indian woman was cooking breakfast. It was not yet daylight, but the room was quite bright from the dancing flames of the fire-place. It felt nice to lie there with a roof above her and no weary journey ahead for that day, at least. She recalled the events of the previous day, and wondered how the injured man had passed the night. She had fallen asleep thinking about him, and the mystery of his life. Whoever he was, she was thankful that he had known her parents, and that for their sake he was willing to send food to the Loyalists. The Indians were to start that morning, so she must be ready to assist them in selecting the supplies.

About a quarter of an hour later Sam entered the room. He did not knock, for such etiquette was not in his simple code of Indian manners. He merely looked to see what his wife was cooking, and then turned toward Jean.

"Beeg chief want see babby," he announced.

"How is he this morning, Sam?"

"No good. Bad."

Fearing that the man was much worse, Jean hurried into the other room, and went at once to the couch.

"Good morning," she brightly accosted. "How are you feeling now?"

"None too good," was the reply. "I didn't sleep a wink last night."

"Your side hurt you, I suppose."

"Perhaps so. But never mind about that now. I want you to help Sam pack up the outfit. Don't let him take too much, and see that he doesn't get any of that rum. It's in a keg near the molasses.

"You will have some breakfast, will you not?" Jean asked.

"I suppose so. There's a box yonder," and he pointed to the opposite side of the room. "You'll find some bread and cold meat. You might bring me a cup of strong tea; perhaps it will steady my nerves. Hand me my pipe and tobacco; they're on that flat stone projecting from the fire-place."

About the middle of the forenoon the relief party drew away from the house on their arduous journey to the A-jem-sek. It had taken Sam some time to repair the broken toboggan he had found in a shed near by. When this had been loaded with supplies, Sam threw the rope across his shoulders and started forward, with Kitty following. It would be a hard trip, Jean was well aware, so she told the Indians how grateful she was, and that no doubt King George would hear of their good deed. Her words pleased the simple-minded natives, and they undertook the difficult task in the best of spirits.

"Don't forget to tell the Loyalists about the moose," Jean reminded as she stood watching them from the back door.

"Injun no forget," Sam replied. "White man come bimeby. Sam, mebbe."

The girl watched her faithful friends until they had disappeared from view. All at once she seemed inexpressibly lonely as she stood there. While the Indians were with her she felt secure. But now she was alone with the mysterious invalid in the next room. She might have gone, too, but the man had asked her to stay until the natives returned, and she could not very well refuse his request. Anyway, she would be of more use here than out on the trail. She wondered what was the cause of the feeling of depression that had so suddenly swept upon her, and which was contrary to her buoyant nature. All at once the great silent forest appeared to her like some sinister monster, holding a lurking enemy within its brooding depths. She chided herself for her foolishness, but for all that, she could not entirely banish the strange feeling.

Going into the adjoining room, she found the invalid asleep. Not wishing to disturb him, she sat down by the table and picked up the book lying open there. It was a copy of Shakespeare's works, well-bound, and showing signs of much use. She turned to the front blank pages, hoping to see a name inscribed there. But nothing could she find. She examined two other books, one a copy of Virgil's "Aeneid," and the second "The Tatler," but no clue could she obtain as to the identity of the owner. In one of them, however, she did find where a name had been scratched out, as with a knife.

Taking up again the copy of Shakespeare's works, she glanced at the play where the book was lying open. It was "Timon of Athens," and the page upon which her eyes rested contained Timon's terrible curse outside the walls of Athens. She read it through, and then let the book drop upon her lap, wondering why any one in his right mind could so curse his fellow beings. She glanced toward the man upon the cot. Had he been reading those words ere he laid the book aside? she mused. What connection had that curse with him? Did he hate his fellow men as Timon did of old? Perhaps he, too, had been wronged, and had fled to this lonely place. She recalled what he had said about those starving Loyalists. Surely there must be some good reason for his intense bitterness.

As she thus sat there gazing dreamily into the fire, the man on the cot stirred, uttered a slight moan, opened his eyes and looked at the girl.

"Ah, so you've been keeping watch, have you?" he asked. "Pretty lonely job, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Jean brightly replied, laying aside the book and rising to her feet. "I have been looking at your books. My, what a reader you must be! But why do you read such stuff as that?"

"What stuff? I hope you don't call Shakespeare's works 'stuff.'"

"Oh, I am merely referring to Timon's curse. It is terrible. But, there, I don't want to talk about it. Let me make you a cup of tea. That will do you more good than any book."

"Make it good and strong," the man reminded. "And while you are about it you might as well bring me a noggin of rum. I haven't had any since yesterday morning."

The invalid drank the tea first, and pronounced it excellent. He let the rum remain by his side while he filled and lighted his pipe.

"Did you have a good sleep?" Jean asked as she again sat down by the table. "I hope you feel better."

"I had a fairly good sleep, Miss, although the pain in my side is no better. However, I am used to suffering. So you don't care for Shakespeare, eh?"

"I didn't say that," Jean defended. "But I don't like reading those terrible passages about curses and such like."

"But I like them, Miss. They just suit me, and I feed on them."

"How can you? It is more than I can understand."

"You would, though, if you had been treated as I have been. I am Timon, and his sufferings were no greater than mine. His so-called friends were false to him, and so were mine. He cursed them, and I have made his curses mine. I am really Timon."

"Suppose I call you 'Timon,' then," Jean suggested with a smile. "I don't know what else to call you, for I do not know your name. 'Mr. Timon' sounds very well, does it not?"

"Yes, you may call me anything you like. I suppose Timon is as good as any other name. And it suits me, too."

"You must have had a hard life," Jean replied, not knowing what else to say. "It has evidently made you very bitter against your fellow men."

"Hard is not a strong enough word, Miss. You see that copy of the 'Aeneid'? Well, I read as much of that as I do Shakespeare. I like to follow the history of Old Aeneas. Many of his troubles were mine, and truly has Virgil sung of them. He was an exile by fate, and so am I. He had many wanderings, and so have I. He was treated with base ingratitude, and so was I. Yes, Timon and Aeneas are my brothers in tribulation. Like them I hate and curse my enemies."

"But this is a Christian age," Jean reminded. "We are taught by our Great Master to love our enemies, to bless and curse not."

"What! love King George, that crazy fool? Love a thing that brought on the war? Love a creature with the brains of a mouse? Nonsense. I don't believe the Lord ever meant us to love such a being."

Jean little expected that her quiet rebuke would cause such an outburst. She had always held the King in the highest esteem, as one who ruled by divine authority. To hear him now reviled, was more than she could endure.

"You have no right to talk about our good King in such a manner," she stoutly defended. "He is a great King, and thousands have died for him in the terrible war."

"A great King! A great King!" the man sneered. "And how great is he? He is so great that he objected to painting St. Paul's Cathedral as being too much like the Roman Catholic custom. He is so great that he doesn't like Shakespeare, but he laughs to split his sides at farces and pantomimes, where clowns swallow carrots and strings of sausages. He is so great that he spends much of his time learning the exact number of buttons, tags and laces, and the cut of all the cocked-hats, pigtails, and gaiters in his army. Oh, yes, he is so great that he is always meddling in other people's affairs. He pokes his red face into every cottage for miles around. Imagine the King of England going about in his old wig, shovel-hat, and Windsor uniform, hob-nobbing with pig-boys, and old women making apple dumplings, and hurrahing with lazy louts early in the morning! That is the great King of England! How proud you must be of such a creature."

"I am proud of him," Jean retorted, "and you should not misrepresent him. The people love him for his pure and simple manner of living. He goes among them that he might know how they live, for he wants to help them all he can. They call him 'Farmer George,' so I have heard my father say, and I am sure that is an honour for any King."

"Queer honour, I should say, Miss. And he won great honour in his fight with America, didn't he? He was going to teach the colonies a lesson, and whip them into line. I'd like to have seen his old red face when the news of the defeat of his forces reached him. He's getting his punishment now, and he'll get more before he's through. He ruined me, an honest man. But he's getting his turn. I've heard that he goes out of his mind at times, and that his sons are turning out bad. Yes, yes, he's finding out now what it is to suffer. Oh, he'll learn, and I'm glad."

To these bitter words Jean made no reply. She realised that the less she said the better it would be. To oppose this man would only inflame his anger. She knew that his excitement increased his suffering, for at times during his tirades he had placed his hand to his injured side and gasped for breath. As she gazed into the fire she knew that the man was watching her, although she did not look in his direction. For a few minutes a deep silence pervaded the room, and when the man again spoke it was in a much milder tone.

"You must have had a hard time of it," he said. "I can well imagine how greatly worried your father must be."

"I fear he is about heart-broken," Jean replied. "He has been failing of late, and I am afraid this blow will go hard with him. I was his only comfort."

"It was a great trial for him to leave his old home, I suppose."

"In a way it was. But he was very brave through it all. He did what he could to encourage others, and many were helped by his cheerful manner. He told them that it was a great privilege to suffer in a noble cause, and that it was an honour to be loyal pioneers in a strange land."

No sooner had Jean uttered these words than she wished them unsaid. But the man appeared not to have heard them.

"Tell me about your old home," he requested. "Also about the war, and your coming to this country. It will help to pass the time."

Jean was only too glad to do this, so quietly and simply she told about her old happy home in Connecticut, her mother's death, the war, and all that it meant to them, of their arrival at Portland Point, the voyage up the river, and the settlement in the wilderness. Of Dane Norwood she did not speak, for it was not her nature to reveal to a stranger the deep things of the heart. Neither did she mention the rangers and their march with the men of the settlement against the rebels. A natural caution restrained her from speaking of this to one who so hated the Loyalists and King George.

When she had finished she waited for the man to make some remarks. When, however, he did not speak, she rose, went into the other room, and busied herself in preparing dinner. It was a simple repast, but it satisfied the invalid, and he showed his pleasure by a faint smile, the first that the girl had seen upon his face.

"It is good of you to stay here and wait upon me," he said, "especially after what I said about the Loyalists and King George. I owe my life to you, Miss, and I am not ashamed to acknowledge it."

"It was Sam who saved you, Mr. Timon," Jean smilingly replied.

"Ah, yes, in actually shooting the moose. But for you, though, Sam would not have been on hand at the right minute. It was you who suggested going to the mast-cutters on behalf of those Loyalists."

"The real credit, then, should be given to the ones who plotted to carry me away from home. But for them I would not be here now."

"And my body would be lying out there in the snow, gored, torn and trampled. Wonderful, indeed, is the chain of events."

"It is wonderful," Jean agreed. "I have been thinking so much about it ever since Sam rescued me that night from Seth Lupin. I was in absolute despair, but just when help was needed most it seemed as if God reached out His hand and saved me. The words of that beautiful hymn, 'The Lord's My Shepherd,' have been often in my mind. I sang it one night to Sam and Kitty, and they were greatly pleased."

"Will you sing it to me?" the man asked. "It has been many years since I have heard any singing, except rough camp songs."

Although surprised at this request, as well as the sudden change in the man's manner, Jean did as she was requested. In a clear, sweet voice she sang the first verse, The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want, He makes me down to lie In pastures green; He leadeth me The quiet waters by.

She was about to begin the next verse when a step was heard outside, and then a heavy knock sounded upon the door.



CHAPTER XXV

UNMASKED

As Jean rose and opened the door a man at once entered, who stared at her in amazement. He was of medium size, clad in a short fur jacket, belted at the waist, heavy cap, rough homespun trousers, stuck into coarse socks, and moccasins on his feet. His face was covered with a ragged, bushy beard, flecked with frost, while particles of ice clung to his moustache. His small piercing eyes attracted Jean most of all, causing her to retreat a step or two. This the visitor noted, and laughed.

"I won't hurt ye, Miss," he said. "But, Lord! where have you dropped from? I didn't know there was a wench like you on this side of hell."

"Hold your tongue, Dave, and come over here," the man on the couch ordered.

The visitor at once obeyed, and crossed the room. He looked upon the invalid with surprise.

"Hello! what's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Oh, I met with an accident. But what are you doing here, Dave? What do you want?"

Dave, however, made no reply, but turned and stared hard at Jean who was now standing near the table.

"Did you hear what I said, Dave? What do you want?"

"Guess there's only one thing I want now, chief. Where did ye git her? My! she's a beauty."

At these words the injured man's eyes flashed with anger. He lifted himself to a sitting position, and seized Dave by the arm.

"She's my daughter," he lied, "and if you harm her I'll kill you. See?"

The visitor cowered and shrank back at this fierce threat.

"I didn't mean to harm her," he muttered. "But I didn't know ye had a daughter like that. Where have ye kept her all this time?"

"That's none of your business, Dave. Tell me what you want, and then get out. But, wait, I know you're thirsty. Bring in some rum, daughter," he ordered, looking over at Jean.

The latter was only too glad to get out of the room, and away from the man who in such a short time had filled her heart with fear. Her hands trembled as she picked up a mug and filled it with liquor. She then glanced toward the muskets in the opposite corner, and wondered if they were loaded. She felt more lonely now than ever, and wished for Sam and Kitty. She feared that stranger, and longed to close and bolt the door until he was out of the house. At present, however, there was nothing else for her to do but to be as brave as possible. No trace of fear did she show as she went into the other room, and paused just inside the door. The two men were talking very earnestly, and the invalid seemed to be quite excited.

"You must not let them come here," he was saying. "Keep them away for a day or two, at least."

"I can't," the other replied. "They are on their way now, and should be here sometime to-night."

At this Jean stepped forward and held out the noggin of rum. Dave eagerly seized the mug, and drained it to the last drop.

"My, that's great!" he declared, smacking his lips. "Fill it again, won't you?"

"No more now, Dave," his chief told him. "You may have another, though, before you leave. And you must leave soon and stop those men. They must wait until I am better."

"But I can't stop them, chief. They won't listen to me. They're out for a big time, an' they're goin' to have it. An' besides, there's that gang comin' from the Washademoak, an' they expect to meet them."

"Oh, Lord! I know it," the injured man groaned. "But that doesn't make any difference. I want you to stop that first gang from coming here. Tell them that I am very sick and can't see them now."

"Don't stop them, chief," Dave pleaded. "This is about the last chance they'll have. The rangers are on the way, so I hear, so we must get ahead of them. Davidson, the devil, has got wind of this."

"How did he hear?"

"How did he hear?" Dave repeated with a laugh. "How did he hear about that meeting on the Wed-nee-bak, an' round up that bunch at the lake? I guess you know as well as anybody."

"Never mind about that now, Dave. All I want you to do is to stop those men from coming here to-night. Tell them to leave me out this time, and to march straight overland until they meet the men coming eastward. I can't talk any more now, as my side hurts me very much. Daughter, give this man some more rum."

Jean started at this order, and quickly left the room. She was greatly excited, for she realised that serious trouble of some kind was on foot. She believed that the rebels were about to attack that helpless band of Loyalists on the A-jem-sek as others had planned to do to the ones at Loyal. What she had gathered from Dave's words led her to believe that the latter attempt had failed. This was the first news she had received, and it greatly relieved her mind. But what about the others, those suffering men, women and children but a short distance away?

She was thankful when Dave at last left the house, and she was once more alone with the invalid. The latter was very still, staring straight before him. Jean crossed the room and stood by his side.

"I want to know the truth," she began. "Is an attack to be made upon those Loyalists?"

"What do you mean?" the man asked in surprise.

"Just what I said. The rebels planned to wipe out the Loyalists down river, and it looks to me as if they are about to try the same upon the ones on the A-jem-sek."

"Nonsense, girl," was the impatient reply. "It is foolish to think of such a thing."

"Well, what is the meaning, then, of this gathering of men from various parts who are so anxious to do something before the rangers arrive? They surely intend some mischief."

"Just a little fun, Miss, that's all. The boys like a lark occasionally. It keeps them in good spirits."

"Are they all like Dave?"

"Why, don't you like him?"

"No, I do not. He has evil eyes."

"Dave is not as bad as you think. He is a weak creature, with little brains, and no sense at all. But the rest are not a bad lot, though rather rough at times, especially when they are drinking. But let us forget all about them for the present. Read some to me. Let it be Timon again. I feel in a mood for him to-day. If you knew Latin, I would have you read about Old Aeneas. I like Virgil's full sounding sentences, 'Arma virumque cano.' There's nothing like them."

"Yes, there is," Jean quietly replied, as she rose to her feet, crossed the room, and took down a book from a small shelf on the wall. This she opened as soon as she had taken her seat before the fire, and turned over several pages.

"Here is something better than Virgil," she said, "and I am going to read from it now. It will do both of us much good."

"Is that the Bible, Miss?"

"It is, and from all appearances you have not read much from it of late. It is very dusty."

"That's true, and I don't want to hear it now. I don't like it."

"Neither do we like medicine, Mr. Timon. But when we are sick we take it whether we like it or not. It is for our good."

"So you think I am sick?"

"There is something wrong with you, I am sure, more serious than your injured side. This is the only thing, I believe, that will help you."

"But I won't listen."

"You don't have to. I am going to read it, though. You liked the verse of the hymn I sang, didn't you?"

"Oh, that was different. It was your voice I liked, but not the sentimental mush of words."

"Well, then, you can listen to my voice now if you want to. But I guess you will listen to the words, too, unless you are different from what I think you are."

"What makes you say that?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Certainly."

Jean gazed into the fire for a few minutes, while the man watched her curiously.

"Go on," he ordered. "Out with it."

"I believe you are trying to be what you are not," the girl bluntly charged. "At first I thought you were a brute, and I was afraid of you. But since I have learned what an educated man you are, and watched you after your outburst about the King and the Loyalists, I have come to the conclusion that you are fighting against your best convictions."

"Why, girl, you surprise me!" the man gasped.

"Perhaps so, Mr. Timon. But can you truthfully say that I am not right? You cannot, and I know that you have nothing in common with such a creature as that Dave who was here. It isn't natural for a man like you to be in league with a gang of rebels. There, now, I have told you what I think, so you can say what you like. I am going to read the Master's words, for I believe you need them."

Although outwardly calm, Jean's heart was beating fast. She expected to hear the man deny what she had said, or say something in his own defence. When, however, he remained silent, she glanced at him, and then turned her eyes upon the open page.

"Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you."

"Stop, stop!" the man cried. "I can't stand those words. They are not meant for me. I can't pray for my enemies. Do you think I can pray for King George?"

"That is for you to decide, Mr. Timon. I am sure that I can pray for those who carried me away from home. Don't you think that they need it?"

Jean was about to close the book, when her eyes rested upon some words on the front page. As she looked, her face turned pale, and she gave a slight gasp of astonishment.

"What is the matter?" the man asked.

But the girl did not hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon the words

"To darling Dane, With Mother's best love. May God bless and keep you."

Her heart almost stopped beating as she stared at the writing, especially the word "Dane." What did it mean? she asked herself. It must be her own Dane; there could not be two. Was this his book? Was this his home? Then a sudden thought flashed into her mind, and something which had greatly worried and puzzled her passed like the mist before the morning sun. It must be so, and she understood now why Dane had not told her.

Rising swiftly to her feet, she approached the couch.

"Are you Dane Norwood's father?" she asked in a voice that trembled with emotion and excitement.

With a gurgling cry, the man sat bolt upright, and glared at the girl.

"Why do you ask me that?" he demanded. "How dare you mention that name in this house? What do you know about him?"

"I know him to be one of the best men I have ever met. Next to my father I love him more than any one in the world."

"You do!" It was all the man could say, so great was his astonishment. He dropped back upon the pillow, breathing heavily, and clutching hard at his side.

"Yes, I know him," Jean continued, "and I think I understand now why he never told me about you. And he had good reason, too."

"And he never told you what kind of a being I am?" the man asked in a hoarse whisper.

"He said nothing about you at all."

"Are you sure, Miss? Didn't he tell you how I forced him to leave home, and told him never to come here again?"

"He said nothing to me about it, Mr. Timon. He never mentioned your name, and when I asked him about his father, he always changed the subject."

"My God! Did he!" The man's hands clutched hard at the blanket, and his eyes turned upon the girl's face expressed something of the agony of his soul. "And he never betrayed me," he murmured as if to himself. "Did he tell you about his mother?"

"Oh, yes, he often spoke to me about her, and told me what a noble woman she was. He said that he owed everything to her."

"He did, eh? Well, I guess it's true. She influenced him more than I did, and that was why he left after her death."

"Why was that?"

"He followed her in loyalty to King George. Later he joined the King's rangers, and became Davidson's chief courier, 'The King's Arrow,' as he is called. That was more than I could stand."

"And so you had a fight?"

"No, not a fight, Miss. I was hot, I acknowledge, but Dane never said a word. I can't forget, though, the look in his eyes as he left me, and I have not seen him since."

"But you have heard about him, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, reports of his doings reach me from time to time; that is all." The man sighed, and shifted a little to an easier position.

"Would you like to see him?" Jean asked. "I am sure that he would be only too glad to come to you."

"Do you think so, Miss? But why should he come after what I said to him?"

"Because he is so noble and true. You little know what he is to me. Look," and she raised her hand to the arrow at her throat, "he gave me this. It is a token of our love. He made it with his own hands from a coin given to him by his mother. It was the means of saving me from the slashers. Kitty saw it first, and it told her about me."

"Your story is really wonderful, girl, and I am thankful that you have been saved. It means more to me than you imagine."