When the good doctor came bustling in from his laboratory a few minutes later, half frozen, but burning with enthusiasm over some experiments he was making with quicksilver, he brought his coffee to my warm corner, and I at once simulated the deepest interest in his account of his morning's work—though I confess I have never taken any great interest in science, and from what he seemed to expect the quicksilver to do I did not feel altogether sure that he was not, in truth, dabbling in black art.

There was a long mirror at the other end of the room—one that Madame Saugrain had brought from France, and the pride of her heart. As we talked I could glance in it and see mademoiselle perfectly without seeming to look at her. I observed that she grew more and more distrait, only half listening to the captain, and very evidently trying to overhear our conversation. I had not known that mademoiselle was so interested in science, and I began to make deep and learned speeches (or, at least, I hoped they sounded so) on quicksilver and on every subject allied to it. I did not hesitate to make some remarkable statements, for whose truth I modestly said I could not vouch. The doctor was too courteous to show the surprise I think he must have felt at some of them, but if I had not been so interested in my investigations in the mirror (which, I am sure, is closely allied to quicksilver) I would have noticed without doubt that knowing twinkle of the eye that I had seen at least twice before. My glances in the mirror, however, showed me that my learned speeches had produced their intended effect on mademoiselle, at least, and once more I caught that wondering glance fixed upon me.

I did not see mademoiselle again until the evening supper-hour. After breakfast Dr. Saugrain invited the captain and me to ride with him up to Pierre Chouteau's, and on the ride he told us that mademoiselle had come to him that morning in the laboratory and had told him all about the chevalier. I was much touched that she had acted upon my advice so promptly, and half forgave her for her treatment of me at coffee, though I understood it the less. The doctor did not say so directly, but I judged from one or two little remarks that he and Pelagie had had a thorough clearing up of all their misunderstandings and were once more on the old confidential terms. He spoke especially of her "sweetness," and said his advice had been, like mine, to write the chevalier at once a firm refusal. But the good doctor was greatly troubled.

"I shall never feel quite secure again," he said, "till I have Pelagie safe with her friends in France; so I shall seek the first opportunity of sending her there. 'Tis for that I am going to consult Pierre Chouteau, and I thought you might have some suggestion, one or both of you, as to how to find an escort for her."

I was so eager with my plan that had flashed on me the night before that I could not wait to show the proper courtesy to my captain. He certainly had a right to speak first, but I broke forth, "I have a plan, sir—" and then was abashed and stopped short.

The doctor understood, and nodded to me.

"Yes; let the captain speak first, and then we will hear your plan."

"Nay," said the captain, with his friendliest smile; "let the lad speak. He has a plan that seems to me not wholly unpracticable and may prove the very thing."

Thus encouraged, I rushed ahead:

"I have been talking to Captain Clarke about it, sir, and he thinks it can be done. My last letter from home said that Colonel Livingston was about to join his father in Paris. My family know Colonel Livingston well, and a letter from my father would insure the protection of both Colonel and Mrs. Livingston for mademoiselle on the voyage."

But the good doctor shook his head.

"I could never get Pelagie to New York, I fear; to both Madame Saugrain and myself, such a journey seems an almost impossible undertaking."

"But Captain Clarke has that all arranged," I cried.

The doctor looked at the captain, who answered, smiling:

"It is my good Achates who has arranged it, but I heartily approve of his plans. It is time we were getting back to Kentucky, and he proposes that we take mademoiselle with us to my sister, Mrs. O'Fallon. There she can stay until we can find a suitable escort up the Ohio to Port Duquesne, and across the mountains to New York. There are boats going up the river every week, and always some one going back to the old home to whom we could intrust mademoiselle. I think it a good and feasible plan."

But we had quite reached Pierre Chouteau's before we had persuaded the doctor that our plan was at all a practical one. Not, as he assured us, that he could not trust mademoiselle with us, but the difficulties, dangers, and inconveniences of such a trip, for a young maiden with no woman in the party but her colored maid, seemed to him almost insurmountable. However, he was so nearly convinced by my eloquence and the captain's logic that just as we were turning in at Mr. Chouteau's he said:

"Well, well, my dear friends, it may be possible. We will see! I must take time to consult Madame Saugrain, and, until then, not a word to mademoiselle, I beg of you both."

We both readily promised, though I was so elated at what I considered the already assured success of my plan that I might have found it difficult not to speak to mademoiselle about it if she had not been in the same icy mood to me at supper (though sweet and most charming to the captain and her guardian) as she had been at breakfast.

The next day Dr. Saugrain told us that he and his wife had talked far into the night about Pelagie, and they had come to the conclusion that our plan was the best solution of the difficulties. He said madame had wept much at the thought of parting with Pelagie, and of all the difficulties and dangers she must encounter, before she could become reconciled to the thought of it; but now she was quite resigned, and had already begun to plan what clothes and other conveniences it would be necessary for Pelagie to take with her, and how they could best be got ready.

"And, after the manner of women," the doctor said, "from the moment she began to think about clothes, she began to grow cheerful. And she has such confidence in Clotilde, who will go with her, and who has had entire charge of her since her babyhood, that she thinks she will be as well taken care of as if she were with her herself. But we both think," he added, "that it will be wiser to say nothing to Pelagie about it until it is almost time to make the start. If, for any reason, our plan should fail, her mind will not be unsettled by it, and she will be no worse off than if we had not thought of it. Moreover, the fewer we take into our confidence the better, for I am assured the chevalier has spies and secret emissaries that we do not suspect. We will give him no chance to thwart our plans!"

The good doctor spoke the last words so grimly that it was easy to understand in what esteem he held the villain, and both the captain and I heartily approved his precaution.

There followed busy days for me. The captain, who was much engaged in settling up the business for his brother which had brought him to St. Louis, had little time for aught else, though Governor Delassus, the Chouteaus, and Mr. Gratiot made many demands upon him for counsel and for social festivities, in which last I was courteously included. When these fell upon the evening I was very ready to join in them, but my days were more than full. All the arrangements for mademoiselle's comfort on the boat my captain had intrusted to me, and I was determined that nothing should be left undone to make her voyage on the Great River as comfortable as possible. The cabin, a rough affair at its best, was partitioned into two, and the larger one made as clean as six blacks scrubbing hard on hands and knees could make it. Then I got from Pierre Chouteau a small stove such as he often used on his boat in winter trips up the Missouri, and set it up in the cabin, cutting a hole in the roof to give egress to the stovepipe. From Madame Saugrain I got some strips of warm, bright carpet and some clean warm bedding, and I set Yorke to work, under my careful supervision, to make the two beds for mademoiselle and her maid, to tack down the strips of carpet, to put up some white ruffled curtains (also Madame Saugrain's gift) at the square bit of window, and to polish up the brass handles of the portable locker that was to hold mademoiselle's wardrobe. I thought, when all was done,—the small table covered with a white cloth, and two shining candlesticks on it, and the three comfortable chairs arranged about it,—I thought it cozy and complete enough for a trip to France; and my heart beat high when I thought of the tete-a-tetes with mademoiselle that must almost necessarily fall to my lot on a voyage of at least a week. But, in the meantime, I was seeing very little of her, between being busy all day and often invited out in the evening—and not getting much satisfaction when I did; for either she was incased in her icy hauteur, or, if she chanced to be kind, I was so brimming over with my secret, so afraid I should let it slip, I was unnaturally constrained with her.

Before I knew it the Jour de l'An was upon us, and the doctor and the captain had both agreed it would be wise to set out on the day before the Jour des Rois. On no account would it do to risk remaining over the Jour des Rois, lest the chevalier should accomplish his purpose in spite of mademoiselle's letter of refusal.

Now, as its name signifies, the Jour de l'An is the greatest of all days to these St. Louis Frenchmen. Preparations had been making for it all the week. The governor himself was to give a grand ball at Government House, and I had heard mademoiselle telling Captain Clarke, as we sat at supper on New Year's eve, how that would be only the beginning of a round of festivities, and that Marguerite Papin, Pelagie Chouteau, and she had been making the bean-cake that afternoon.

"And what is the bean-cake, pray, Mademoiselle?" I inquired, determined to take matters into my own hands and be no longer shut out from conversation as if I were infected.

Mademoiselle looked up in surprise at my audacity, and for a moment was of half a mind not to reply to me; but she thought better of it, and answered coolly and formally:

"'Tis a cake, Monsieur, with four beans baked in it. It will be cut to-morrow night at the governor's ball, and the four maidens who receive the slices with the beans will be the queens of the ball. They will choose four kings, who will then be obliged to get up the ball for the Jour des Rois, and at that these four kings will choose four queens, who will choose four other kings, who must give the next ball. 'Tis an endless chain of balls till Shrove Tuesday arrives, to finish it all up with one grand carnival ball; and so you see, sir, if you stay in St. Louis I can promise you a merry winter."

I almost laughed as I thought how little she dreamed that she would not be here herself. Yet the prospect sounded alluring, and I could have been well pleased to spend the winter in the gay little village, if the fates had ordained. I answered her to that effect, and then I added:

"If you could but give me any hope that I should be chosen a king, I might take fate into my own hands and stay anyway."

"There is much ground for hope, sir," she answered demurely, "since both Pelagie Chouteau and Marguerite Papin are almost certain to be queens."

Then, with a quick beat of the heart, I thought perhaps she had not liked it that they had been friendly and I had been polite. If her manner to me could be so accounted for I was well content, for at least it did not argue indifference.

But before I could reply there was a great noise, outside on the gallery, of shuffling feet and smothered whispers, and mademoiselle clapped her hands and cried:

"La Guignolee!" And at the same moment there arose, to the quaintest air, a chorus of men's voices:

"Bon soir, le maitre et la maitresse, Et tout le monde du logis! Pour le premier jour de l'annee La Guignolee vous nous devez. Si vous n'avez rien a nous donner, Dites-nous le; Nous vous demandons pas grande chose, une echinee— Une echinee n'est pas bien longue De quatre-vingt-dix pieds de longue. Encore nous demandons pas de grande chose, La fille ainee de la maison. Nous lui ferons faire bonne chere— Nous lui ferons chauffer les pieds."

Horrified at these last words of the song, I scarcely dared glance at mademoiselle; but when I did dare, to my amazement, she was smiling good-humoredly, and I saw the words meant nothing to her. But the chorus was interrupted at that moment by a single voice which I recognized at once as Josef Papin's, singing a ditty about doves and cuckoos and nightingales, and winding up by declaring that he was dying for the soft eyes of his mistress. I saw that mademoiselle recognized the voice, too, and I was vexed to see the bright color and downcast eyes that betokened she understood these words perfectly.

But the chorus began again immediately:

"Nous saluons la compagnie Et la prions nous excuser. Si l'on a fait quelque folie."

(I thought this apology most becoming.)

"C'etait pour vous desennuyer; Une autre fois nous prendrons garde Quand sera temps d'y revenir. Dansons la guenille, Dansons la guenille, Dansons la guenille!"

And then the doors were flung open, and there burst in upon us a motley crew of grotesque and hideous masks, each one bearing a basket or bucket or sack, and all singing and shouting in every key and in no time:

"Bon soir, le maitre et la maitresse, Et tout le monde du logis!"

Madame Saugrain and mademoiselle sprang up from the table and ran to the kitchen, returning with both hands full, and followed by a procession of servants bringing eggs and sugar and butter and flour and poultry and wine—a goodly donation indeed for the Jour des Rois ball, and for which the maskers showed their thanks by dancing la guenille, a truly Saturnalian performance, somewhat shocking to my Eastern notions of propriety. But evidently neither the doctor nor his wife nor mademoiselle saw any harm in it, for they applauded it greatly, after the French fashion, by clapping of hands and crying "Encore!"

Yorke had come in with the other servants from the kitchen, and it was a sight to see his great eyes rolling in ecstasy and his white teeth displayed from ear to ear as he watched the mummers, and I was not surprised to see him follow them like one bewitched as they went up toward the Rue des Granges to Paschal Cerre's house, singing:

"Bon soir, le maitre et la maitresse, Et tout le monde du logis!"

"You will be having Yorke dancing la guenille," I said to the captain, "when he gets back to Kentucky."

"An he does," answered the captain, with a grim smile, "I will bastinado him." For I think the captain did not like some of the figures of la guenille any better than did I.



CHAPTER XI

CHOISSEZ LE ROI

"She moves a goddess and she looks a queen."

Le Jour de l'An was a full day with me. Though I did not go to early mass with the family, I left the house when they did and had a fast gallop on Fatima's back through the gray dawn down to the boat, for there were still a few finishing touches to be put to my decorations and arrangements for mademoiselle's comfort, and I was in feverish haste that all should be in readiness. Captain Clarke and I spent the day in visits of ceremony made at the houses where we had been so often and so kindly entertained during our stay. They were really farewell visits, though for prudential reasons we said nothing of our approaching departure. At every house we were served with croquecignolles and wine or ratafia by the young maidens and their mothers, and we were so hospitably urged to eat and drink that had we done anything more than make the merest pretense for the sake of good fellowship we would have been in no condition for the dance in the evening.

Frenchmen know better how to manage their drinking than do we Anglo-Saxons. I know not how they do it, but I know not a young fellow appeared at the governor's house in the evening who had apparently taken more than was good for him; and yet had our Philadelphia lads been through the ordeal of proffered glasses all day long, I warrant there would not have been a corporal's guard able to line up in good order at the governor's ball. But all these young St. Louis Frenchmen were out in fine feather, and carrying themselves grandly, eyes bright and heads steady, ready to lead out to the governor's table the belles of St. Louis, dazzling in brocades and feathers, lace, and powder and black patches.

It was a goodly feast, ragout and roast fowl and venison pasties, and cakes and tarts and rich conserves making the tables groan; but the crowning moment was when the governor's stately butler brought in the bean-cake (almost as much as he could carry) and set it down before the governor. 'Twas a breathless silence as the governor cut each slice and sent it first to the maiden nearest him and then to the next in order. I was not in the least surprised when one of the four beans fell to mademoiselle's lot; I would have been surprised if it had not. There was a burst of ringing cheers, led by Josef Papin, when the lucky slice came to her, and I thought, "He knows he will be chosen king," and smiled with bitterness at the thought.

I had not seen mademoiselle all day. As I glanced at her now, smiling and coloring with pleasure at the cheers that betokened her popularity, it flashed into my mind that she would reign a queen indeed when she came into her own in France, for I was very sure there were no court ladies could compare with her for beauty and grace.

The governor himself crowned the four queens, and then they had to retire into the background for a space while their elders danced the first minuet, in which the governor led out Madame Chouteau in stately measure. But after that formal opening of the ball the young people had it all their own way, and the four queens queened it royally each with a flock of suitors around her. I said to myself proudly, "I will not hang on to any of their trains." There was no possible doubt but that mademoiselle would choose Josef Papin (since the chevalier was not there), and while I would have liked it well if one of the others had chosen me, just to show mademoiselle that all did not scorn me, I would not seem to sue for favors. So I attached myself to Mademoiselle Chouteau (who had not been so lucky as to draw a bean); and she being in the sauciest mood (and looking exceeding pretty), and I feeling that I was at least as well dressed as any other man (since I had on my plum-colored velvets and my finest lace), and therefore at my ease, we made ourselves so entertaining to each other that I began in my heart to feel a little regret that this was to be my last ball with her.

I would not so much as look at mademoiselle, whose silvery laugh sometimes floated to my ears, for she had treated me shamefully of late, and, as far as I could see, without the least reason. Just once I caught her eye, however. I do not know how it happened, but there was a moment of almost silence in the crowded room. The violins were not playing, no one was dancing, and for one fleeting moment, every one, or nearly every one, seemed to have ceased talking. Into this strange silence, through the open windows, there floated the clear call of the whippoorwill,—only one, for the buzz and clamor and clatter of many voices surged up again instantly, and the violins began to scrape and screech themselves into tune, and no one seemed to have noticed either the silence or the whippoorwill. But I could not for the life of me help one swift glance toward mademoiselle, and I met her eyes seeking mine in a look of startled alarm that was almost terror. I held her glance long enough to say to her with my eyes, "Do not be afraid; I will see what it is," and I had the satisfaction of seeing, before she turned away, that she understood and was reassured.

A few minutes later I slipped outside. I was not entirely at ease about that call, it had meant so much once. And I was not at all sure of the chevalier. A ball like this, with every one off guard, would be just his opportunity. Outside there was a motley throng of negroes, river-men, and Indians, hanging around to get glimpses of the dancers and the guests coming and going. The yard was brightly lighted in spots by flaming lightwood torches, which left the other parts in deepest gloom. I noticed among the throng a little group of mummers, such as had been at Dr. Saugrain's the night before in hideous masks. This did not at first seem strange to me, but afterward I thought it must be unusual, for they belonged peculiarly to New Year's eve.

Leaning against a post that held a lightwood torch, a little withdrawn from the others, in solitary dignity, stood Black Hawk. I knew if there had been anything unusual in the whippoorwill cry he would know it. I sauntered up to him carelessly (for if there were spies about, I did not want to arouse suspicion), and stopped where the light fell full on me, for I knew well the value of impressing Black Hawk with the splendor of my dress. For the benefit of any possible listener, I told him that the governor's halls were hot and I must needs get a draft of cold air before I could go back to my dancing. Then I talked to him of Daniel Boone, for he had been with us on our trip to his home, and I knew his admiration for that wonderful man. His only responses were a series of grunts, but they were amiable ones (I think the old savage rather liked me), and as I talked I gradually drew nearer. When I was quite close to him, I said suddenly, in a low tone:

"Does the Great Chief of the Sacs think there are any White Wolves or Red Dogs about to-night?"

I saw a sudden glitter in his eye, but that was the only response except the invariable "Ugh!" Then I said again in the same low tone:

"If Black Hawk will watch and let his white brother know what he finds out, it will greatly please the brother of the Captain of the Long Knives."

There was another "Ugh!"—this time with half an inclination of the head, and I went back to the dance satisfied that if there was anything wrong, Black Hawk would discover it.

It was half an hour later when Yorke came to me between the figures of the dance and begged a word with me.

"Jes as soon as yo' can slip out unbeknownst-like," he said, "that thar decent redskin 's waitin' to speak to yo'-all at the kitchen doah. Yo' 's to go down through the house, so 's nobody outside won't see yo'."

I found an opportunity as soon as that dance was over, and going down through the house, with Yorke as my guide, I found Black Hawk waiting, and without a preliminary word, in slow, sententious fashion, he delivered his message.

"Black Hawk say to White Brother, Beware of White Wolf and six Red Dogs. Wear devil's faces. All gone now. Wait for Little White Fawn going home. Black Hawk go home with White Fawn and Fine Dress and Long Knives' brother and Little Medicine-man and Big Black."

I understood his broken sentences very well. The mummers were, as I had half suspected, the chevalier and a band of Osages. They would lie in wait for Pelagie on our way home and capture her if we were off guard. Black Hawk offered his services to guard her on the way home, and I gladly accepted them, for even then the chevalier's band would outnumber us; and while in a hand-to-hand fight I did not doubt we were much the better men, they would have greatly the advantage of us in being able to spring upon us from ambuscade and get the first shot.



Black Hawk had planned our forces well, but I did not like his title for me, "Fine Dress"; I would rather he had called me "Straight Shoot," the name he had several times given me on our trip together up the Missouri. I had a lurking doubt that he was rebuking me for my vanity.

But there was no time to quarrel about titles. I hunted up Dr. Saugrain, whom I found in the wide chimney-corner, the center of a group of choice spirits,—the two Chouteaus, Mr. Gratiot, Mr. Cerre, Francis Vigo, and Manuel Lisa,—and he was telling them all, with great enthusiasm, about his experiments in quicksilver, and, to my surprise, they were listening as eagerly as if he had been telling tales of war and adventure—which was a marvelous thing to me, to whom science was ever dull and dry-as-dust. I liked not to interrupt him, but the need was pressing, and when I had called him to one side and told him of the presence of the chevalier and his Osages, he was greatly excited.

The thing that troubled me most was that we were without firearms. I had my sword on, of course, and so had the captain, but swords would be of little use, for the savages would not wait for a hand-to-hand encounter, but would fire at long range. The only thing to be done was to borrow from the governor; and in his grand Spanish manner he pressed all the guns of his armory upon us, and said he would send a messenger at once to the fort to have a troop despatched to scour the town and rid it of every suspicious character; which was somewhat of a relief to me, but would have been more so if I could only have felt more confidence in his slow-moving Spanish soldiers.

But the governor begged, since it was a matter that required no haste, that we would say nothing to alarm his guests and so break up the dance in undue time, for, as he said, the kings had not yet been chosen, and it would be a great pity to interfere with that pleasant ceremony. As for me, I would have been quite willing to dispense with it. There would be no pleasure to me in seeing mademoiselle pin her bouquet on the lapel of Josef Papin's coat, thus choosing him her king; but there was nothing to do but go back to the ball-room and see it out.

As I entered the room, there happened to be a little break in the coterie of young men surrounding mademoiselle, and through it I met her glance of eager inquiry. She had evidently missed me from the room, and had her suspicions as to the cause of my long absence. I returned her glance with an assuring smile that all was well, and went on to where I had left Mademoiselle Chouteau a half-hour before. I could not have expected her to sit in a corner waiting for me all that while, yet when I found that she too had her little coterie, and I was evidently not missed, I felt unaccountably hurt and forlorn: as if there was no place for me, an alien, among these St. Louis French people. As I had done many times before, I turned to Madame Saugrain for comfort.

It was nearing midnight, and I had wondered as I came in why they were not dancing. Now I saw the reason of it. Down through the center of the floor came the governor, followed by his tall butler bearing a silver tray with four small bouquets upon it. He went directly to mademoiselle first, and then to the three other queens in turn, presenting each with one of the bouquets and making to each a gallant little speech, which the four maidens received with smiles and blushes and curtsies as became them, but mademoiselle also with a stately grace befitting a queen.

Then there was a moment of intense expectancy, for it was mademoiselle who was first to place her bouquet on the lapel of the coat of the chosen king. I would not look at her. I did not want to see her put it upon Josef Papin's coat, though there was no other there more fitting to receive it or who would make a more royal king for such a queen. So I half turned my back and talked busily to madame, who listened to me not at all, so engrossed was she in the spectacle. It seemed to me a long time in the doing, and presently I saw in madame's eyes a light of eager surprise.

"Look, m'ami, look!" she cried to me. But I would not look; no, not even when I began to feel a suspicion of what was going to happen, from a queer feeling in my backbone, and my heart beating like a trip-hammer, and the blood rushing to the roots of my hair.

"Look, look! I beg you to turn!" madame cried again. But I would not turn, though I heard a subdued murmur of voices all around me, and a soft rustle of silken skirts coming nearer and nearer—not until the soft rustle stopped close beside me, and a sweet voice said:

"Shall I pin my bouquet upon Monsieur's back? I believe it is usual to pin it upon the lapel of the coat."

Then I turned quickly, and for all the answer I made I dropped on one knee and held toward her the lapel of my coat, and as she stooped to pin it on I looked straight into her eyes. And what my eyes said to hers I know not, but quickly the white lids drooped over hers and shut me out from heaven, while the long black lashes lay upon her cheek, and the rich blood swept in a slow flood from the snowy throat to the dark waves of hair that crowned her white brow.

And now her fingers trembled so in pinning on the flowers that she was long in the doing of it (though I could have wished it much longer); and when she had finished I seized the hand that trembled, and for the first time I had ever dared I pressed my lips upon it. I saw another wave of color sweep her face, and then she bade me rise, and as I stood beside her a burst of acclaims came from every lip, "Vive le roi! Vive le roi!" and from one, "Vive le roi et la reine!" and I could not have been prouder had I been king indeed, and she my royal consort beside me!



CHAPTER XII

A MIDNIGHT FRAY

"Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."

Josef Papin was the first to bow the knee to me in mock homage, and as his laughing eyes met mine he said, in a tone not so low but that mademoiselle might have heard if she had listened:

"I owe you a grudge, sire. You have stolen the honors I so dearly coveted."

A sudden impulse seized me.

"Would you like to be detailed on some special service to your king and queen?" I asked.

"Most certainly, sire."

"Then stay by me, and when the ceremony of choosing the next king begins I will tell you about it."

Here was a heart as true as steel, ready to be generous to a successful rival and loyal unto death to his queen. It would not hurt to have one more guard for mademoiselle on our midnight ride; we would then more nearly match in numbers the chevalier's band, and by numbers alone might intimidate him from even making the attack. Which was much to be desired, since there would be two ladies in our party, and fighting and bloodshed are not for tender hearts like theirs to know.

But more than that, I thought I could give him no greater pleasure than the chance to prove himself of some real service to mademoiselle, and I would like to atone for stealing the honors he had felt so sure of. And more still: we had decided, in our hasty conference a little while before,—Dr. Saugrain, my captain, and I,—that it would not do at all to wait until the day before the Jour des Rois, as we had at first intended. Since the boat was in readiness, and the captain's business finished, there was no reason why we should not start at once. We had decided, therefore, on the next morning for our departure, for we all felt that as long as the chevalier was lurking about there was no safety for mademoiselle until she was well on her way to France.

To spirit mademoiselle away without a chance of saying good-by to so good a friend as young Papin seemed to me unkind to them both. We could trust him fully, and he should have his chance to say good-by. The captain and Dr. Saugrain had intrusted me with the entire arrangement for mademoiselle's safety and given me command of our little force, so I could make my offer to him with authority. When the opportunity offered to explain to him, a very few minutes sufficed to tell him our fears for mademoiselle's safety. His eyes flashed fire as he listened, and when I said to him, "Would you like to make one of our guard on our way home?" he grasped my hand and wrung it.

"I thank you, monsieur," he said, and then he muttered in my ear:

"What would I not give for one good chance at the chevalier!"

Half an hour later our little cavalcade set off from the governor's house, the governor himself waving us an adieu from the gallery steps. We had placed madame and mademoiselle in the center, with Josef Papin on one side and myself on the other. Black Hawk and Yorke were in the van, and Captain Clarke and Dr. Saugrain brought up the rear.

It had been necessary to make to the two ladies some explanation of these warlike arrangements, but we had said nothing of the presence of the chevalier. I knew it would distress mademoiselle, nor was I sure that her heart would not dictate a surrender, and he would at last accomplish his purpose and bear her away with him, a willing captive, to France. We had only said that a suspicious band of Osages was lurking about, and we thought it wise to take some precautions.

There was, on the Rue de l'Eglise, which was our direct way home, one spot peculiarly fitted for an ambuscade, where the road dipped suddenly into a deep gully and rose again on the farther side, and where, owing to the marshy nature of the soil, the forest had not been cleared away. It was a lonely bit of road, without houses on either side for a quarter of a mile, and I thought it more than likely that the chevalier would select this spot for an attack, if he intended to make one.

To cheat him, if possible, we rode up the hill of the Rue de la Tour and turned to the left at the fort, which was dark and silent, a proof to me that the troops had left it, and had, no doubt, ere this rid the village of our enemy. The Rue des Granges, down which we rode, ran along the crest of the hill, and there was no marsh here to be crossed, and the gully had run out to a mere depression. We bore no torches, and moving as silently as possible through the blackness of the night, we hoped we might escape detection. But as we came to the head of the gully I glanced down, and at that moment a swift spark as from a tinder flashed into the air, followed by a steady glow, and I knew the chevalier was there and that, deeming himself securely hidden among the trees, he had just lighted a cigar to keep him company in his stealthy watch. And I knew, too, that if I but drew my pistol and took steady aim at that glow-worm in the dark there would be no more trouble or anxiety for any of us on mademoiselle's account. For one moment I hesitated, and Fatima, feeling the involuntary grasp of her bridle-rein, half stopped. But could I have brought my mind to the committing of a cold-blooded murder like that, the memory of mademoiselle's plea for the chevalier's safety would have palsied my arm. Yet my generosity had like to have been our undoing. What it was that betrayed us I know not. It may have been the tramp of our horses' feet, conveyed down the gully as by an ear-trumpet; or it is possible that in spite of the darkness our moving figures were silhouetted against the faint light in the western sky; or a stone, loosened by one of our horses, may have rolled down the gully to the chevalier's feet. Whatever it was, I knew we were discovered. There was suddenly a soft call of a whippoorwill from below us, answered quickly and softly by a half-dozen others, and then a sound as of hasty but cautious stirrings. I knew what it meant: they had seen us, and they would cut us off before we reached our gates. I gave a quick word of command:

"Ride as hard and as fast as you can; never mind the noise you make. We are discovered! Our only hope of avoiding a fight is by reaching the gates first."

Black Hawk and Yorke were off like a shot: Yorke, I have no doubt, with the intention of getting to cover as quickly as possible, but Black Hawk, I believe, after a scalp or two. I had to call to them both to come back and keep close to the ladies. Mademoiselle had uttered not a word, only urged her little La Bette to do her utmost, but madame, since the embargo of silence was removed, did not cease to utter a string of prayers and entreaties to "le bon Dieu" to save us all from the savages.

We were on the crest of the hill, and looking down to the Rue de l'Eglise I could get an inkling of what progress the savages were making from an occasional flash of shining metal in a ray of light from some window; for though the hour was late the town was still astir from the governor's ball, and lights were in most of the houses. As yet they were some distance behind us, but though we were on horses and they afoot, they had a much shorter distance to travel and they were fleet runners. We were like a chain, only as strong as our weakest link; we were only as fleet as our slowest horse, and that was the one that bore madame's plump figure. La Bette was not much faster, and I began to get in a fever of impatience, as I could see the savages were steadily gaining on us. Should we meet them in that dark lane leading down from the Rue des Granges to the Rue de l'Eglise we were almost certainly at their mercy. In a few minutes it was evident to me that at our present rate of progress they were sure to meet us there, and there seemed no possible way of hurrying our two slow ponies. I would have turned back but that I believed the chevalier was sharp enough to have sent part of his men up the gully to cut off our retreat, should we attempt one. There was but one thing to do: Fatima had saved mademoiselle once; she should save her again. I leaned back of mademoiselle and spoke to Josef Papin:

"We will never reach the house before the savages at this rate. I shall take mademoiselle on Fatima and get her safe inside the gates. You and Black Hawk follow me as quickly as possible, and the other three will remain to protect Madame Saugrain."

Then I called a halt and explained my plan to the others. It needed but a word, and there was no demur but a low wail from Madame Saugrain, who, I make no doubt, believed Pelagie was going to certain death. Mademoiselle herself said nothing; I think for the first time she realized that the chevalier was leading the Osages and that their only aim was to get possession of her.

My explanation had not consumed a minute, and as I finished it I turned in my saddle.

"By your leave, Mademoiselle," I said, bent over and lifted her from La Bette's back (and never was I more thankful for my great strength and that she was but a feather-weight, else had the feat proved a difficult one) and placed her securely in front of me on Fatima. 'Twas not so comfortable a seat as at my back, no doubt, but I dared not risk her where I could not see what befell her. One word to Fatima:

"Sweetheart, for our lives!" I laid the reins low on her neck, and we were off with a long swinging stride that soon left even Black Hawk and Papin far behind, though they were urging their good horses to the utmost.

There was not a moment to be lost, for I could see that the savages were nearing the junction of the lane and the Rue de l'Eglise, and we must pass that point before them and ride some twenty paces down the Rue de l'Eglise before we should reach the gates and a safe refuge behind the walls of Emigre's Retreat. I did not cease to urge Fatima by my voice, though never touching her reins. One arm held mademoiselle securely, and my right hand lay on the holster of my pistol, ready for instant service.

Out of the Rue des Granges we shot like a bolt, into the steep and rough lane leading down the hill. Had I not held mademoiselle so firmly I think that swift swerve at the sharp corner might have unseated us both. Faster and faster we flew, like a swallow on the wing, Fatima's dainty feet as surely placed among the rocks and holes of the rough road as if she had been pacing in Rotten Row. Well she knew that a misstep of hers now might mean death to all three of us, and well she knew that her master trusted her perfectly.

I could feel mademoiselle's heart fluttering like a caged bird for terror; my own was beating like a trip-hammer, for I was near enough now to perceive that the savages too were redoubling their efforts and it was still a chance which of us would reach the corner of the Rue de l'Eglise first.

"Faster, Sweetheart, faster!" I urged in an agony of apprehension as I pressed my knees close to Fatima's hot sides, and felt her breath beginning to come in long laboring moans as my great weight (with mademoiselle's added one, which might yet prove the last feather) began to tell on her. Bravely she responded to my voice and stretched out farther and faster at every stride, and in another moment, with another tremendous swerve, we had turned the corner into the Rue de l'Eglise with the foremost of the savages not twenty feet behind us. I expected nothing less than a bullet in my back, and was glad indeed that mademoiselle was in front of me, fully shielded by my broad shoulders, for I knew whatever befell me Fatima would carry mademoiselle into the garden and to the very door of Emigre's Retreat before any savage could possibly reach her. But I felt no bullet, nor did any whistle by my ears, and I wondered why, until I saw, what the savage possibly saw too in the dim light, that mademoiselle (whose head had been cowering on my breast like a child in great terror trying to hide from the sight of danger) had, as we turned into the Rue de l'Eglise, raised her head and looked boldly over my shoulder.

I have no doubt the savage feared to shoot, lest he should hit that white face, and I did not doubt that was mademoiselle's plan, to use herself as a shield for me. I was very angry with her, but I had only time to draw her head roughly down on my shoulder again when we were within the gates and, in a dozen mighty strides, at the very door of Emigre's Retreat.

At the sound of clattering hoofs, Narcisse and half a dozen servants, among them mademoiselle's maid, Clotilde, came running out on the gallery. I sprang from my horse and lifted mademoiselle down, in too great haste to be gentle, I fear.

"Take your mistress into the house and bar every door and window!" I cried sharply. "The savages are after us!"

It needed but that word "savages" to lend wings of terror to the usually slow and lazy movements of the negroes. With shrieks of women and shouts of men, they dragged mademoiselle into the house, and I heard the hasty putting up of bars. Then I turned to meet that one savage who was so far in advance and who must by this time have reached the gates. I had no fear, now that I was free of mademoiselle, for I felt myself good for two or three of them, and I could even now hear the clattering hoofs of Josef Papin's and Black Hawk's horse coming down the lane, and they were a host in themselves. But by the time I had reached the gate there was a great noise of shouts and firing and wild halloos at the corner, and I ran on, knowing that Papin and Black Hawk must have met the savages, and knowing that the two would be outnumbered and greatly in need of my assistance.

But I had hardly got into the thick of the melee, cutting and slashing with my sword for fear a shot would go astray and hit one of my friends should I use my pistol, when the savages suddenly turned tail and ran off, disappearing in the night like shadows. For a moment I thought it was my prowess that had put them to flight, and I began in my heart to plume myself thereon. But only for a moment, for up the Rue des Granges and down the steep lane there came charging the belated troops of Spanish horsemen (they had stupidly been scouring the other end of the village, it seems), and would have charged full upon us, no doubt,—since in the dark one could not tell friend from foe,—had not young Papin called out in Spanish that we were friends and belonged to Dr. Saugrain's party. Whereupon the officer halted long enough to inquire in which direction the savages had fled, and with many a round Spanish oath that he would not leave one of the red dogs alive if he had to follow them to Cape Girardeau, he led his troop clattering off toward the stockade. And no sooner had they disappeared than down the steep lane came the rest of the party, Madame Saugrain half dead with fright (for she had heard the sounds of firing and of fighting, and feared the worst for Pelagie), the doughty doctor and my captain not a little disappointed that they should have missed the fray, and Yorke almost as much so, since it had turned out to be such an easy victory.

But when I had told madame that Pelagie was safe in the house and the savages had fled and, except for a scratch on my forehead that scarce drew blood, no one was hurt (though at that very moment Black Hawk came creeping back out of the darkness hanging a dripping scalp to his belt, which when I perceived I was nigh sick unto death for a moment)—when I told her all this (and, fortunately, madame did not see Black Hawk's ugly trophy), she broke forth into a Te Deum and went happily up to the house, where Pelagie herself came running out to meet her, and they fell into each other's arms and, after the manner of women, wept long and loud for joy, though they had shed no tears when there might have been occasion for them.



CHAPTER XIII

"A PRETTY BOY!"

"And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain."

At the door of the house, Black Hawk and Yorke branched off to the servants' quarters, and I followed them to see what had become of Fatima, for I had left her standing beside the gallery when I ran back to meet the savage. I found her standing patiently by the stable door waiting to be let in, and she whinnied with delight as she heard my step. I called to Yorke to come and take care of her (for I was in haste to get back to the house), and at the sound of my voice Leon came rushing, in great bounds. Together we walked down to the well, that I might wash the blood from my face before presenting myself to the ladies. The well was in a low part of the grounds, some little distance from the house, and it was while I was vigorously splashing my hands and face that I heard a low growl from Leon. I looked up quickly and thought I caught the glimpse of a gun, and instinctively I sprang to one side, that if any one was aiming at me I might cheat him of his aim. At the same moment Leon sprang with a terrible roar straight at the spot where I had fancied I saw the metal shining and where now I was sure I heard the rustle of some one fleeing. I followed quickly after, for the thought of any human creature in the power of that great beast in rage was awful to me. Enemy or no, I would if possible save him from being torn to pieces by a furious dog.

As I ran, I called to him as I had heard his mistress call, and in French, lest he might not understand English:

"A bas, Leon! Tais-toi, mon ange!" But the words had no meaning for him in my gruff voice: it was the soft music of his mistress's tones he understood and obeyed. I heard another furious roar, a wild shriek as of a creature in mortal fear or pain, and then a shot. I was on the spot almost before the shot had ceased to ring in my ears. There lay Leon on the white snow, a dark mass writhing in what I feared was a death-struggle, and above him stood the chevalier, his smoking pistol in his hand. I knew as soon as I saw him in Indian costume that he was the savage who had been the foremost of his band, who had followed us so closely and had disappeared when I had gone to seek him. It was in the doctor's garden he had disappeared and lain in hiding to accomplish the capture or execute a revenge later.

My own pistol was in my hand, and I covered him with it. In that moment of rage when Leon, whom I had learned to love and who loved me,—Leon, her dog,—great, beautiful, tried and trusty companion and friend,—lay dying from a shot from that villain's hand: in that moment of rage I came near putting an end at once and forever to a life that I believed could never be anything but a curse to any mortal associated with it. But the words of Pelagie rang in my ears and stayed my hand:

"If it is in your power, save the chevalier!"

His own pistol was empty and he knew himself to be at my mercy, and that his life was worth no more than the snuffing out of a candle; yet, to do him justice, he held his ground and returned my gaze as fearlessly as he might have done had we stood with drawn swords, each ready for the thrust and parry.

The old moon had but lately risen, and, hanging low in the eastern sky, her level rays fell full on the chevalier's face. It was white enough, but that might have been the effect of her sickly light reflected from the ghostly snow; the daredevil in his eyes said plainly as words, "Do your worst!"

For a full half-minute I kept him covered, and for a full half-minute he returned my steady gaze. Then suddenly there arose from the house the noise of doors opening and shutting and the hurried tramp of feet. I knew what it meant. The shot had been heard and they were coming to see what had happened. In a moment they would all be upon us,—my captain, the doctor, young Papin, yes, and Yorke and Black Hawk too,—and there would be no possibility of saving the chevalier.

He heard the noise, also, and he too knew what it meant. For one instant his eyes wavered and he looked as if he would turn and run, spite of my threatening pistol. Only for an instant, and then he drew himself up proudly and threw back his head.

"Fire, Monsieur," he said: "Why do you wait to let others share the glory?"

For answer I lowered my pistol.

"Monsieur," I said, "you richly deserve death, and for a moment you were in deadly peril; but Mademoiselle Pelagie, whom you would basely wrong, pleads for you, and I spare your life at her intercession. If you will turn and run directly south, there is a low place in the wall, and on this side a pile of logs by which you may easily scale it, and almost directly opposite a narrow opening in the stockade through which you can force your way. But you must run for your life. I will remain here and do what I can to prevent pursuit; 'twill be no easy matter to keep Black Hawk off your trail."

Yet he did not start at once. He hesitated and his eyes fell; then he looked up quickly and half extended his hand.

"Monsieur, you have been a generous foe; will you permit that I clasp your hand?"

But a flood of memories rushed over me: his unswording me in the dance; his attempt to steal mademoiselle at the picnic and to poison her mind against her friends; this second attempt, where it was through no fault of his that we were not all dead men and mademoiselle far on her way to Cape Girardeau, in the power of savages and a villain more to be dreaded than they. I put my hand behind me and said coldly:

"My hand belongs to my friends and to a foe whom I can honor. Monsieur, if you tarry longer, I will not be responsible for your life."

Even in the pale light I could see the deep flush sweep his cheek and his hand spring involuntarily to his sword-hilt. But he thought better of it, turned, and strode quickly away toward the low spot in the stone wall.

Then I had leisure to think of poor Leon. I knelt down beside him, where a dark pool was rapidly widening in the white snow. I could see where the red fountain gushed from a wound in his shoulder. It was possible no vital part had been touched and he might be saved could that gushing fountain of life-blood be stanched. As it was, his eyes were already glazing and his limbs stiffening and his breath coming in long-drawn sobs, like a man in extremity. He was like to breathe his last before even those hurrying feet, fast drawing near, should reach him. I knew enough of surgery to know that I must apply a tight bandage above the wound; but where should I find a bandage? My flimsy lace handkerchief was worse than useless. There was no help for it: the purple silken sword-sash, of which I was mightily proud, whose long fringed ends, tied in a graceful knot, fell almost to my knees, must be sacrificed. I hastily unknotted it, and tenderly as possible, that I might not hurt the poor fellow more than needs must (for his flesh quivered under my touch), I bound it round the shoulder and with all my strength drew it tight. Quickly the gushing fountain stayed, and then taking from my pocket a flask that my mother herself had always bid me carry, I forced a few drops into his fast-setting jaws. I knew I had done the right thing when, by the time they had all come up, Leon had lifted his head and was feebly licking my hand.

Their first exclamations of horror were followed by a hail of questions:

"Who has done this?" "Where is he?" "Did you see him?" "How did it happen?"

To all their questions I made but one answer:

"I heard the shot, and ran up to find Leon lying on the ground, dying as I believed, and I have done what I could to help him."

"And you have saved his life, or, at least, if he lives, he will have only you to thank," said Dr. Saugrain, who had been on his knees beside Leon, examining him.

"You and your silken sash," he added, with the old twinkle of his eye. "'Twas a noble sacrifice, and we all appreciate how great a one."

The good doctor was ever twitting me on what he was pleased to call my love of dress; but I made him no answer this time, for I was watching Black Hawk, who, with an Indian's cunning, had at once discovered the footprints in the snow and that there was but one pair of them, and was stealing off after them. That would never do.

"Great Chief," I cried, "'tis no use following the Red Dog; he has had too long a start. Will you help us to carry the dog of La Petite to the house, where we can put him in a warm bed? 'Twill never do to let him lie in the snow, and 'twill take us all to carry him comfortably."

Black Hawk hesitated, and then grunted out an unwilling consent. I think it seemed to him somewhat beneath the dignity of a great chief to carry a dog, and only because of his love for La Petite did he bring his mind to it. Nor did my little fiction about the Red Dog deceive him.

"No Red Dog," he grunted. "White Wolf! Trail fresh. Black Hawk bring his scalp to La Petite."

But the doctor saved me the necessity of arguing further with him.

"Red Dog or White Wolf, Black Hawk," he said, "n'importe! 'Tis the mastiff we must look to now. A sad day 'twould be for all of us should he die; so lend a hand, vite, vite!"

And this from the doctor, who had told me when I first met him he would not have cared had I killed Leon, for he loved him not. The truth was that the doctor's devotion to Leon and Leon's to him were second only to the devotion of the dog and his mistress to each other, though, owing to the fact that Leon often stalked into his laboratory at inopportune moments, sometimes spoiling the most delicate experiment by poking his great inquisitive muzzle where it did not belong, the doctor's patience was sometimes tried almost beyond the limit of endurance.

The doctor's exhortation, uttered in a sharp and clipping way peculiar to him when excited, was effectual. Very tenderly between us all we managed to lift the mastiff, and bore him to the negroes' quarters, where, in Narcisse's cabin, we made him a warm bed and washed and dressed his wound, and left him in a fair way to recovery.

I was a little behind the others in reaching the house, for I had delayed about some last arrangements for Leon's comfort, and then it had been necessary that I should make a hasty toilet. Hands and face were soiled with blood and grime (my purple velvets I feared were ruined forever, but I would not take the time to change them), and my hair was in much disorder. A hasty scrubbing of hands and face and a retying of my hair-ribbon to try to confine the rebellious yellow curls that were tumbling all over my head, and that I so much despised, were all I permitted myself time for. Yet the few minutes I had lingered had been long enough for the launching of a thunderbolt, and I arrived just at the moment to see the havoc it had made.

Mademoiselle in her ball-dress had thrown herself on her knees beside madame, her white arms flung around madame's neck, her face buried in her motherly bosom, sobbing piteously. Madame gently stroked the dark curls, saying over and over only the same words, "My child, my child, my poor child!" while the tears flowed down her own cheeks all unnoticed.

The doctor stood beside her, patting as he could her white arm or dark curls or tender cheek, and saying helplessly:

"Voila, voila! Quoi donc! N'importe, n'importe!" and many other as senseless words, and growing every moment more hopeless and helpless as mademoiselle but wept the more bitterly.

On the other side of the room stood young Papin, pale and rigid as if carved in stone, his eyes fixed on mademoiselle. I feared that for him too it had been a bitter blow, for I could not doubt that it was the announcement of mademoiselle's departure on the morrow that had created such consternation.

The captain had discreetly turned his back and was looking out of the window. At the sound of my entrance he turned and beckoned me to him.

"I fear 'twill never do," he whispered; "the maiden is breaking her heart."

As if she had heard his words, mademoiselle lifted her head, and though her face was tear-stained and her hair hanging in disheveled locks about it, it was still the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

At sight of me she flung her head back, and her eyes flashed. She extended one round white arm toward me, and in tones of bitter scorn she exclaimed:

"It is you, you, Monsieur, who have done this! I will not leave my guardians and my home and go away with you! You would not hear of my going with the chevalier, yet he was a French gentleman, and not merely a pretty boy!"

Madame and the doctor tried in vain to stop her tirade. She was in a fury; such blazing eyes, such crimson cheeks, and voice quivering with scorn. For a moment I was abashed and would have liked to slink out of sight. But when she was so ungenerous as to call me "a pretty boy," the fire returned to my heart, and I too drew myself up proudly.

"Mademoiselle, listen to me!" I said sternly. "I have but a few minutes ago spared the chevalier's life when I had him at my mercy, and shown him the way to escape from your friends here, who were running at the sound of his shot, and who, had they found him in Dr. Saugrain's grounds, would have made short work with him, I fear." (I could not but note out of the corner of my eye while I was speaking the quick start of young Papin at this announcement, the eager interest of my captain, and the doctor's look of dismay.)

"I spared him, and I told him that I spared him, only because you had begged me to do my utmost to save him if he should ever fall into my power. I cannot believe that he would have treated me or any one of your friends with the like courtesy. He is now well on his way to Cape Girardeau, but I think he is not gone so far but that he can be easily overtaken. Black Hawk is ready to set out at once; indeed, it is with much difficulty that I have restrained him from so doing. Then, if you desire it, and Dr. Saugrain and madame approve, you can return to France under the chevalier's protection."

I lifted my hand as the doctor and his wife both started to speak.

"Nay, my friends, permit that mademoiselle first tells me her pleasure."

Then, as mademoiselle (whose eyes were no longer flashing with scorn, but regarding me with the same wonder I had seen in them before) did not speak, I said, if possible with greater sternness:

"Speak at once, mademoiselle: shall we send for the chevalier and bring him back? There is no time to be lost; every minute is carrying him away from you as fast as a very good pair of legs for running can take him."

I hope I did not exceed the limits of courtesy in so speaking of the chevalier, but it was hard to resist a little fling at the "French gentleman" to whom the "pretty boy" had been so disparagingly compared. I caught a twinkle in the doctor's eye and a fleeting smile on young Papin's face and on my captain's, but I looked only at mademoiselle. She was meek enough now, but she no longer looked at me; her dark lashes were sweeping her cheek.

"You need not send for him," she said.

"Then, mademoiselle," I went on, a little more gently, "it seems to me and to your friends that the only other way to return to France is the way we have planned. You will be as safe under Captain Clarke's care as you would be under Dr. Saugrain's. He will take you to his sister, Mrs. O'Fallon, who will be as a mother to you, until a suitable escort can be found for you to New York to place you under Mr. Livingston's care. As for me, I shall not in any way annoy you: you need not know I am on the boat; and as soon as you are placed in Mrs. O'Fallon's care I shall say good-by to you forever, and continue my journey east, since it is indeed time I should be starting homeward. Dr. and Madame Saugrain will assure you that this is the most feasible plan, and I hope once more that you will not be deterred from accepting it by any fear of annoyance from me. There will be none. If you decide to go with us, we must make an early start, and there will be many things for me to attend to. Captain Clarke will inform me of your decision, and I will see Dr. Saugrain and madame in the morning. Till then, I wish you all a very good night."

I made my grand bow, turned quickly, and left the room, though Dr. Saugrain and his wife both tried to stay me, and young Papin sprang forward with an eager hand to prevent me.

I was bitterly angry, and more hurt and disappointed than angry. Outside I strode furiously up and down in the snow, calling myself a fool that I should care. Mademoiselle might be a great lady in France, I said to myself, but to me she had shown herself only a fickle, capricious, silly maiden. But even as I so spoke to myself my heart revolted. I saw her once more weeping in madame's arms, and I began to think it was only natural and commendable in her that she should be so stirred at the thought of leaving friends who had been so good to her, and that I had been much harder with her than was well.

And at last, as I began to walk myself into a calmer frame of mind, I could have wished that I had not made that rash promise to keep myself out of her sight on the boat. My word was given and I would have to stick to it, but in my own room, as I listened to the murmur of voices still going on in the room below me, I thought no longer with anger, but sadly enough, of the long delightful tete-a-tetes with mademoiselle I had dreamed of when I had first planned this trip on the Great River.

A bright drop suddenly fell on my hand. I brushed my eyes angrily.

"Domtiferation!" I whispered furiously to myself. "Mademoiselle was right! A pretty boy indeed!"



CHAPTER XIV

A CREOLE LOVE-SONG

"So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return."

For three days we had been floating down the Great River, and for three days I had kept my word. Mademoiselle had not been annoyed by me; she had hardly seen me. Much to my captain's vexation, I had refused to take my meals with him and mademoiselle, though our cozy table of three had been one of the brightest parts of my dream when I was planning this trip.

It was nearing the supper-hour on the evening of this third day. The men were making ready to tie up for the night (for navigation on the river at night was a dangerous matter), and for the hundredth time I was wishing with all my heart that I had not been so rash as to make that promise to keep out of mademoiselle's way. The vision of a hot supper comfortably served in her warm and cozy cabin was of itself sufficiently enticing, as all my meals since coming aboard had been brought to me in any out-of-the-way corner of the deck, and I had found them but cold comfort. Not that my resolution was weakening, though my captain let no meal-hour pass without doing his best to weaken it, and more than once had brought me a message from mademoiselle herself begging me to join them at table. No; I was as fixed as ever, and, in a way, enjoying my own discomfort, since to pose as a martyr ever brings with it a certain satisfaction which is its own reward.

The weather had been clear and mild up to this time; but this evening an icy sleet was beginning to fall, and I glanced at mademoiselle's cabin window, brightly lighted and eloquent of warmth and dryness, and fetched a great sigh as I looked. A voice at my elbow said:

"Monsieur is sad?—or lonely, perhaps?"

I started, for I had supposed myself entirely alone on that end of the boat—the men all busy with their tying-up preparations forward, and mademoiselle and the captain in the cabin. I lifted my hat and bowed ceremoniously.

"Neither, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle hesitated. I saw she felt repulsed, and I secretly gloried in her embarrassment. Neither would I help her out by adding another word; I waited for what she might say further.

"Monsieur," she said presently, "you have shown me much kindness in the past, and done me great service. I would like to have you know that I am not ungrateful."

"I do not desire your gratitude, Mademoiselle," I said coldly (though it hurt me to speak so when she was so evidently trying to be friendly with me). "No gentleman could have done less, even if he were not a French gentleman."

The light from her cabin window fell full upon her. I could see that she colored quickly at my retort, and half started to go away, but turned back again.

"Monsieur," she said earnestly, "I have a very humble apology to make to you. I hope you will forgive me for my rude and wicked speech. I was beside myself with sorrow at the thought of being so suddenly torn from my friends, and for the time nothing else weighed with me, not even that you had just saved my life at the peril of your own. Ah, how could I have been so base! I wonder not that you will not even look at so mean a creature, and you do well to shun her as if she were vile."

No man could have resisted her sweet humility. For a moment all my anger melted.

"Mademoiselle, do not apologize to me!" I cried. "If there are any apologies to be made, it is I who should make them for not knowing how to understand and appreciate what you felt."

A quick radiance sprang into her eyes, and with a childlike abandon she extended both her hands to me.

"Then you forgive me?" she cried.

I took one hand and held it in both mine, and as I bent my knee I lifted it to my lips.

"If I am forgiven, my Queen," I answered softly.

Her dark eyes, tender and glorious, looked down into mine. For a moment I forgot she was a great lady in France; to me she was only the most bewitching and adorable maiden in the wide world. She was wearing a heavy capote to shield her from the weather, but the hood had fallen slightly back, and the falling sleet had spangled the little fringe of curls about her face with diamonds that sparkled in the candle-shine, but were not half so bright as her starry eyes. I could have knelt forever on the icy deck if I might have gazed forever into their heavenly depths. But in a minute she let the white lids fall over them.

"Rise, Monsieur," she said gently. "You are forgiven, but on one condition."

"Name it, my Queen!" And I rose to my feet, but still held her hand. "No condition can be too hard."

"That you come to supper with us to-night, and to every meal while I am on your boat."

The condition fetched me back to earth with a shock. I remembered all the cause, and I answered moodily:

"My word has been given, Mademoiselle; I cannot go back on my word."

"Your word was given to me, and I absolve you from it," she said.

"But in the presence of others," I objected. "I am bound by it, unless I be shamed before them."

"Only your captain is here," she said, still gently; "and he, too, urges it."

But still I was obdurate. Then at last she drew away her hand and lifted her head proudly.

"Your Queen commands you!" she said haughtily, and turned and walked away. Yet she walked but slowly. Perhaps she thought I would overtake her, or call her back and tell her I had yielded. But I was still fighting with my stubborn pride, and let her go. I watched her close her cabin door, then for five minutes I strode rapidly up and down, the slippery deck.

"Your Queen commands you!" I thrilled at her words. My Queen! Yes, but only if I were her king. Now that I was away from her, and her glowing eyes were not melting my heart to softest wax, I was resolved never again to submit to her tyranny and caprice. I would go to supper, because she commanded it; but I would never for a moment forget that she was a great lady of France, and I a proud citizen of America—too proud to woo where I could only meet with scorn.

So I went to my cabin and made a careful toilet, and when Yorke came to call me to supper, I presented myself in mademoiselle's cabin. I had not been in it since she had come aboard, and, though I had carefully planned and arranged every detail of it for her comfort, I would not have known it for the same place. What she had done to it I know not; a touch here, a touch there, such as women's fingers know how to give, and the bare and rough boat's cabin had become a dainty little boudoir. The round table, draped in snowy linen, with places set for three; the silver and glass shining in the rays from two tall candles; Yorke and mademoiselle's maid Clotilde bringing in each a smoking dish to set upon it; and mademoiselle standing beside it like the glowing heart of a ruby, her dark beauty well set off by a gown of crimson paduasoy, with rich lace through which the graceful neck and rounded arms gleamed white and soft: it all looked to me like a picture from one of Master Titian's canvases, and I could hardly believe that if I should look through the closely drawn curtains I would see the rough and dirty decks of our barge, and, beyond, the dark forest of the Illinois shore, where even now hostile savages might be lurking, ready to spring upon us with blood-curdling yells.

The captain was already there, chatting gaily with mademoiselle as I came in, and he had the delicacy to make his greeting of me as natural and unsurprised as if I had never been absent from the little board, while mademoiselle added a touch of gracious cordiality to hers.

I was on my mettle. Determined that never again, even to herself, should she call me a boy, I summoned to my aid all the savoir-faire I could command. I was (at least, in my own estimation, and I hoped also in hers) the elegant man of the world, discoursing at ease on every fashionable topic, and, to my own amazement, parrying every thrust of her keen repartee, and sometimes sending her as keen in return. I think the situation had gone to my head. Certainly I had never before thought myself a brilliant fellow, but when I rose to make my bow to mademoiselle (and it was indeed a very grand one), I hoped that even in her mind I would not suffer by comparison with any French gentleman, no, though it were the chevalier himself.

I did not see mademoiselle again until the midday meal next day; for all the morning I was busy with the men, making the difficult and dangerous turn from the Great River into the Ohio, past Fort Massac. Once in the Ohio, there was no surcease from hard work—poling, paddling, or cordelling, sometimes all three together, to climb the rushing stream.

Punctually at the noon-hour I presented myself at table, and again at supper, and my good star did not desert me. Quip and repartee and merry tale and polished phrase were all at my tongue's end, and no one could have been more amazed than I at my own brilliancy.

But I lingered not a moment after the meal was over, and I never saw mademoiselle between times. If she came out to take the air on deck, I was hard at work with the men, sometimes taking my turn at paddling, sometimes, though not often, at poling; but our crew of French Canadians were better at that than I. Indeed, there are no such fellows in the world for navigating these dangerous Western waters.

The weather had grown mild, and often in the evening I envied Yorke (who had straightway, of course, made desperate love to Clotilde, who was old enough to be his mother), sitting in the bow of the boat and thrumming his banjo lightly as he sang her some creole love-song he had picked up in St. Louis.

Our trip was fast drawing to a close. The last evening on the river had arrived. We would tie up one more night; all hands at the cordelle and the poles, we would reach Mrs. O'Fallon's by noon, in time for dinner. I had determined not to linger there at all. I should go on, the same afternoon, to my uncle's plantation, not many miles away, and the next day start for the East. I had told mademoiselle I would say good-by to her forever when we reached Mrs. O'Fallon's, but in my own mind I was saying good-by to her now. It had been for several days that I had felt the weight of this approaching hour, and my brilliance had gradually departed. I had grown duller and quieter at each succeeding meal, and mademoiselle, too, had grown quieter (she could never be dull). Sometimes I fancied she looked sad, and once I was sure I recognized the trace of tears in her beautiful eyes. There was nothing strange in that; it would have been strange indeed if she could have left home and friends, and started on a long and dangerous journey (with no companion but the faithful negro woman who had been nurse and lady's-maid and trusted friend for ten long years, but who was still but servant and slave), and had not often been overcome with sadness. Indeed, there were times, when she was merriest at the table, when I had mentally accused her of heartlessness as I thought of the two fond old people mourning for her in Emigre's Retreat. So, though I would have liked to attribute some of mademoiselle's sadness to an approaching separation, I had no grounds for so doing, and I scoffed at myself for the attempt.

That last night at supper I made a desperate effort to be my gayest, but it was uphill work, and the more so because neither the captain nor mademoiselle seconded my efforts with any heartiness; so when supper was ended, feeling that the hour had at last come, I stood as mademoiselle rose from her seat, and instead of excusing myself at once, as had been my custom, I lingered.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "we have had our last meal aboard together (God prospering our voyage), and I desire to thank you for your courtesy, and to say to you that whatever there may have been in our intercourse during our brief acquaintance not pleasant to either of us to hold in remembrance, I hope you will banish it from your memory, as I shall from mine. I shall think of these weeks always as among the brightest of my life, and perhaps, had I been a chevalier of France instead of an American boy, I should not so easily have said good-by to the Rose of St. Louis; it would have been au revoir instead!"

I was standing as I said it all formally, with the air of one making pretty compliments: for I did not wish mademoiselle to know how every word was from the depths of my heart; nor would I have lightly betrayed myself before my captain, who was not apparently listening, but had turned to give some instructions to Yorke.

Mademoiselle's color came and went as I spoke. She did not answer me for a moment, and when she did it was in a low tone, and she seemed to speak with effort:

"Monsieur, you are ungenerous! You will never forgive my unhappy speech. Permit me to say you have taught me that a chevalier of France may be outshone by an American gentleman in bravery, manliness, truth, and honor—in every virtue except the doubtful one of knowing how to utter pleasant insincerities to us maidens. And I will not say good-by. Am I not to see you again?"

"I will certainly see you in the morning, Mademoiselle, but there may be no time for more than a word, and so I take this opportunity to say good-by."

"I will not say good-by, Monsieur"—with the old wilful toss of the head. "I will tell your captain he is not to let you go back to Philadelphia so soon. But no matter where you go, I will never say good-by; it shall always be au revoir."

She smiled up at me with such bewitching grace that perforce I smiled back at her, and if she had but asked me this evening, as she had on many others, to linger in her cozy cabin for a game of piquet, I would not have had the courage to say no. But she did not ask me, and, much as I longed to stay, there was nothing for me to do but to pick up my hat and say, with the best grace I could:

"I thank you with all my heart, Mademoiselle, and, for to-night at least, au revoir!"

An hour later my captain and I were leaning on the rail in the stern of the boat, looking up at the tree-crowned bluffs standing dark against the moonlight and listening to the soft lapping of the water against the boat's sides. We did not realize that we were hidden by a great pile of peltries, as high as our heads, which Captain Clarke was taking back to Kentucky with him to sell on commission for Pierre Chouteau, until we heard voices. Mademoiselle and Clotilde had evidently found a seat on the other side of the pile of pelts, and mademoiselle was speaking in plaintive tone:

"And they would not let me bring Leon with me! He at least would have loved me and been a companion and protector when all the world forsake me."

Then Clotilde's rich negro voice:

"Mademoiselle, I find out why they not let you bring Leon. Mr. Yorke tell me last night. Leon shot, the night before we come away."

There was a heartrending cry, and then a torrent of swift French:

"Leon shot! My Leon! Why have they not told me? Oh, the villains! Who shot him, Clotilde? My poor angel! My Leon! No one left to love your poor mistress!" And much more that I cannot recall, I was so excited and angry that that rascal Yorke should have caused her such needless pain. But every word of Clotilde's next speech was graven on my heart as with a knife of fire.

"Mr. Yorke say they all hear the shot, and they all run out to see what the matter, and there stood the lieutenant with pistol in his hand, and Yorke say he don' think he shoot him, but—"

Clotilde had no chance to say another word.

"Shoot my Leon! He! Ah, I could not have believed such baseness! He never forgave him for throwing him down-stairs! His last act before leaving Emigre's Retreat! Oh, mon Dieu, what perfidy! What a monster!"

And every word was so interrupted with sighs and moans and sobs as would have melted a heart of stone.

As for me, I was nearly turned to stone, such horror did I feel that she should think me guilty of so base a deed. I had no thought of acting in my self-defense, but my captain started up at once with a quick exclamation, and, seizing my arm, dragged me around the pile of pelts. There was mademoiselle, seated on a low bundle of them, weeping as if her heart would break, and Clotilde trying in vain to stay the torrent she had set loose.

"Mademoiselle," said the captain, quickly, "there has been some terrible mistake. It was the chevalier who shot Leon; it was this lad" (laying his arm affectionately across my shoulders) "who saved his life."

Now half the joy of this speech to me was taken out of it by the captain's way of treating me as a boy—I think the captain never thought of me in any other light; and I made up my mind on the instant that I should seize the very first opportunity to beg him, at least in mademoiselle's presence, to treat me as a man.

But mademoiselle was so concerned with the matter of the captain's speech, she paid no heed to its manner; and it chagrined me not a little that her first thought was for Leon, and not that I was innocent.

"Saved his life!" she cried. "Is my Leon alive?"

"He is, Mademoiselle," I said coldly, "and I have every reason to believe he is doing well. My 'last act' before leaving Emigre's Retreat was to visit him in Narcisse's cabin. I renewed his dressing, and left minute instructions as to his care. We had thought to spare you this anxiety, Mademoiselle, but two blundering servants have undone our plans."

"Ah, Monsieur," cried mademoiselle, impetuously, springing to her feet and extending both her hands to me in her pretty French fashion, "how unjust I have been to you! How can I ever thank you enough for your care of my poor Leon? Your last act in the cold and dark of the early morning, and the hurry of departure, to see that my Leon was taken care of, and I have accused you of making it one of base revenge! Ah, Monsieur, can you ever forgive me?" half whispering.

I had taken her hands and was holding them as I looked down into her radiant eyes. I bent low and kissed them both, first one and then the other, as I said (very low, so that the captain and Clotilde should not hear):

"Mademoiselle, I can forgive you everything."

But I needed not to speak so low, for when I lifted my head the captain and Clotilde had both disappeared. And whither they had gone, or why, I neither knew nor cared. For now a mad intoxication seized me. This was the last evening I should ever spend with mademoiselle in this world; why should I not enjoy it to the full? For the hundredth time we had had our misunderstanding and it had cleared away; now there should be no more misunderstandings, no more coldness, nothing but joy in the warm sunshine of her smiles.

So I begged her once more to be seated and to atone for all that was unkind in the past by letting me talk to her. There could have been no better place, outside of her cozy cabin, for this long-dreamed-of tete-a-tete, which now at last was to have a realization, than this she had herself chosen. The pile of pelts at her back kept off the east wind, the young moon in the west shone full upon her face, so that I could feast my eyes upon its glorious beauty (for the last time, I said to myself) and interpret every changing expression.

And yet, just at first, I was afraid I was going to be disappointed, after all. Mademoiselle was embarrassed and constrained, and it was I—I, the gauche and unsophisticated "boy"—who had to gently disarm her fears and lead her back to her bright and natural way. And this is how I did it. Mademoiselle had seated herself at my request, almost awkwardly, if awkwardness were possible to her, so much afraid was she she was not doing quite the proper thing.

"I cannot imagine what has become of Clotilde," she said nervously. "I did not send her away."

"I think she has gone to find Yorke and set him right about Leon," I answered, smiling.

She smiled slightly in return, but still with some embarrassment.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "have you observed that Yorke has been making himself very agreeable to Clotilde?"

"What folly!" she exclaimed. "Clotilde is an old woman. I spoke to her about it quite seriously to-day."

"And what did she say, Mademoiselle?"

"She said that she found Yorke most entertaining. 'One must be amused,' were her words, and she made me feel very young with her worldly wisdom. 'We do not contemplate matrimony, Mam'selle, but Mr. Yorke and I both think there may be an affinity of spirit, regardless of difference in age'! I was amazed at her philosophical attitude."

"How did you reply to her, Mademoiselle?"

"She quite took my breath away, but I only said, 'Clotilde, you will oblige me by seeing as little as possible of Yorke on the remainder of the trip.' I had fully intended to keep her with me this evening, and now she has slipped away. I think I ought to go and find her," half rising as she spoke.

"By no means," I answered quickly. "Indeed, I am quite on Clotilde's side."

"On Clotilde's side! Impossible, Monsieur! Such arrant nonsense!"

All this time I had been standing, for from a maidenly shyness (rather new in her, and which I liked) she would not ask me to sit beside her, and there was no other seat. Now I said:

"Mademoiselle, if you will permit me to share your bundle of pelts, I believe I can prove to you that it is not such arrant nonsense, after all."

"Certainly, Monsieur," a little stiffly; "I am sorry to have kept you standing so long."

She drew her skirts a little aside, and I sat down, quite at the other end of the bundle of pelts, but nearer to her than I had been in many long days. Then, in a purposely didactic and argumentative way, I cited to her all the instances in history I could think of, winding up with Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos, until by entering into the argument she had entirely forgotten herself and her embarrassment. Then suddenly into a little break in our conversation there came the clear whinny of Fatima. She was on the other boat, tied close to ours, and as we were in the stern and she in the bow, she had no doubt heard her master's voice and was calling him. I was greatly tempted to call her by the whistle she knew, but I did not quite dare. She would have broken all possible bounds to come to me in answer to that whistle, and I would not have been surprised to see her clear the space between the two boats.

"That was Fatima," mademoiselle said, and sighed a little.

"Yes," I said, "and I think I could tell what your sigh meant."

"Did I sigh?"

"Yes, and it meant, 'I wish it were Leon.'"

"Yes," she said; "I was thinking how much Fatima loves you, and Leon, too, as soon as he was able to forgive your disgracing him so. I think all dogs and horses love you, Monsieur."

"That is because I love them, Mademoiselle."

"Does love always beget love?"

"Not always, Mademoiselle; sometimes it begets scorn."

"Then I suppose the love dies?"

"No, Mademoiselle; unhappily, it but grows the stronger."

"That is folly, is it not?"

"Mademoiselle, if you will allow me to be a philosopher like Clotilde—love has no regard for sense or wisdom, else would Yorke love one of his own age, and I would love one of my own country and my own rank."

She said not a word for a long time, but sat with downcast eyes. Suddenly she lifted them, and they shone with a softer radiance than I had ever seen in them before.

"Of what were you thinking, Mademoiselle?" I said gently.

She hesitated a moment, and then like the soft sigh of a zephyr came her words:

"I was wishing you were a chevalier of France."

"And I, Mademoiselle, was wishing you were a maiden of St. Louis, as I supposed you were when I first saw you."

"I would not have been of your country, even then," she said, with delicious shyness, half looking at me, half looking away in pretty confusion.

"Not now, but you soon would be. St. Louis will belong to us some day."

"Never!" She spoke in hot haste, all the patriot firing within her, and looking full at me with flashing eyes. "St. Louis will be French some day, as it used to be, I believe with all my heart; but American, never!"

"Mademoiselle, we had a wager once. Shall we have one more?"

"Is it that St. Louis will one day be American?"

"Yes."

"I am very willing to wager on that, for it is a certainty for me. What shall be the stakes?"

"Mademoiselle, they would be very high."

"I am not afraid."

I thought for a moment, and then I shook my head.

"Mademoiselle, I dare not. I am sure St. Louis will one day be ours, but the time may be long, and by that day the worst may have happened. You may have found your chevalier of France."

She looked up at me in a quick, startled way, which changed gradually to her old proud look.

"Monsieur, I know not what stakes you had in mind, but this I know: if 'twere a lady's hand it were unworthy you and her. A lady's hand is for the winning by deeds of prowess or by proof of worth, not by betting for it as though 'twere a horse or a pile of louis d'or."

"Mademoiselle," I cried in an agony of shame, "forgive me, I beg. Forgive a poor wretch who saw no chance of winning by prowess or worth, and who was so desperate that he would clutch at any straw to help him win his heart's desire."

Her look softened at once, and when she spoke again 'twas in her gentlest tones.

"Monsieur," she said, "to-morrow we part, and it would seem there is but little chance that we shall see each other again in this world. Fate has placed our lots on different continents, with wide seas between. But for to-night let us forget that. Let us think we are to meet every day, as we have met in these weeks, and let us have a happy memory of this last evening to cherish always."

I could not speak for a moment. Her voice, its sweet tones breaking a little at the last, unmanned me. I turned away my head, for I would not let her see the workings of my face, nor my wet eyes, lest she think me boyish again. It was the sealing of my doom, but I had known it always. And there was a drop of sweet amid the bitter that I had never dared hope for. She, too, was sad—then she must care a little. In a minute I was able to turn toward her again and speak in a firm, low voice.

"You are right, Mademoiselle; we will be happy to-night. Come," I said, rising and extending my hand to her, "let us go watch the revelers on the other boat; they, at least, are troubled by no useless regrets."

She put her hand in mine, and we went back by the stern rail and stood watching the scene below us.

A plank had been thrown from one boat to the other to make easy communication, and the crew of our boat, with the exception of the two left always on guard, had crossed over. They had cleared a space for dancing, and lighted it by great pine-knots cut from the forest close by. Yorke, set high on a pile of forage with his beloved banjo, was playing such music as put springs into their heels. Canadians and negroes were all dancing together—the Frenchmen with graceful agility, the negroes more clumsily, even grotesquely, but with a rhythm that proved their musical ear. Clotilde and a negress cook were the only women, and greatly in demand by both Frenchmen and negroes. Clotilde rather scorned partners of her own color, and was choosing only the best-looking and the best dancers of the white men, with a caprice worthy of her mistress, I thought, and probably in imitation of her. Yorke did not seem to mind, but with the gayest good humor called out the figures as he played. Suddenly, as he wound up the last figure with a grand flourish, he beckoned to a little Canadian who had been specially agile in the dance, and they held a whispered consultation. Then Yorke resigned his banjo to him, and, leaping down into the middle of the floor, seized Clotilde about the waist without so much as saying "By your leave," and shouted:

"Choose partners for a waltz!"

Consternation followed, for not more than half a dozen had ever seen the new French dance. But when the little Canadian started up with his witching trois-temps, Yorke and Clotilde glided off rhythmically to its strains, the half-dozen followed, more or less skilfully, and the rest stood round gazing in respectful admiration.

Now I had learned the waltz at home in Philadelphia, but it had never been danced at the St. Louis parties, and I knew not whether mademoiselle knew the step or not. Yet was I seized with a great desire to follow Yorke's example.

"Mademoiselle," I said timidly, "why cannot we have a dance here? See, there is a clear space on the deck, and the music is good."

"I waltz but poorly, Monsieur," she answered, looking up at me with a bright blush. "Madame Saugrain taught me the step, but I have practised it but little."

"Then we will be the better matched," I answered gaily. But when I had put my arm around her waist, and one of her beautiful hands rested on my shoulder, and I held the other in my firm clasp, I was seized with such trembling at my boldness in daring to hold her so near that almost my feet refused to move. Yet as soon as we were both gliding to the Canadian's music there was no longer any fear in my heart, only a great longing that the music might never cease and that we could go on forever circling to its strains. Wild thoughts whirled in my brain. Why need mademoiselle go back to Paris? I believed, as I bent my head and looked into her dark eyes uplifted to mine, that only a little persuasion would be needed to make her give it all up. And I said to myself, "I will try."

But the music stopped. Mademoiselle gently withdrew herself from my encircling arm, and suddenly cold reason returned. How could I dream of betraying Dr. Saugrain's trust! How could I think of persuading her to relinquish the glories awaiting her for me! And, most of all, how could I dare to think she could be persuaded!

Mademoiselle had thrown off her capote before beginning to dance; I picked it up and put it around her, and led her back to her seat on the pelts. But she would not sit down.

"No, Monsieur," she said; "our evening is over. I am going to my cabin. Will you send for Clotilde and tell her that I want her?"

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" I cried, my heart in my mouth to beg her not to leave me without one word of hope. But then I stopped. It was all over; the world had come to an end.

"It is good-by, then, Mademoiselle?" I said steadily, and holding out my hand to her.

"No, Monsieur," she said, with that voice that from the first time I heard it had ever seemed to me the sweetest in the world. "'Tis au revoir—toujours, toujours au revoir!"

I watched her close her cabin door and turned back to my place by the rail, black despair in my heart, but just one little ray of hope brightening it—her courageous au revoir. Over the plank came Yorke and Clotilde, and strolled slowly up the deck together, Yorke thrumming his banjo and singing a creole love-song he had learned in St. Louis:

"Tous les printemps Tan' de nouvelles, Tous les amants Changent de maitresses. Qu'ils changent qui voudront, Pour moi, je garde la mienne."

Insensibly my heart lightened. "Pour moi, je garde la mienne," I said aloud, and added in a whisper:

"Yes—though I must first win her, and win I will!"



CHAPTER XV

"AU REVOIR"

"While memory watches o'er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew."

It was a busy morning that followed—no time for idle thoughts or vain regrets. If we were to dine with Mrs. O'Fallon at Mulberry Hill, all hands must work hard.