Once more a soldier at the corner of the gallery waved his hat toward the white tower; once more the cannon boomed and slowly the tricolor of France descended, while the Stars and Stripes rose to meet it. Half-way up the flagstaff they stopped. For a moment they floated in the breeze, side by side, and an involuntary cheer sprang from the people at the friendly sight. Then slowly the tricolor sank, and slowly rose the starry banner, flinging out its broad bars of white and crimson, beautiful emblem of liberty and the sovereignty of a free people, over the little village, nestling among the trees on the bluffs, that may one day be a mighty city; over the Great River flowing to the Gulf that a not far future may see bearing the commerce of a world on its bosom; over the broad prairies stretching to the distant mountains which coming years will surely see peopled with happy millions.

My heart swelled within me. I swung my hat high in the air and lustily led the cheers of our troops and our little party on the gallery. But we were only a small band, and we made not much noise, and all the French and Spaniards stood and looked sadly on. And because our hearts were touched by their sorrow, we cheered no more, but looked up at our beautiful banner with pride and joy and love in our hearts.

* * * * *

Three hours later I was sitting on the gallery at Emigre's Retreat waiting for mademoiselle, as I had waited for her on the day of the picnic at Chouteau's Pond. Narcisse was holding Bourbon Prince by the driveway below, and I was struggling to preserve a calm exterior, for my heart was going like a trip-hammer while I listened for my lady's coming.

Out upon the gallery she stepped, riding-habit and hat and veil of latest Paris mode—not the little Pelagie of the picnic day, but Pelagie a princess of Conde, and my heart almost failed me.

I looked at her, and she was smiling at me with a smile I did not understand. Then she looked away, and my eyes followed hers. Around the corner of the house Yorke was leading a horse,—a white star on the forehead and one white foot like Bourbon Prince, but beautiful chestnut in color. For a moment I forgot my lady. Down the steps I sprang, and my arm was around the neck of the chestnut mare.

"Sweetheart!" I whispered in her ear. "Do you know me, sweetheart?"

She whinnied with joy and rubbed her soft muzzle up and down my arm, and whinnied again, while Yorke showed all his teeth in his delight, and my lady laughed and clapped her hands like a happy child.

I had not thought it possible she could bring Fatima with her and so had not asked for her, though, truth to tell, I had had but little chance to ask her about anything.

When I said so to her, "I would not have come without her," she said, looking shyly at me. "But I hope you do not want her back, for I love her dearly."

Yes, I wanted her back, I said to myself; but with her mistress, too; but my only answer to mademoiselle was a smile that I think she understood, for she looked quickly away from me.

Then I put her on Fatima's back, who bore a Parisian saddle now instead of a pillion, and out through the stockade we rode, and down the rough path to La Petite Riviere, and through the ford (deeper now, from spring freshets, than it had been when I listened to the whippoorwills), and along the wooded bank on the other side, where we had raced to get away from the redskin (though that she never knew), and still I had not said the words I meant to say.

Under the tree that had been the goal for our race I drew up a minute. Here, I thought, will be a place of happy omen, for here I won my first dance with her, and here I will win her. But suddenly I recalled that this was the spot where I had first seen the chevalier; no, it was of evil omen. "By hairbreadth escapes we always win," he had said. I feared, the "luck of the Le Moynes" and their baleful motto.

Where we had stopped to look at the lake before, I stopped again. It was almost more beautiful in its setting of the soft pinks and greens of early spring than it had been under the golden sun of autumn, and here, I thought, I will say it. But the glimpse of the ivied mill tower among the trees, and the beautiful water and its wooded banks, reminded Pelagie of Ettenheim, and she began to tell me of a letter she had just received from the Duc d'Enghien, which made her very anxious.

"He writes," said Pelagie, "that he is being followed everywhere by an Englishman who, he feels sure, is a spy in the pay of Bonaparte—I will never call him emperor!" said Pelagie, with fiery eye. "And while he says he feels no alarm for himself, he is more and more glad to think that I am so safely away from all dangers."

But the thought of her letter had saddened Pelagie for a while, and I would not speak then. How little we dreamed that on that very day, perhaps at that very hour, the young duke was being seized by Napoleon's emissaries, in violation of all treaties of neutrality, and hurried to the gloomy fortress of Vincennes, where, ten days later, after a mock trial of two hours in the dead of night, with no chance of defense given him, he was taken out and shot and buried in the trench where he fell. When the dreadful news reached us, weeks later, it darkened for a while my sweet Pelagie's life, as it was the one crime not even the friends of Napoleon can excuse or forgive: the one dark blot on his fame time will never erase.

But that afternoon we were in happy ignorance of what was happening four thousand miles away, and Pelagie's sadness was but a passing shadow and in a little while we were both joyous again.

"Rock Spring," I thought, "beloved of lovers, will be the place." But at Rock Spring I could think of nothing but Yorke astride the chevalier's back, the grimy spectacle the chevalier presented when Yorke was dislodged, and then the fearful peril Pelagie had been in when I fled with her in my arms on Fatima's back. No, Rock Spring was not the place.

And so we were once more back at the ford, almost home, and the long shadows lying on the cool water, and a thrush singing his evening-song in the wooded crests behind us, and my tale had not been told. We had had much sweet converse, and many times the words were on my lips, but somehow—I know not how—Pelagie always managed to turn me aside. At least I think she did, for with the words on my lips I would find myself talking of something else.

Now, as our horses swashed their noses in the cool water, and sent the bright drops in showers about us, I looked down upon her, the dark green of her riding-habit making a rich foil to the soft glow of her cheek, and the drooping plume of her hat falling over her snowy neck and mingling with the dark ringlets, and one little hand from which she had drawn the glove playing with Fatima's tawny mane—and I took a sudden resolution.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "do you know that to-day you are no longer a proud lady of France, but a simple American maiden?"

She looked up at me, startled. I think she knew what was coming, but she answered bravely, though softly:

"Yes, monsieur," and then dropped her eyes and fell to playing with Fatima's mane again.

"Mademoiselle, do you remember on La Belle Riviere the wager you would not let me make?"

"Yes, monsieur," still more softly.

"Mademoiselle, if I had made that wager then I would have won it to-day. You taught me better, and I would not win you by a wager now if I could. But oh, mademoiselle, you said by worth and deeds of prowess a maiden's hand should be won; and there is no one in the world—least of all I—worthy of you, mademoiselle, and no deeds of prowess could be grand enough to deserve you, and I have nothing to win you with but my great love; will that avail me,—Pelagie?"

She did not answer for a moment; she was all rosy and drooping, and with a happy smile about her lips, as she had been in the cabinet of the First Consul.

I put my great hand on her little one, still playing with Fatima's mane, and clasped it tight, though it fluttered like a bird at first and then lay quiet.

"Pelagie, Pelagie, look up at me," I whispered. "I may call you Pelagie, may I not?"

Swiftly and shyly she looked up into my eyes, and I looked down into heaven.

"Yes, monsieur," she whispered.

Suddenly she broke into a low laugh, and tried to draw her hand away from mine.

"My name is not Pelagie," she said.

"Not Pelagie!" I exclaimed, thinking she was playing me some merry trick, and wishing she had chosen some other time to play it.

"No, monsieur," she said soberly. "They named me Pelagie when they brought me over sea, but my name is Louise Adelaide, for my aunt the Abbess of Remiremont."

I was silent for a moment, for I liked not to think of little Pelagie by any other name. Then I gently took her hand again and raised it to my lips:

"Louise Adelaide," I said, "may do for a princess of Conde, but you will always be my little Pelagie to me," and so great was the love in my heart that my voice trembled as I spoke, and we were both very still for a little, while her hand lay quietly in mine.

Suddenly a thought struck me:

"Pelagie," I said, "you have never spoken my name; I do not believe you know what it is."

"Yes, I do, monsieur." She looked up at me saucily. "Shall I tell you what it is?"

"Call me by it!" I implored her softly.

For answer she lifted her arms and drew my head down toward her and whispered it in my ear.

And I, what did I do?

What would any man have done whose heart was running over with love for the most adorable maiden in the world, and her sweet face so near?



* * * * *

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Transcriber's notes:

The list of Illustrations was not part of the original book.

Page 97: droping changed to dropping (cook was droping still more into the kettle of boiling fat).

THE END