As they hurried on, it grew gradually lighter, so that they were able to advance more rapidly. The path remained about the same, winding as before, and with the same alternations of roots, stones, and swamp; but the daylight made all the difference in the world, and they were now able to urge their horses at the top of their speed. The Indian who was at their head was able to keep there without much apparent effort, never holding back or falling behind, though if the ground had been smoother he could scarcely have done so. With every step the dawn advanced, until at last the sun rose, and all the forest grew bright in the beams of day. A feeling of hope and joy succeeded to the late despondency which had been creeping over them; but this only stimulated them to redoubled exertions, so that they might not, after all, find themselves at last cheated out of these bright hopes.
That they were now pursued they all felt confident. At three o'clock the absence of the sentry must have been discovered, and, of course, the flight of Claude. Thereupon the alarm would at once be given. Cazeneau would probably be aroused, and would proceed to take action immediately. Even under what might be the most favorable circumstances to them, it was not likely that there would be a delay of more than an hour.
Besides, the pursuer had an advantage over them. They had a start of three hours; but those three hours were spent in darkness, when they were able to go over but little ground. All that they had toiled so long in order to traverse, their pursuers could pass over in one quarter the time, and one quarter the labor. They were virtually not more than one hour in advance of the enemy, who would have fresher horses, with which to lessen even this small advantage. And by the most favorable calculation, there remained yet before them at least thirty miles, over a rough and toilsome country. Could they hope to escape?
Such were the thoughts that came to Claude's mind, and such the question that came to him. That question he did not care to discuss with himself. He could only resolve to keep up the flight till the last moment, and then resist to the bitter end.
But now there arose a new danger, which brought fresh difficulties with it, and filled Claude with new despondency. This danger arose from a quarter in which he was most assailable to fear and anxiety—from MimI. — He had never ceased, since they first left, to watch over his bride with the most anxious solicitude, sometimes riding by her side and holding her hand, when the path admitted it, at other times riding behind her, so as to keep her in view, and all the time never ceasing to address to her words of comfort and good cheer. To all his questions Mimi had never failed to respond in a voice which was full of cheerfulness and sprightliness, and no misgivings on her account entered his mind until the light grew bright enough for him to see her face. Then he was struck by her appearance. She seemed so feeble, so worn, so fatigued, that a great fear came over him.
"O, Mimi, darling!" he cried, "this is too much for you."
"O, no," she replied, in the same tone; "I can keep up as long as you wish me to."
"But you look so completely worn out!"
"O, that's because I've been fretting about you—you bad boy; it's not this ride at all."
"Are you sure that you can keep up?"
"Why, of course I am; and I must, for there's nothing else to be done."
"O, Mimi, I'm afraid—I'm very much afraid that you will break down."
At this Mimi gave a little laugh, but said nothing, and Claude found himself compelled to trust to hope. Thus they went on for some time longer.
But at length Claude was no longer able to conceal the truth from himself, nor was Mimi able any longer to maintain her loving deception. She was exceedingly weak; she was utterly worn out; and in pain Claude saw her form sway to and fro and tremble. He asked her imploringly to stop and rest. But at the sound of his voice, Mimi roused herself once more, by a great effort.
"O, no," she said, with a strong attempt to speak unconcernedly; "O, no. I acknowledge I am a little tired; and if we come to any place where we may rest, I think I shall do so; but not here, not here; let us go farther."
Claude drew a long breath. Deep anxiety overwhelmed him. Mimi was, in truth, right. How could they dare to pause just here? The pursuer was on their track! No; they must keep on; and if Mimi did sink, what then? But he would not think of it; he would hope that Mimi would be able, after all, to hold out.
But at length what Claude had feared came to pass. He had been riding behind Mimi for some time, so as to watch her better, when suddenly he saw her slender frame reel to one side. A low cry came from her. In an instant Claude was at her side, and caught her in his arms in time to save her from a fall.
Mimi had not fainted, but was simply prostrated from sheer fatigue. No strength was left, and it was impossible for her to sit up any longer. She had struggled to bear up as long as possible, and finally had given way altogether.
"I cannot help it," she murmured.
"O, my darling!" cried Claude, in a voice of anguish.
"Forgive me, dear Claude. I cannot help it!"
"O, don't talk so," said Claude. "I ought to have seen your weakness before, and given you assistance. But come now; I will hold you in my arms, and we will still be able to go on."
"I wish you would leave me; only leave me, and then you can be saved. There is no danger for me; but if you are captured, your life will be taken. O, Claude, dearest Claude, leave me and fly."
"You distress me, Mimi, darling, by all this. I cannot leave you; I would rather die than do so. And so, if you love me, don't talk so."
At this, with a little sob, Mimi relapsed into silence.
"Courage, darling," said Claude, in soothing tones. "Who knows but that they are still in Louisbourg, and have not yet left? We may get away, after all; or we may find some place of hiding."
The additional burden which he had been forced to assume overweighted very seriously Claude's horse, and signs of this began to appear before long. No sooner, however, had Claude perceived that it was difficult to keep with the rest of the party, than he concluded to shift himself, with Mimi, to the horse which Mimi had left. This was one of the best and freshest of the whole party, and but a slight delay was occasioned by the change.
After this they kept up a good rate of speed for more than two hours, when Claude once more changed to another horse. This time it was to Margot's horse, which had done less thus far than any of the others. Margot then took the horse which Claude had at first, and thus they went on. It was a good contrivance, for thus by changing about from one to another, and by allowing one horse to be led, the endurance of the whole was maintained longer than would otherwise have been possible.
But at length the long and fatiguing journey began to tell most seriously on all the horses, and all began to see that further progress would not be much longer possible. For many hours they had kept on their path; and, though the distance which they had gone was not more than twenty-five miles, yet, so rough had been the road that the labor had been excessive, and all the horses needed rest. By this time it was midday, and they all found themselves face to face with a question of fearful import, which none of them knew how to answer. The question was, what to do. Could they stop? Dare they? Yet they must. For the present they continued on a little longer.
They now came to another open space, overgrown with shrubbery, similar to that which they had traversed in the night. It was about two miles in extent, and at the other end arose a bare, rocky hill, beyond which was the forest.
"We must halt at the top of that hill," said Claude. "It's the best place. We can guard against a surprise, at any rate. Some of the horses will drop if we go on much farther."
"I suppose we'll have to," said the priest.
"We must rest for half an hour, at least," said Claude. "If they come up, we'll have to scatter, and take to the woods."
With these words they rode on, and at length reached the hill. The path wound up it, and in due time they reached the top.
But scarcely had they done so, than a loud cry sounded out, which thrilled through all hearts. Immediately after, a figure came bounding towards them.
"Hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!" shouted the new comer.
"Heavens! Zac!" cried Claude; "you here?"
"Nobody else," replied Zac, wringing his hand. "But what are you going to do?"
"Our horses are blown; we are pursued, but have to halt for a half hour or so. If they come up, we'll have to scatter, and take to the woods, and start the horses ahead on the path. This is a good lookout place."
With these words Claude began to dismount, bearing his beloved burden. The priest assisted him. Zac, after his first hurried greeting, had moved towards Margot, around whom he threw his arms, with an energetic clasp, and lifted her from the saddle to the ground. Then he shook hands with her.
"I'm ver mooch glad to see you," said Margot. "Ees your sheep far off?"
"So, they're after you—air they?" said he. "Wal, little one, when they come, you stick to me—mind that; an' I engage to get you off free. Stick to me, though. Be handy, an' I'll take you clar of them."
Claude was now engaged in finding a comfortable place upon which Mimi might recline. The Indian stood as lookout; the deserter busied himself with the horses; the priest stood near, watching Claude and Mimi, while Zac devoted himself to Margot. In the midst of this, the Indian came and said something to the priest. Claude noticed this, and started.
"What is it?" he asked.
"He hears them," said the priest, significantly.
"So soon!" exclaimed Claude. "Then we must scatter. The horses will be of no use. Our last chance is the woods."
In a moment the alarm was made; hasty directions were given for each one to take care of himself, and if he eluded the pursuers, to follow the path to the place where the schooner lay. Meanwhile the horses were to be driven ahead by the Indian as far as possible. The Indian at once went off, together with the deserter, and these two drove the horses before them into the woods, along the path. Then Zac followed. Lifting Margot in his arms, he bore her lightly along, and soon disappeared in the woods.
Then Claude took Mimi in his arms, and hastened as fast as he could towards the shelter of the woods. But Claude had not Zac's strength, and besides, Mimi was more of a dead weight than Margot, so that he could not go nearly so fast. Zac was in the woods, and out of sight, long before Claude had reached the place; and by that time the rest of the party, both horses and men, had all disappeared, with the exception of Père Michel. The good priest kept close by the young man, as though resolved to share his fate, whether in life or death. If it was difficult while carrying Mimi over the path, Claude found it far more so on reaching the woods. Here he dared not keep to the path, for the very object of going to the woods was to elude observation by plunging into its darkest and deepest recesses. Zac had gone there at a headlong rate, like a fox to his covert. Such a speed Claude could not rival, and no sooner did he take one step in the woods, than he perceived the full difficulty of his task. The woods were of the wildest kind, filled with rocks and fallen trees, the surface of the ground being most irregular. At every other step it was necessary to clamber over some obstacle, or crawl under it.
"We cannot hope to go far," said the priest. "Our only course now will be to find some convenient hiding-place. Perhaps they will pass on ahead, and then we can go farther on."
At this very moment the noise of horses and men sounded close behind. One hurried look showed them all. Their pursuers had reached their late halting-place, and were hurrying forward. The place bore traces of their halt, which did not escape the keen eyes of their enemies. At the sight, Claude threw himself down in a hollow behind a tree, with Mimi beside him, while the priest did the same.
The suspicions of the pursuers seemed to have been awakened by the signs which they had seen at the last halting-place. They rode on more slowly. At length they divided, half of them riding rapidly ahead, and the other half moving forward at a walk, and scanning every foot of ground in the open and in the woods.
At last a cry escaped one of them. Claude heard it. The next moment he heard footsteps. The enemy were upon him; their cries rang in his ears. In all the fury of despair, he started to his feet with only one thought, and that was, to sell his life as dearly as possible. But Mimi flung herself in his arms, and the priest held his hands.
"Yield," said the priest. "You can do nothing. There is yet hope."
The next moment Claude was disarmed, and in the hands of his enemies.
Seizing Margot in his arms at the first alarm, Zac had fled to the woods. Being stronger than Claude, he was fortunate in having a less unwieldy burden; for Margot did not lie like a heavyweight in his arms, but was able to dispose herself in a way which rendered her more easy to be carried. On reaching the woods, Zac did not at once plunge in among the trees, but continued along the trail for some distance, asking Margot to tell him the moment she saw one of the pursuing party. As Margot's face was turned back, she was in a position to watch. It was Zac's intention to find some better place for flight than the stony and swampy ground at the outer edge of the forest; and as he hurried along, he watched narrowly for a good opportunity to leave the path. At length he reached a place where the ground descended on the other side of the hill, and here he came to some pine trees. There was but little underbrush, the surface of the ground was comparatively smooth, and good progress could be made here without much difficulty. Here, then, Zac turned in. As he hurried onward, he found the pine forest continuing along the whole slope, and but few obstacles in his way. Occasionally a fallen tree lay before him, and this he could easily avoid. Hurrying on, then, under these favorable circumstances, Zac was soon lost in the vast forest, and out of sight as well as out of hearing of all his purposes. Here he might have rested; but still he kept on. He was not one to do things by halves, and chose rather to make assurance doubly sure; and although even Margot begged him to put her down, yet he would not.
"Wal," said he, at last, "'tain't often I have you; an' now I got you, I ain't goin' to let you go for a good bit yet. Besides, you can't ever tell when you're safe. Nothin' like makin' things sure, I say."
With these words Zac kept on his way, though at a slower pace. It was not necessary for him to fly so rapidly, nor was he quite so fresh as when he started. Margot also noticed this, and began to insist so vehemently on getting down, that he was compelled to grant her request. He still held her hand, however, and thus the two went on for some distance farther.
At last they reached a point where there was an abrupt and almost precipitous descent. From this crest of the precipice the eye could wander over a boundless prospect of green forest, terminated in the distance by wooded hills.
"Wal," said Zac, "I think we may as well rest ourselves here."
"Dat is ver nice," said Margot.
Zac now arranged a seat for her by gathering some moss at the foot of a tree. She seated herself here, and Zac placed himself by her side. He then opened a bag which he carried slung about his shoulders, and brought forth some biscuit and ham, which proved a most grateful repast to his companion.
"Do you tink dey chase us here?" asked Margot.
"Wal, we're safer here, ef they do," said Zac. "We can't be taken by surprise in the rear, for they can't climb up very easy without our seein' 'em; an' as for a front attack, why, I'll keep my eye open: an' I'd like to see the Injin or the Moosoo that can come unawars on me. I don't mind two or three of 'em, any way," continued Zac, "for I've got a couple of bulldogs."
"Boul-dogs?" said Margot, inquiringly.
"Yes, these here," said Zac, opening his frock, and displaying a belt around his waist, which held a brace of pistols. "But I don't expect I'll have to use 'em, except when I heave in sight of the skewner, an' want to hail 'em."
"But we are loss," said Margot, "in dis great woos. How sall we ever get any whar out of him?"
"O, that's easy enough," said Zac. "I know all about the woods, and can find my way anywhars. My idee is, to go back towards the trail, strike into it, an' move along slowly an' cautiously, till we git nigh the place whar I left the skewner."
Zac waited in this place till towards evening, and then started once more. He began to retrace his steps in a direction which he judged would ultimately strike the trail, along which he had resolved to go. He had weighed the chances, and concluded that this would be his best course. He would have the night to do it in; and if he should come unawares upon any of his enemies, he thought it would be easy to dash into the woods, and escape under the cover of the darkness. Vigilance only was necessary, together with coolness and nerve, and all these qualities he believed himself to have.
The knowledge of the woods which Zac claimed stood him in good stead on the present occasion; he was able to guide his course in a very satisfactory manner; and about sundown, or a little after, he struck the trail. Here he waited for a short time, watching and listening; and then, having heard nothing whatever that indicated danger, he went boldly forward, with Margot close behind. As they advanced, it grew gradually darker, and at length the night came down. Overhead the moon shone, disclosing a strip of sky where the trees opened above the path. For hours they walked along. No enemy appeared; and at length Zac concluded that they had all dispersed through the woods, at the point where they had first come upon them, and had not followed the path any farther. What had become of Claude he could not imagine, but could only hope for the best.
They rested for about an hour at midnight. Then Zac carried Margot for another hour. After this, Margot insisted on walking. At length, after having thus passed the whole night, the path came to a creek. Here Zac paused.
"Now, little gal," said he, "you may go to sleep till mornin', for I think we've got pooty nigh onto the end of our tramp."
With these words Zac led the way a little distance from the path, and here Margot flung herself upon a grassy knoll, and fell sound asleep, while Zac, at a little distance off, held watch and guard over her.
Several hours passed, and Zac watched patiently. He had not the heart to rouse her, unless compelled by absolute necessity. In this case, however, no necessity arose, and he left her to wake herself. When at length Margot awoke, the sun was high in the heavens, and Zac only smiled pleasantly when she reproached him for not waking her before.
"O, no harm; no 'casion has riz, an' so you were better havin' your nap. You'll be all the abler to do what you may hev yet before you. An' now, little un, if you're agreed, we'll hev a bite o' breakfast."
A short breakfast, composed of hard biscuit and ham, washed down with cool water from a neighboring brook, served to fortify both for the duties that lay before them; and after this Zac proposed an immediate start.
He led the way along the bank of the creek, and Margot followed. They walked here for about two miles, until at length they came in sight of a small harbor, into which the creek ran. In the distance was the sea; nearer was a headland.
"This here's the place, the i-dentical place," said Zac, in joyous tones. "I knowed it; I was sure of it. Come along, little un. We ain't got much further to go—only to that thar headland; and then, ef I ain't mistook, we'll find the end to our tramp."
With these cheering words he led the way along the shore, until at last they reached the headland. It was rocky and bare of trees. Up this Zac ran, followed by Margot, and soon reached the top.
"All right!" he cried. "See thar!" and he pointed out to the sea.
Margot had Already seen it: it was the schooner, lying there at anchor.
"Eet ees de sheep," said Margot, joyously; "but how sall we geet to her?"
"O, they're on the lookout," said Zac. "I'll give signals."
The schooner was not more than a quarter of a mile off. Zac and Margot were on the bare headland, and could easily be seen. On board the schooner figures were moving up and down. Zac looked for a few moments, as if to see whether it was all right, and then gave a peculiar cry, something like the cawing of a crow, which he repeated three times. The sound was evidently heard, for at once there was a movement on board. Zac waved his hat. Then the movement stopped, and a boat shot out from the schooner, with a man in it, who rowed towards the headland. He soon came near enough to be recognized. It was Terry. Zac and Margot hurried to the shore to meet it, and in a short time both were on board the Parson.
Great was the joy that was evinced by Terry at the return of his captain. He had a host of questions to ask about his adventures, and reproached Zac over and over for not allowing him to go also. Jericho showed equal feeling, but in a more emphatic form, since it was evinced in the shape of a substantial meal, which was most welcome to Zac, and to Margot also. As for Biler, he said not a word, but stood with his melancholy face turned towards his master, and his jaws moving as though engaged in devouring something.
"Sure, an' it's glad I am," said Terry, "for it's not comfortable I've been—so it ain't. I don't like bein' shut up here, at all, at all. So we'll just up sail, captain dear, an' be off out of this."
"O, no," said Zac; "we've got to wait for the others."
"Wait—is it?" said Terry.
"Yes."
"Sure, thin, an' there's a sail out beyant. Ye can't see it now, but ye'll see it soon, for it's been batin' up to the land all the mornin'."
"A sail!" exclaimed Zac.
"Yis; an' it's a Frinchman—so it is; an' big enough for a dozen of the likes of us."
Further inquiry elicited the startling information that early in the morning Terry had seen, far away in the horizon, a large ship, which had passed backward and forward while beating up towards the land against a head wind, and was just now concealed behind a promontory on the south. At this Zac felt that his situation was a serious one, and he had to decide what to do. To hoist sail and venture forth to sea would be to discover himself, and lay himself open to certain capture; while to remain where he was gave him the chance of being overlooked. So he decided to remain, and trust to luck. Once, indeed, he thought of going ashore once more, but this thought was at once dismissed. On shore he would be lost. The woods were full of his enemies, and he could hardly hope to reach any English settlement. To himself alone the chance was but slight, while for Margot it was impossible. To leave her now was not to be thought of, and besides, the schooner was the only hope for Claude, who might still be in the neighborhood. The consequence was, that Zac decided to do nothing but remain here and meet his fate, whatever that might be.
Scarcely had he come to this decision, when a sight met his eyes out beyond the southern promontory, where his gaze had been turned. There, moving majestically along the sea, he saw a large frigate. It was not more than a mile away. For about a quarter of an hour the ship sailed along, and Zac was just beginning to hope that he had not been seen, when suddenly she came to, and a boat was lowered.
"She sees us!" said Terry.
Zac made no reply.
Yes; there was no doubt of it. They had been seen. Those on board the ship had been keeping a sharp lookout, and had detected the outline of the schooner sharply defined against the light limestone rock of the headland near which she lay. To escape was not to be thought of. The boat was coming towards them, filled with armed men. Zac stood quite overwhelmed with dejection; and thus he stood as the Parson was boarded and seized by the lieutenant of his French majesty's Vengeur, who took possession of her in the name of his king.
No sooner had Zac found himself in the power of the enemy, than a remarkable change took place in the respective positions of himself and Margot with regard to one another. Thus far he had been her protector; but now she became his. The first words that she spoke to the lieutenant served to conciliate his favor, and secure very respectful treatment for Zac, and seemed to convey such important intelligence that he concluded at once to transfer Margot to the Vengeur, where she could tell her story to the captain.
"Adieu," said she. "We sall soon see again. Do not fear. I make zem let you go."
"Wal, little un, I'll try an' hope. But, mind, unless I get you, I don't much mind what becomes o' me."
Margot, on being taken on board the Vengeur, was at once examined by the captain—the Vicomte de Brissac, who found her statement most important. She contented herself with telling everything that was essential, and did not think it at all necessary for her to state that Zac had already been in the hands of French captors, and had effected an escape. She announced herself as the maid of the Countess Laborde, who had accompanied her father in the ship Arethuse. She narrated the shipwreck, and the rescue by Zac and the young Count de Montresor, the encounter with the Aigle, and the subsequent arrest of Claude. She mentioned the death of Laborde, and the journey to Louisbourg by land, with the escape and pursuit of Claude, the fight with Cazeneau, and his subsequent arrival. She then described their escape, their pursuit and separation, down to the time of speaking. She affirmed that Zac had come here from Minas Basin to save his friend, and was awaiting his arrival when the Vengeur appeared.
The captain listened with the most anxious attention to every word; questioned her most minutely about the reasons why Cazeneau had arrested Claude, and also about his designs on Louisbourg. Margot answered everything most frankly, and was able to tell him the truth, inasmuch as she had enjoyed very much of the confidence of Mimi, and had learned from her about Cazeneau's plans. Captain de Brissac showed no emotion of any kind, whether of sympathy or indignation; but Margot formed a very favorable estimate of his character from his face, and could not help believing that she had won him over as an ally. She could see that her story had produced a most profound impression.
Captain de Brissac was anxious to know what had been the fate of the other fugitives, especially of Claude and Mimi; but of this Margot could, of course, give no information. When she had last seen them they were flying to the woods, and she could only hope that they had been sufficiently fortunate to get under cover before the arrival of the enemy.
Captain de Brissac then sent a crew aboard the Parson, and ordered them to follow the Vengeur to Louisbourg. Upon this new crew Terry looked with careful scrutiny.
"Whisper, captain dear," said he, as he drew up to the meditative Zac. "Here's another lot o' Frinchmen. Is it afther thrying agin that ye are, to give 'em the slip?"
Zac drew a long breath, and looked with a melancholy face at the Vengeur, which was shaking out her sails, and heading east for Louisbourg. On the stern he could see a female figure. He could not recognize the face, but he felt sure that it was Margot.
"Wal," said he, "I guess we'd better wait a while fust, and see how things turn out. The little un's oncommon spry, an' may give us a lift somehow."
Claude was treated roughly, bound, and sent forward on foot; but the representations of Père Michel secured better treatment for Mimi. A litter was made for her, and on this she was carried. As for Père Michel himself, he, too, was conducted back as a prisoner; but the respect of the commander of the soldiers for the venerable priest caused him to leave his hands unbound. After a weary tramp they reached Louisbourg. Cazeneau was at the gate, and greeted them with a sinister smile. Mimi, utterly worn out, both by fatigue and grief, took no notice of him, nor did she hear what he said.
"Take the Countess de Laborde to the Residency."
"Pardon," said the priest; "that lady is now the Countess de Montresor."
At this Cazeneau turned upon him in fury.
"Traitor!" he hissed; "what do you mean?"
"I mean that I married her to the Count de Montresor last night."
"It's a lie! It's a lie!"
"There are witnesses," said Père Michel, "who can prove it."
"It's a lie," said Cazeneau; "but even if it is true, it won't help her. She'll be a widow before two days. And as for you, you villain and traitor, you shall bitterly repent your part in last night's work."
Père Michel shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. This act seemed to madden Cazeneau still more.
"Why did you not bind this fellow?" he cried, turning to the commander of the detachment.
"Your excellency, I had his parole."
"A curse on his parole! Take him to the prison with Motier, and bind him like the other."
Upon this, Mimi was taken to the Residency, and Claude and Père Michel were conducted to prison, where both of them were confined. Cazeneau himself then returned to the Residency. The ex-commandant, Florian, was at the door. He saw the whole proceeding, but showed no particular emotion.
Cazeneau regarded him coldly, and Florian returned his gaze with haughty indifference.
"Your plans have not succeeded very well, you see, monsieur," said Cazeneau.
"It is not time enough yet to decide," said Florian.
"To-morrow will decide."
"I think not. You will find, Monsieur le Commandant, that there is public opinion, even in Louisbourg, which cannot be despised."
"Public opinion which favors traitors may safely be despised."
"True," said Florian; and with these words the two parted.
The following day came. A court martial had been called to sit at two in the afternoon. At that hour the session was opened by Cazeneau. The chief officers of the garrison were present. With them came Florian.
"I am sorry, monsieur," said Cazeneau, "that I cannot invite you to a seat in this court."
"By virtue of my military rank," said Florian, "I claim a seat here, if not as judge, at least as spectator. I have come to see that the Count de Montresor has justice."
"There is no such person. We are to try one Motier."
"It can be proved," said Florian, "that he is the Count de Montresor. You yourself arrested him first as such."
"I was mistaken," said Cazeneau.
"As a peer of France, he can appeal to the king; and this court has no final jurisdiction. I call all present to witness this. If my warning is neglected here, it will be felt in a higher quarter. Recollect, monsieur, that I shall soon be able to report to his majesty himself. I flatter myself that my influence at court just now is not inferior to that of the Count de Cazeneau."
"Perhaps, monsieur," said Cazeneau, with a sneer, "you would wish to be commandant a little longer."
"All present," said Florian, "have heard my words. Let them remember that the prisoner is undoubtedly the Count de Montresor, a peer of France. Witnesses can be produced; among others, the Countess de Montresor."
"There is no such person," said Cazeneau, angrily. "That lady is the Countess de Laborde."
"She was married two nights since. All present may take warning by what I have announced. I will say no more."
The words of Florian had made a profound impression. It was no light thing for a colonial court martial to deal with a peer of France. Besides, Florian himself would soon be at court, and could tell his own story. Cazeneau saw that a limit would be placed to his power if he did not manage carefully. He decided to act less harshly, and with more cunning. He therefore assumed a milder tone, assured the court that Florian was mistaken, disclaimed any personal feeling, and finally invited Florian to sit among the judges. Upon this Florian took his seat. The prisoner was now brought forward, and the witnesses prepared.
The charges were then read. These were to the effect that he had been captured while coming to Louisbourg under a suspicious character, calling himself Motier, but pretending to be the son of the outlawed De Montresor; that afterwards he had escaped from confinement, and followed Cazeneau, upon whom he had made a murderous attack.
Claude was then questioned. He told his story fully and frankly as has already been stated. After a severe questioning, he was allowed to sit down, and Père Michel was then summoned.
Père Michel was first asked what he knew about the prisoner. The priest answered, simply,—
"Everything."
"What do you mean? Go on and tell what you know about him."
Père Michel hesitated for a moment, and then, looking at Claude, with a face expressive of the deepest emotion, he said in a low voice,—
"He is my son."
At this declaration amazement filled all present. Claude was affected most of all. He started to his feet, and stood gazing at Père Michel with wonder and incredulity.
[Image: Claude In His Father's Arms.]
"I don't understand," said Cazeneau; "at any rate, this shows that he is a low-born adventurer."
At this Père Michel turned to Cazeneau, and said,—
"He is my son, yet neither low-born nor an adventurer. Do you not know—you—who I am? Often have we seen one another face to face within the last few weeks; and yet you have not recognized me! What! have I so changed that not a trace of my former self is visible? Yet what I was once you see now in my son, whom you best know to be what he claims. Yes, gentlemen, I am Eugene, Count de Montresor, and this is my son Claude.—Come, Claude," he continued, "come, my son, to him who has so often yearned to take you to a father's embrace. I hoped to defer this declaration until my name should be freed from dishonor; but in such an hour as this I can keep silent no longer. Yet you know, my son, that the dishonor is not real, and that in the eyes of Heaven your father's name is pure and unsullied."
As he said these words, he moved towards Claude. The young man stood, as pale as death, and trembling from head to foot with excessive agitation. He flung himself, with a low cry, into his father's arms, and leaned his head upon his breast, and wept. The whole court was overcome by this spectacle. There seemed something sacred in this strange meeting of those so near, who for a lifetime had been separated, and had at length been brought together so wonderfully. The silence was oppressive to Cazeneau, who now felt as though all his power was slipping away. It was broken at last by his harsh voice.
"It's false," he said. "The Count de Montresor has been dead for years. It is a piece of acting that may do for the Théâtre Français, but is absurd to sensible men. Gentlemen, these two concocted this whole plan last night when together in their cell. I once knew old Montresor well, and this priest has not a feature in common with him."
The Count de Montresor turned from his son, and faced the court.
"Cazeneau," said he, with scornful emphasis, "now commandant of Louisbourg, once equerry to the Count de Laborde, you never knew me but at a distance, and as your superior. But Florian, here, remembers me, and can testify to my truth. To this court I have only to say that I fled to this country from the result of a plot contrived by this villain; that on the death of my beloved wife I committed my infant son to the care of my faithful valet,—Motier,—and became a missionary priest. For twenty years, nearly, I have labored here among the Acadians and Indians. This year I went to New England in search of Motier. I had already been carrying on correspondence with friends in France, who held out hopes that my wrongs would be righted, and my name saved from dishonor. I did not wish to make myself known to my son till I could give him an unsullied name. I found Motier dead, and learned that my son was going to Louisbourg, en route, to France. I asked for a passage, and was thus able to be near my son, and study his character. It was I who saved him from prison at Grand Pré; it was I who heard the last words of my former enemy, Laborde; it was I who saved my son, two nights since, from prison. He is guilty of nothing. If any one is guilty, that one am I alone. I ask, then, that I be considered as a prisoner, and that this innocent young man be set free. But as a peer of France, I claim to be sent to France, where I can be tried by my peers, since this court is one that can have no jurisdiction over one of my rank."
Here the Count de Montresor ceased, and turning to his son, stood conversing with him in a low whisper.
"Every word is true," said Florian. "I assert that Père Michel is the Count de Montresor. I had noticed the likeness formerly; but, as I believed the count to be dead, I thought it only accidental, until a few days ago, when he revealed the truth to me. I recognized him by facts and statements which he made. He has changed greatly since the old days, yet not beyond recognition by a friend. This being the case, then, we have nothing to do, except to send him to France by the next ship. As to the young count, his son, I cannot see that we have any charge against him whatever."
All present, with one exception, had been profoundly moved by the meeting between father and son, nor had they been much less deeply moved by the words of the old count, which, though somewhat incoherent, had been spoken with impressiveness and dignity. The announcement of his lofty rank; the remembrance of his misfortunes, of which most present had heard, and which were universally believed to be unmerited; the assertion that Cazeneau had been the arch villain and plotter,—all combined to increase the common feeling of sympathy for the two before them. This feeling was deepened by Florian's words. His influence, but recently so strong, had not yet passed away. The new commandant, even under ordinary circumstances, would have been unpopular; but on the present occasion he was detested. The feeling, therefore, was general that nothing ought to be done; and Cazeneau, his heart full of vengeance, found himself well nigh powerless. But he was not a man who could readily give up the purpose of his heart; and therefore he quickly seized the only resource left him.
"Gentlemen," said he, "we must not allow ourselves to be influenced by purely sentimental considerations. I believe that this priest speaks falsely, and that he has imposed upon the sympathies of M. de Florian. Besides, he is an outlaw and a criminal in the eyes of French justice. As to the young man, whom he calls his son, there is the charge of a murderous assault upon me, the commandant of Louisbourg. This must be investigated. But in the present state of mind of those present, I despair of conducting any important trial, and I therefore declare this court adjourned until further notice. Guards, remove these two prisoners, and this time place them in separate cells, where they can no longer have communication with each other."
To this no one raised any objection. As commandant, Cazeneau had the right to adjourn; and, of course, until some actual decision had been reached, he could dispose of them as he saw fit. They could only bring a moral pressure to bear, at least for the present. Father and son were therefore taken back to their prison, and Cazeneau quitted the court, to take counsel with himself as to his future course. He hoped yet to have the game in his own hands. He saw that until Florian was gone it would be difficult, but after that he might manage to control the opinions of the majority of the officers. Florian, however, could not go until the next ship should arrive, and he now awaited its coming with curiosity and eagerness.
He did not have to wait very long.
The court broke up, and the officers talked over the matter among themselves. Florian was now quite communicative, and told them all about the early career of Montresor, and his misfortunes. Cazeneau was the evil cause of all; and Florian was bitter and unsparing in his denunciations of this man's villany. He took care to remind them that Mimi, though the wife of Claude, was still held by him under the pretence that she was his ward, and that Cazeneau, being the creature of the defunct ministry of the late Fleury, could not be kept long in his present office by the hostile ministry which had succeeded. He also assured them that the Montresors had friends among those now in power, and that the old count was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the next ship, in the confident hope that justice would at last be done to him.
By these words, and by this information about things unknown to Cazeneau, Florian deepened the impression which had been made by the events of the trial. All were desirous that the Montresors should at last escape from the machinations of Cazeneau. All looked for the speedy recall and disgrace of Cazeneau himself, and therefore no one was inclined to sacrifice his feelings or convictions for the purpose of gaining favor with one whose stay was to be merely temporary.
While they were yet gathered together discussing these things, they were disturbed by the report of a gun. Another followed, and yet another. All of them hurried to the signal station, from which a view of the harbor was commanded.
There a noble sight appeared before their eyes. With all sail set, a frigate came into the harbor, and then, rounding to, swept grandly up towards the town. Gun after gun sounded, as the salute was given and returned. After her came a schooner.
"It's the Vengeur," said Florian. "I wonder whether Montresor will get his despatches. Gentlemen, I must go aboard."
With these words Florian hurried away from the citadel to the shore.