Elk Horn looked amazed. “I believe she married a trader and came with him. I will ask her.”
“No. Cannot some of the men tell you?”
“Oh, I think so. Have you been smitten with her charms?”
The Indian nodded, but his face showed no emotion.
They made a rude camp for the night and proceeded to cook some supper.
“I have found out,” announced Elk Horn. “A Frenchman, Marchand, married her. He was killed, I believe, in the assault on the town.”
“Yes, I like her. I will buy her of you. Let us make a bargain.”
“And the little one?” inquiringly.
“Oh, I do not want her. Yet she has some beauty, according to pale-face ideas. But no, I will take only the Indian girl.”
They ate their supper of broiled fish, and then smoked in the gathering darkness. Elk Horn deliberated. He had not exactly thought of selling her, though it was often done with female captives. He had two wives now, and did not want to be burdened with a third who was a helpless young girl. Wives were for profit, in his estimation.
Black Feather was as wary. He was not sure he wanted to marry her. She might prove turbulent and headstrong. Half breeds were not as tractable as Indian women. And they were not as strong. They might die on your hands, and what, then, would one have for the bargain?
“You will take the child. I will not part them. You can spare a trifle more. She will soon grow up.”
Black Feather shrugged his shoulders and was silent.
“Then there is no bargain,” declared Elk Horn. “I will offer my wares to some other chief. I think of one farther up in the Illinois country. But our ways may be together a few days longer. It need not make ill friends.”
Black Feather brought out some whiskey. He knew how to tempt his brother. To have a supply of this for days would be more satisfying than any future gain. For the present was the great thing to the Indian’s improvident nature. And so Black Feather made his bargain, including the child that he really did not care for. Yet perhaps it would be better not to separate them at present.
Elk Horn had not slept off all his potion. His compeer was awake early, and had laid aside the promised treasures for his inspection. Then he called his men and stealthily manned his own boats. He judged rightly that Elk Horn would not leave the place until the last drop of firewater had been drained, and then it would take him a few days to get over his debauch.
“Come,” he exclaimed roughly, at length. “Here is your portion—beads, wampum, skins and whiskey.”
Elk Horn nodded and rubbed his bleared eyes. He looked at the goods and they seemed magnified to his sight, so adroitly were they spread about.
“Ugh! It is early,” with a yawn.
“I must be on my way. You can overtake me at night. We will share the same fire, and I will have everything prepared for my brother. But I wish you to rouse the two captives and have them ready also. You will lead them to the boat, so there need be no disturbance.”
Elk Horn considered. Wawataysee might object to her new master. He felt his part had been rather underhand, but was she not his property?
They were a little surprised at the summons, and to be hurried off without breakfast. The canoes were already out in the river. The larger boat had a few men in it. Elk Horn put in Renée first.
“Where are we going?” the Indian girl asked, turning toward him.
“Up the river,” roughly, in a thick, guttural voice. “Come, get in.”
She stepped aboard, not especially remarking the men. Then suddenly her eye fell upon Valbonais, who greeted her with a joyous expression. Had he been handed over to Elk Horn? She experienced a certain contentment, and suspicion was allayed.
But as they emerged from the shadow of the overhanging trees she saw that all the faces were strange. She had not noted the newcomers in the camp, having been kept in seclusion, and it also being her choice. Now a chill of terror ran over her. Noting the aspect of two of the rowers more closely, she saw to her dismay that they were Hurons. One man had his head turned from her and bowed down.
“Why do we go so early?” asked Renée. “And we have had no breakfast.”
“I do not know,” tremblingly.
“And why did Elk Horn stay on shore?”
“Did he?” with a curious lift of the brows.
“Oh, yes; I saw him. And these men—oh, where are Pierre and Jules? But there is the young man who came and talked to us. Oh, Wawataysee, shall we never stay anywhere again? How can we get back to St. Louis?”
“Hush, dear; hush!”
“But I am getting hungry. And I am so tired of sailing.”
She leaned her head down on Wawataysee’s lap. Every moment the Indian girl grew more terrified. True, Elk Horn and his men might come on. But these Hurons!
The boat glided along. The sun rose higher and made of the river a band of gold and gems, where each little wavelet dazzled in strange colors. They passed great plains where grass grew rank and waved in the wind like another sea of green. Then a belt of pines or walnut, the first standing stiff and strong, the others mound-like.
The bowed figure had straightened itself and spoken to the men, but not turned his face. Now he gave an order and the boat swerved in toward the shore, grating a little on the pebbly beach. The other one in advance turned also. Some food was distributed. He spoke in the Huron language, and said they must make Bear Creek by night.
It was dreadful to go out in the broiling sun again, but presently a cooling breeze blew up. They passed a chain of boats well laden, going down, the French sailors singing a merry lilt, and they gave each other greeting. The shadows began to grow longer and a reviving fragrance was wafted over from the shore edge. There were fields abloom with gay flowers, then shrubby clumps, and when the sun went down they had neared a little cove where one could see two rather dilapidated wigwams. Here they were to stop for the night.
The men began to make a fire, while provisions were brought out of the boat. The two girls had been left alone, but now the chief—Wawataysee knew he was that by his dress and a long black feather stuck through the topknot of hair—turned to her. Oh, then she was quite sure she had seen him before and her heart stood still. Yes, it was in that life she had fled from.
He addressed her in the Huron tongue; she answered irrelevantly in French. A frown crossed his brow, but he handed them both out of the boat with a firm grasp on the arm of each, and led them to the smaller tent of the two. Some fir and hemlock branches had been thrown on the ground and covered with a blanket.
“You and the child will be safe here. You will be well guarded,” with a cruel little smile. “Some supper will be sent you. Compose yourself.”
She gave no sign of recognition.
“You cannot deceive me, Firefly of the Hurons, even if some French blood does course in your veins and you are tricked out in this attire. Your brother’s anger was kindled against you when you made him break his word, when you ran off with a vile Frenchman. If you could have been found justice would have been swift and sure. And now you will go back. You will not be a wife this time, but a slave to your master and his other wives.”
“I am a wife already,” she answered proudly in his language, since it was no use to feign. “I have been wedded a year by a priest, and the Great Manitou will call down vengeance upon those who dare interfere with his ordinances. And what right have you to bring me here?”
“I bought you, Mistress Insolence. And I shall double my price when the Chief Pamussac hears that you will be at his service.”
There was a little dagger lying in a treasure box at home. Her husband had given it to her. If she had it here she would stab him to the heart.
“Well, what is your reply?” he asked in a tone of triumph. “Your white lord is dead. He cannot come at your call.”
“My reply is that we are both hungry and want some supper,” she returned in an impatient tone. “And then some more blankets,” glancing disdainfully at the pile of boughs. “You will hardly double your money if you starve or maltreat me. I may die on your hands.”
Black Feather was more than amazed at the effrontery of the girl. He stared at her, and his fingers worked as if he would like to clutch her by the throat. Yes, what she said was true enough.
Wawataysee knew well that an Indian despised any sign of weakness or cowardice, and that to secure good treatment she must put on the boldness of the soldier who does not fear even death, and from whom his persecutors can extort no groan.
“I will send you some supper. And guards shall be set to keep you from harm,” in a mocking tone.
“Take my thanks for that,” she flung out sharply. “I am mortally afraid of the wild beasts of the forests. And I would like some sleep after this hot, fatiguing day and the early start of the morning.”
“Oh, what did he say?” and Renée clung to her with desperation. “He was so fierce I thought he would kill us. And why are we here? Where is Elk Horn?”
“My little darling, it seems that we have been sold and are to be taken up north, unless the Great Manitou or the pitying Virgin listens to our prayers and sends us rescue. It is a long way and something may happen.”
Renée began to cry.
“Sweet, take courage. I do not know why, but I have a curious faith that overrides my fears, that something will intervene. Elk Horn has dealt treacherously, after the fashion of his tribe. Oh, my darling! I know you will see Uncle Gaspard again, so dry your tears.”
“I am so tired of the journeying and those fierce men. Do you remember the old Chief Neepawa and the women of the village? They seemed like ours at home.”
“Ah, I wish we were there!”
The supper came in, and, in spite of their fears, they were hungry. The wind rose and the air was delightfully cool. Wawataysee spread the bed and the child was soon peacefully asleep. The tent pole was a tree that had been trimmed for that purpose, and the young girl leaned against it, watching the flicker of the fire without and the pine torches that had been lighted. Courageous as she had appeared, every pulse shrank and throbbed. But there was death. She would be no man’s slave. Only Renée must not be left behind. She knew of poisonous plants for which there was no remedy. Oh, would she have the courage to take another’s life?
She dozed at length, even in her uncomfortable position. Then something roused her, a rending crash and a glare that seemed to be the world on fire. She sprang up, and the next crash she knew was the storm that had broken over them with the wildest fury. Were there cries of beast and men mingled with it? The deluge seemed to sweep the ground, the trees writhed and groaned and crashed in the fury of the gale. In the intervals she could hear voices without. Presently the flashes of bewildering light ceased, though the mutterings of thunder could still be heard, and the trees were wind-swept by the fierceness of the mighty power. One and another came down, but her tent stood the storm and was sheltered by an angle of three trees.
The gray light of morning began to dawn sullenly. She watched the faint streaks stealing through the loopholes. Renée still slept. She went to the flap of the wigwam and raised it. The rain was pouring in torrents. There at her feet lay a body, the leggings and deer-skin breeches ploughed by a curious zigzag streak, scorched and torn, and the blanket shrivelled to fragments. Some figures were moving about like wraiths in the dusky light. It was a weird picture. She was not at all afraid. She was used to forest storms.
One of the figures came nearer. “Ma’m’selle!” it said in a whisper.
The familiar word was the sweetest music. She stretched out her hand.
“I never saw anything so terrible. And you—lived? Others have gone. Three are dead. One is drowned, and Black Feather—” Valbonais’s voice trembled.
“Well!” with a long breath. Did she hope for his death?
“He ordered the men to look after the boats. They had been drawn up, but the ground was sloping, the rain a torrent, the blackness something fearful save when the blinding blaze of light came. He was there ordering, cursing, threatening. Then a tree crashed down and pinned him to the earth. He is badly hurt about the legs, but has voice enough left in him for four.”
Wawataysee shuddered.
“Ma’m’selle!” in a breathless manner.
“Yes?” with eager inquiry.
“I am going to escape. There never can be a more favorable moment.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried in a piercing tone.
“I shall find my way to St. Louis. Ma’m’selle, if you and the child dared and would trust me. For if I have heard aright, you are to be taken to some chief up in the straits. And if you shrank from going——”
“I shall never reach there alive. I know a swift, unfailing poison—” And her words came out sharply.
He gave her a half-horrified, half-entreating look.
“It will be a hard journey. But if we should start now there is not much chance of our being overtaken. Everything is in such confusion, and it may be weeks before Black Feather is able to move about. We would follow the river as well as we could, keeping out of sight if the other boats come up, as they are likely to do. For the rest we must trust to the good God. I shall take a gun. I have dreamed this over many times. And if you will go——”
“You mean to start now—in the storm?”
“It will clear up presently, by noon. Meanwhile, I could plan all the arrangements. Just now you are not a close prisoner. There is no telling what may happen to-morrow.”
“That is true.” Wawataysee studied the eager young face. The eyes had an honest, pleading look. “I will trust you,” she said. “Tell me what to do when you are ready.”
The party were too terror-stricken to think much of their captives. There were the three dead men lying out in the rain. They brought Black Feather up to the miserable wigwam and bound up his bruised limbs, finding that one leg only was broken. Black Feather had tabooed the company of women on these journeys, and had a half-breed that he had trained for a cook. Just now an old Indian nurse would have been very serviceable. Once he roused himself from his pain and suffering, cursing with true Indian passion.
“Look if the girl and the child are safe,” he commanded in threatening tones.
They had fared very well in the storm. Both they and the shelter had taken no harm.
Valbonais had gathered a sack of provisions and taken it down below the camp some distance, leaving it there with the gun. He had been very helpful all the morning, and his brief absence had not been noted.
At noon the rain ceased, though it was nearly an hour before the sun came out. Dinner was eaten, the boats were dragged up so as to be within sight, and two or three of the Indians were kept busy about their master. Two of the prisoners had been killed and one Indian. Black Feather ordered them buried.
Valbonais came to the door of the tent.
“Give me one of the blankets,” he said, “and send the child out to the back of the tent when you can do so unperceived. Then wrap yourself in the other and steal away. We will take the other side of the strip of woods. It is not wide.”
Renée ran out presently and seized his hand.
“Oh, are we going back to St. Louis?” she asked in a whisper, while her eyes were alight with joy.
“I hope so, little one. Come this way. Now you will not be afraid to stay here. Do not utter a cry or sound. Wrap the blanket about you—so.”
Then Valbonais waited and waited. He made one journey to Renée to comfort her. Then he saw Wawataysee struggling through an aperture she had made in the tent, and ran to her assistance.
“There were so many of them about,” she said breathlessly. “I pinned the tent flap down with a stout stick, so they may think I am asleep. Oh, let us hurry. I am so afraid,” and she trembled in her excitement, though she ran lightly along.
When they reached Renée he picked up the sack of food and slung it over his shoulder, took the gun and one blanket, while Wawataysee wrapped the other about herself, the gray making her more indistinct. Renée, wild with joy, danced and skipped, and could not repress soft gurgles of laughter as she kept on ahead of them.
Valbonais found Wawataysee fleet of foot and graceful as a forest nymph. The blanket did not seem to impede her skimming motion. The sense of danger and the thought of freedom inspired her, and hope swelled anew in her breast. Surely the good God would have François in His keeping and let them meet again.
The way was tolerably clear for a long distance, though shielded from the view of the Indians by the intervening trees. When the strip of woods failed them for shelter it was growing dusk, and, with the rise of the wind, they could hardly have been distinguished from the waving shrubbery. Valbonais paused and glanced back now and then, but no pursuers were in sight.
“Take it a little more moderately,” Valbonais said. “We must not lose sight of the river, or we may go astray. Though we have made a gain by cutting off this point that juts into the stream. Ah, if we only had any kind of a boat!”
“They might see us on the river.”
“Hardly at night, and not very clear at that. We must make for that dark line ahead of us, a bit of woods where we can camp for the night.”
It was quite dark when they reached it, and with some difficulty he made a light. It was largely scrubby pines and the soil was sandy, dry in spite of the tremendous rain, though evidently there had not been as much here. Valbonais found a dead, dry branch of pine, which he lighted, and began to explore. A short distance in was a pile of stones heaped up four or five feet, evidently some burial spot. He glanced at its capabilities, then began tumbling out the smaller ones that seemed to be largely at one side.
“What are you going to do?” asked Wawataysee.
“Make a sort of cave. Oh, you will see,” laughingly.
“But let me help,” she cried eagerly.
“No, no! Or, if you wish, will you take my knife and cut some pine boughs, the bushiest ones?”
He had stuck his dry branch in the sand and piled a few others around it. Renée stood by the fire, much interested.
Valbonais tore out the stones until he had a hollow place like a great chair. This he partly filled with the ends of the boughs Wawataysee had gathered.
“This will make a bed for you and the child. You will have to sleep sitting up; but you ought to be able to sleep anywhere.”
“Oh, look! look!” cried Renée, clapping her hands. “A golden baby moon down there in the sky! Is it not beautiful?”
The sky was of deepest azure, the stars mostly to the northwest. One was almost at the point of the crescent, as if lighting each other on the way.
“To-morrow or the next night it will be in her arms,” said the young fellow.
“A baby star in a cradle,” exclaimed Renée. “Oh, is it not wonderful? What is that?” and she suddenly shrank toward her companions.
“Only the cry of some night bird. These clumps of woods are not thick enough to harbor wild animals, thank the saints! Now, ma’m’selle, you sit here and try it.”
He had spread a blanket over the pine boughs. She sank gracefully into the seat and leaned back her head with a certain air of luxuriance.
“Oh, it is splendid!” in a grateful tone.
Renée ran to try.
Valbonais stirred out the coals, took a piece of dried fish from his bag and some corn cakes and toasted both. They were hungry enough to eat without any demur—in truth, enjoyed it in the perfect freedom from fear.
“Now,” he said, “you must settle yourself for the night. I do not think we shall be molested. The small band will be busy with their chief and repairing damages. Then I found some of them were very superstitious about a woman being in the party.”
“But I was held only for the money I would bring Black Feather. Otherwise I would have been looked upon as a useless burden. They dropped off poor Mère Lunde on the way, and yet she could have done them good service. Come, Renée.”
“I am not a bit sleepy,” returned Renée. “It seems almost like being at home with no fierce Indians about; only if Uncle Gaspard were here, and M’sieu Marchand,” she was about to add, but checked herself.
“We must be up betimes to-morrow and on our way,” Valbonais said. “It will not do to loiter.”
“What will you do meanwhile?” inquired Wawataysee.
“Sit here and tend the fire,” he said. “I shall only keep enough to see about in case I have to defend myself from any midnight prowler.”
He folded the blankets around the two, who certainly looked comfortable in their rocky bed. He pushed his way through the thicket and ran down a short distance, where he had command of the river. Nothing was going either way. How sweet and tranquil it all was, after the terrors of last night! He could have stayed there hours watching the stars come out brighter and brighter, and the soft wind weaving strange melodies, whispering of hope.
Both girls were asleep when he returned. He sat down outside the enclosure and leaned his shoulders against it. His gun was by his side, his knife in his belt. He should have had a hatchet, too; that useful article no one scarcely travelled without, but in the excitement he had not thought of everything. Once he replenished the fire; then the fuel gave out and he fell asleep.
Nothing molested them. The singing of some birds in the thicket roused him. He hurried to the river; all was tranquil, silent, with no enemy in sight. Then he glanced down the long and arid space, where even grass grew sparsely in the sandy soil that held no moisture. They must start early so as to escape the mid-day heat.
Wawataysee had risen and smoothed her ruffled plumes.
“It is so beautiful!” she said, with heartfelt pleasure. “And, oh, to be free from horrid fears! I slept so tranquilly. Did you have any rest?”
“I forgot everything,” and he laughed with a glad sound. “I was not a very good watcher, perhaps, but I think any unusual noise would have startled me.”
“You are so good! What would we have done without you?” raising her beautiful, grateful eyes.
He flushed warmly. “We cannot have much variety for breakfast,” with a gleam of amusement. “We may fare better to-night.”
He lighted the small fire again, collecting the charred embers.
“Is it far to the river—and safe?”
“Not much of a run,” he answered. “The shore is shallow. I had a reviving bath.”
“Come, Renée,” and she held out her hand to the child.
Meanwhile, Valbonais replaced the stones, wondering what hands had brought them there in the first instance, and whether white or Indian lay at rest beneath them. The girls were racing over the sand, bright, fresh and glowing, and they partook of their simple breakfast and started on their journey. The sun was not shining brightly, yet there was no indication of rain. It was as if Nature was indulging in a tranquil mood. Now and then a flock of birds went sailing over their heads, and a squirrel out of place ran nimbly across the sand.
“You have no idea how far it is to St. Louis?” their companion inquired.
“Oh, hundreds of miles!” cried Renée.
“Hardly that,” said Wawataysee. “There have been so many delays. When I came from the straits it was with the fleet, and I hardly took note;” flushing as she recalled the delightful journey with her husband. “Yet it seems to me we cannot have gone so very far up.”
“Is there any particular point that you can remember? There was the Indian settlement where we met, little thinking then that we should be mates on a return journey. Whether it would be safe to trust them——”
“There was another halt, up a little stream. A settlement of Peoria Indians, who are kindly and who have adopted many habits from the whites, are more intelligent than most other tribes. That is down farther still. It was our first stopping place. They were very generous with provisions.”
“That will be one of our troubles. Still there will be small game to shoot and fish to catch.”
Although there was considerable travel down the Illinois and some quite well-appointed stations, they were far between. The fur and trading fleets, if the lines of flat boats and canoes could be called that, carried abundant provisions. Roving bands of Indians and parties of adventurous hunters crossing the interior were the only travellers, and they often stopped at the forts.
They went farther out by the river. And suddenly there was a serious surprise. Around a wooded bend came a canoe filled with Indians. Then another and one of stores, and one figure was suspiciously studying the shore. They had hidden among the trees, but were peering out cautiously.
“Oh!” Wawataysee whispered, “it is Elk Horn and his party! See, he is standing up, looking this way! O Mother of God, come to the assistance of thy children!” and, sinking on her knees, she clasped her hands in supplication.
It was Elk Horn. He had sobered up and began to realize that he might have made a better bargain with his prisoners. He had secured some more arms and ammunition, and hoped now to overtake Black Feather. His glance around was not indicative of the slightest certainty. He could not have dreamed that the fugitives in the woods were the very ones he meant to quarrel and perhaps fight about when he met Black Feather.
Wawataysee scarcely breathed until the last canoe was but a dusky line on the river.
“We certainly are safe,” Valbonais said. “Of course, they could not suppose we had escaped.”
“I was so afraid they were in search of a landing place. Oh, if they had stopped!” in terror.
“Then we would have plunged farther in the woods, climbed trees even. I do not mean to be taken a prisoner again; and surely, it will go hard with me if you are, or hard with the abductor!” with a gleam of resolution.
“I am glad they have gone up the river,” declared Wawataysee. “Now there is no fear of meeting them.”
“If we could find some traders coming down——”
“And trust them?” There was a troubled light in her eye. “Oh, now that I know there are two people in the world, perhaps three, hungering for revenge on me, I am sore afraid at times. I shall never see a Huron without reading a menace in his eye.”
Valbonais glanced at her inquiringly.
“You have heard part of the story. Let me join the tangled threads, and you will the better understand my misgivings.”
“Let us go on now. Every hour is precious. And it will delight me to listen to anything that has concerned thee,” bowing low to her.
So she told of her home and her affiliations with the French, being related on her mother’s side, and how she had always liked them the more, while her brother was proud of his Indian blood and his chieftain father. It was not until she had met and loved François Marchand and plighted her troth to him that she was informed of her brother’s intentions toward her, and she prayed to him for the liberty of choosing her own husband—admitted, indeed, that she had chosen him and could be the wife of no one else. Then he had sent a messenger to say that her escort was on the way with orders to bring him to her at once, and that preparations were being made for a grand marriage. The trading fleet was ready. She had only to step on board. At the first mission station they had stopped for the priest to marry them.
“So, you see, I could never, never be the wife of any other man. And this chief has two wives. He told my brother that I should be first: but Indian women do not always accept their dismissal so easily.”
There was a proud, steadfast light in her eyes, the bloom of courage and constancy on her soft cheek. How beautiful she was!
“And M. Marchand——” in a low tone, half inquiry.
“Whether he is dead or alive I do not know. But I am his in death as well as life,” with a firmness that bespoke the utmost devotion.
No, she would never let another wrest from her the holy bond she had given him with her sweet maidenhood love.
Night was coming on apace again. There was no cairn of stones to be transformed into a sleeping chamber. Renée was very tired and a little pettish.
“Is there nothing for supper but these dried, hard cakes and the fish?” she asked discontentedly.
“And not even that for breakfast,” Valbonais said lightly. “I must get up early and shoot some game. There is no corn matured yet, so if we came to growing fields the juicy ears would not be there. But I think I can find something,” hopefully.
This night they had to have a forest bed, but he found a place soft with a kind of dried turf, and spread out one blanket for pallet and left one to cover them with. Then he kindled a fire at some distance, for he had heard the cry of an animal. Farther off, then nearer, a stealthy creeping along. He reached for his gun and glanced cautiously around. Presently he caught the glare of two sparks of flame coming nearer, crouching down, and he fired.
“Oh, what is it?” Wawataysee sprang up in affright.
“Some animal. I think he is dead, however.” He lighted a torch and went nearer, touched the creature with his foot. The shot had hit him squarely, shattering his head.
“Only a poor fox. Nothing for our breakfast;” yet he gave a cheerful laugh.
“Oh, I am glad it was nothing worse.”
“Do not dream of trouble. The good God will watch over us.”
She pressed his hand. She was glad to be near a lightsome, courageous human being.
Presently she stole back to her bed. Nothing else came to startle them. When she woke again the sun was shining. Valbonais had kindled a fire, shot and dressed some birds and was broiling them before the coals.
“Was it a dream,” she asked, “or did you really shoot in the night?”
“Yes; and I have taken a part of the fox’s coat. It may be useful for moccasin soles before we are through.”
“Poor thing!” she said pityingly.
The breakfast was delightful, after the two days of dried fish. Then Renée found a patch of wild strawberries that the birds had not discovered. They were dead ripe and luscious. Now they went on with cheerful hearts, keeping the river in sight, but meeting nothing more alarming than a herd of roaming deer. It was useless to fire at them; birds would be more to the purpose. Toward night they struck a rude cabin, made by hunters, as it did not look like Indian workmanship. There had been a fire, but since that time it had rained. Inside was a table and a bed of dried hemlock branches.
“I think we had better stay,” Valbonais announced. “It is a hunter’s cabin, evidently, and no one has been here for some time. There is a little stream of excellent water. We will trust luck, at all events.”
They had some supper and were glad of shelter, for it came on to rain, but no such terrific storm as that which had worked such havoc with Black Feather and his party. The soft patter on the leaves was delightful music, though for awhile the rustle of the wind seemed almost like the advance of human beings.
It was well they were under shelter, for it rained all the next day. No one came to molest them. Valbonais caught such an excellent supply of fish that he cooked some for the following day. If there was only any ripe fruit!
“It was late in May when we left St. Louis,” Wawataysee said.
“And now it is June. What day I do not know.”
“Let us count back.”
But their reckoning was not alike. They forgot, and then recalled incidents that had marked days, then lost count again. Renée was wretchedly tired.
“Poor little thing!” exclaimed Wawataysee. “She has been very good and courageous, but it is hard for her. And look at her poor little moccasins—out to the ground.”
“Then Mr. Foxskin will serve us a useful purpose. I have nothing to fasten them on with, but can tie them with strips of his skin to-morrow. And yours?”
She flushed. Hers were in the same plight.
“But I can stand hardships better,” and she smiled cheerfully.
Renée slept all the afternoon and woke much refreshed. It had stopped raining, and now they were full of plans for to-morrow. The moon came out—the baby star had travelled nearly across it.
“I am glad it is a new moon. We shall have some benefit of it the rest of our journey,” their guide said.
“Oh, when shall we get home?” cried Renée impatiently. “Do you suppose there have been any more Indian assaults?”
“You have been remarkably favored at St. Louis. To the east, towns have been burned, people taken captive by scores or murdered. And up north it seems to have been a regular battlefield, with the French losers every time. Think of the English holding our splendid Quebec and Montreal!”
“I have been in Quebec, monsieur,” declared Renée, with amusing dignity.
“And France, too,” added Wawataysee.
Then Renée found herself quite a heroine in the eyes of Valbonais, and was delighted to recall her experiences.
They left the cabin and journeyed on; slept in the woods that night and the next. There had been several feasts of berries; they saw some green plums and green wild grapes, but neither were tempting. Now, some way, it seemed as if they had lost their reckoning. The river certainly was to the west of them.
“And we must go southward.” said Wawataysee.
Their good fortune had failed them to-day. They had found nothing. They were tired and hungry. And if they were lost!——
They turned into an opening. Here ran a clear creek, at which they quenched their thirst.
“Let us follow it some distance at least. It must go to the river. It has quite a current.”
It suddenly widened out and grew larger as they went on. They glanced at each other in dismay.
“If it goes to the river, how can we cross so wide a stream? Could either of us swim with the child? I think it would be better to go back and cross where it is narrower.”
So they retraced their steps and found that it was fed by a rivulet on the other side, almost hidden by the grass. Valbonais paused a moment to enjoy the picture. Everywhere the most serene quiet. Songs of birds, the call of some animal, the rustle of a deer and the brown, startled eyes gazing at one. The green of the foliage with its light and varying shades, the long stretches of wild grass dotted with various-colored flowers, and here and there a silvery streak of sand like a silver ribbon.
On and on, the creek growing narrower. The man’s eyes caught sight of a young fallen tree.
“I think I can bridge it over. Let me try this,” and he dragged the tree to the edge, stood it up, letting it fall with some force. It just touched the opposite shore.
“Now if I could find another. Why did I not capture a hatchet in my raid on the Indians!”
“The water is clear and deep,” said Wawataysee; “too deep for one to wade.”
“I could cross it with the child. Still I will see if there is not another dead tree.”
This time it was a larger one. It took their united strength to raise it, but it went straight across, making quite a promising bridge.
“Would you dare?” He glanced at the Indian girl with an assurance of her courage.
“Would I dare?” She laughed melodiously. Then she looked steadily at it a moment, started like an arrow from a bow and in a flash was across.
“Oh, how beautiful! Can I try?” Renée clapped her hands, and her face was brimming with delighted eagerness.
“Wait a moment.” Valbonais picked up the blanket and strapped his gun to his back, convoying them over safely and depositing them on the ground. “I wonder if we dare trust the child?”
“Oh, I think so. It is such a step,” Wawataysee answered.
He went back to her. “You will not be afraid, little one? You can run swiftly, and if you can keep a steady head——”
“Yes, yes!” Wawataysee stood with outstretched arms and smiled. Renée started with a child’s audacity. The round logs, instead of the flat surface, confused her and she hesitated, lost her balance and went down with a cry. Valbonais sprang into the creek, but missed his first grasp of her. The next brought her safely up and Wawataysee took her, frightened and half strangled. Valbonais shook himself and laughed.
“I would rather the clothes had not taken a bath. And she is wet, but not injured.”
“It slipped and rolled,” the child began, “and then I couldn’t keep on. Oh, dear! I am all dripping.”
“Roll her in a blanket. I am sorry it is so near dark and we cannot tell quite which way to go.”
“We must keep on toward the Illinois,” said Wawataysee. “Oh, and now I think we came up a creek to the Peorias’ lodge. What if this should be the stream? Then we are nearer home than I thought.”
Her eyes shone like stars, her voice was freighted with joy, for her thought was an inspiration.
“I do not see how we could have gone out of the way,” he returned, knitting his brows.
“The river winds. We may have shortened our journey a little by it. And if we could find the lodge! Oh, I can’t help feeling that we are all right!”
She was wringing Renée’s garments and rubbing her with a blanket. Valbonais pressed the water out of his, and tried to catch the inspiration.
“Now we must go on. Renée, you must keep the blanket about you,” the elder said.
“But it is so warm. I am most smothered.”
“It will be cooler presently,” in a consoling tone.
“And I am so hungry!” she said, half crying.
They had eaten nothing since morning.
“We are all hungry. And if we can find those kindly Indians they will give us a feast.”
“I hope she is right.” Valbonais thought.
They walked briskly onward for a while. The moon came up and shed its silver radiance, setting the little stream with gems and showering the trees with her effulgent flood. But to-night they could not enjoy it—could hardly keep hope alive.
“I am so tired!” Renée began to cry in earnest and stopped short. The reaction had come and she shivered with a chill. Her slight frame was in a collapse.
“I will carry her,” said Valbonais. “We shall get along faster.”
Wawataysee took the other blanket and the gun. The summer night was growing chilly here at the edge of the creek. They waded through the other stream. Renée’s head drooped on the man’s shoulder. She had forgotten her troubles in sleep. But presently he had to pause with his burden.
“Let us sit here and rest awhile. And if you could sleep an hour it would refresh you so much.”
Wawataysee leaned against a great tree bole that was like a column. The relaxation was grateful. What with fatigue and hunger, nature was overpowered and they all slept. When Wawataysee awoke the darkness startled her. The moon had gone down. She stretched out her hand in half terror.
“You have had a nice sleep,” began Valbonais cheerfully. “I, too, caught a nap. It must be near morning. Do you feel that you can go on?”
“Oh, yes! And the child? How strong and courageous you are!”
He stood Renée down and she roused. “Oh, where are we?” she cried in affright.
“Here, dear.” Wawataysee took her hand. “We are going to the Indian lodge, where we shall get some breakfast. Can you walk?”
“Why, yes. But I am tired. Will we soon be there? And, oh, I wish it was not so dark!”
Still, she went on without further complaint. Darker and darker it seemed. She gave her other hand to Valbonais. They both felt she lagged a little.
Suddenly a rosy light shot up in the east, and out of it great spires of crimson and gold that set the heavens aflame. The stars hung low in the northwest, and one by one dropped out of sight. Countless birds filled the air with melody, and every tree and shrub shook out its fragrance.
“Courage!” Wawataysee said, but her voice was tremulous with her twenty-four hours’ fast. And the walk seemed interminable. Her feet were shodden with lead.
Oh, what was this? Fields of young corn, shedding its peculiar fragrance as the dew was vanishing in the drier air of morning. In the distance hooded wigwams, a palisade to the north for shelter, blue-gray curling wreaths going up from newly kindled fires. The barking of dogs and the curious, pervasive sense of human life.
It seemed as if an army of dogs rushed out. An authoritative voice checked them, and an Indian came forward to learn the cause of the alarm. Wawataysee sank down on a stone and the world seemed whirling round, while Renée, crying, fell into her lap.
It was, indeed, the lodges of the Peorias. The old chief, Neepawa, had long since given up rambling life, and with many of the elder people formed a settlement, where they had lived in peace with their white neighbors and seldom been molested by their red brethren. They were more industrious than many tribes. The main colony was about Ste. Genevieve, but these adored their old chief and his wife and enjoyed the smaller combination. They were kindly hearted and ready to hold out a helping hand, and enjoyed their seclusion.
Wawataysee had collapsed from fatigue and pure joy at the certainty that they would reach St. Louis once more. Of the next few incidents she kept only the vague remembrance of a dream. She was taken into one of the lodges and water brought to her, and when the woman saw how utterly exhausted she was, she bathed her face and combed her hair, then her poor feet, and brought her a cup of warm spiced drink, put her in some fresh garments and left her to sleep. Some other motherly hands had taken Renée in charge, who chattered with all the Indian words she had picked up and entertained her hostess extremely.
Meanwhile, Valbonais had related to the old chief his own mishaps, his meeting with Wawataysee and Renée in their captivity, the terrible storm and the disaster to Black Feather and his followers that had led to their opportunity of escape. Neepawa had heard of the attack on St. Louis, and the signal repulse the marauders had suffered. He admired the courage of the captives and was glad they had found a haven. From here they could easily be returned to St. Louis. But Valbonais also learned that they had narrowly missed an encounter with quite a large body of Sioux and Winnebagoes, who would no doubt have taken them prisoners again if they had followed the river more directly. They had made quite a wide detour, it seemed, and to that they owed their safety.
Renée seemed none the worse for her ducking and the fatigue when she had been bathed, put in dry clothes and had a bountiful breakfast. The Indian children and their plays interested her immensely. And there was so much strange and new about the settlement and other things that suggested her first Indian friend, Mattawissa.
Wawataysee slept until past noon, when she awoke refreshed, and at the first moment so surprised that she could not imagine where she was. But the familiar faces of Renée and André Valbonais quite restored her. How warmly sympathetic these children of nature were! Ah, what if they had fallen into captivity again! and she shuddered.
They talked of starting, but the old chief would not listen to such a plan.
“You have had enough of travelling in the night,” he said. “To-morrow some of our young men will take you down. Until then be content.”
So they smoked the pipe of peace and amity, and talked of the mighty changes going on in the Continent, the new nation seeming a conglomerate of many peoples, sweeping everything before them with their resistless energy; of the towns springing up where different tribes had roamed about and slaughtered each other. Almost eighty years ago Neepawa had been born, when his race was ruler of nearly all the country.
The travellers were really loaded with gifts the next morning. Two young Indians were to row them down the river and return. With many thanks they parted from their kind entertainers, with promises of grateful remembrance.
Renée could hardly contain herself. Anywhere else she must have danced for joy. Of course, there would be Uncle Gaspard. And she almost believed Mère Lunde must have found her way home, since they had succeeded under such difficulties.
And now familiar sights met their eyes. Here was the Missouri River coming to greet her mighty mother; Fort St. Charles with its hamlets, the bend in the river, the islands, the old town itself, the towers, the fort, the palisade rendered much stronger since the attack; the bluff with its rocky ledge, and then the wharf.
Business was over. There was not much doing at this season, and nearly every one had gone home. A few parties were out canoeing or rowing on the river. The two Indians would return in spite of entreaties, and they bid their white guests good-by.
Down along the levee the two girls, holding hands tightly, ran with all their speed. One hardly had a chance to see their faces. They turned up by the Government House, where a group of men sat smoking and enjoying the late afternoon coolness. Valbonais followed wonderingly. This was St. Louis! What had Indians or British hoped to gain by attacking so small a place, for he had thought of it as resembling Montreal or Quebec. Up the Rue de la Tour—there stood the shop door open——
“Uncle Gaspard! Dear Uncle Gaspard! we have come back!” cried Renée, flying in.
It was not Uncle Gaspard, but François Marchand, growing white to the very lips at the apparition that met his gaze. Was it a dream? He hardly dared approach. The words died on his lips.
Renée dropped the Indian girl’s hand and rushed through the half-open doorway. There was Mère Lunde in a chair outside, half hidden in the nest of vines, knitting leisurely. That for the moment did not surprise Renée. She caught the elder woman’s shoulder and almost shook her.
“Where is my Uncle Gaspard? Tell me at once! Where is he? Where is he?” the child cried imperiously.
Mère Lunde let her knitting fall and stared with wild eyes. “He!” she exclaimed tremulously. “He! Have you not met him? He set out almost at once for you. Oh, the good God and all the angels be praised! Now we will be happy again. Oh, child, my heart has broken for you! How did you escape?”
All the color left Renée’s eager face. She stretched out her hands as if to clasp something. The eyes seemed dulled by some far, desperate gaze.
“Uncle Gaspard! Gone!” she faltered.
“Oh, did you not meet him? Child, he would not rest until he had set out. Is it thy pretty prank, little one? Is he staying behind to tell some one the story and then surprise us?”
“He did not come!” she wailed, her heart throbbing with passionate grief. “We have not seen him. Oh, mère, mère, the cruel Indians have captured him! And I was so sure.”
She sank in a little heap at the woman’s feet. After all the dangers and alternations of hope and fear, the fatigues, the last blow had been too much for her. Mère Lunde gathered the limp form in her arms, then laid her on the rustic settle, chafing the small hands and bathing the face with a fragrant concoction of her French skill. She drew slow breaths presently, but did not open her eyes.
François Marchand gazed on his wife, speechless with a curious doubt, as one in a dream. Then he came nearer. She was thinner, the rose bloom had faded from her cheeks and there were dark shadows about her eyes. But oh, surely it was no ghost come to mock him!
He took her in his arms, and if the shape had melted into vague nothingness he would not have felt surprised. But it did not. It was soft flesh. He rained kisses on brow and cheek and lips; her sigh was a breath of perfume. Was it moments or hours?
“Thanks be to God and our good friend Gaspard!” he said presently. “Oh, my sweet blossom of northern wilds, my treasure, my queen, how I have feared and wept for thee! What lonely days! What sleepless nights! And I bound to the bed by wounds and fever and a broken limb, knowing thou wert in the hands of cruel enemies and I helpless to succor thee. And that brave soul came to thy rescue! How can we ever thank him enough?”
She could not speak at first, only return kisses for kisses. He found a seat and drew her close in tender embrace; felt the throb of the heart against his, though the whole slim figure was full of languor.
“And I was never certain if you were dead or alive. When they dragged me from you at the edge of the woods there was no motion to assure me. All night I dreamed of you, torn, perhaps, by some prowling beast, or lying there stark and stiff.”
“It was Gaspard who found me, who placed me in wise care and then set off. Oh, let us go and thank him. Every moment’s delay is ingratitude.”
“Is he not here?” She raised her head from his breast. “We have not seen him. We owe our escape and guidance to another captive—a young fellow considered a slave. But—we have not seen M. Denys.”
“Heaven send him safely back to us, then! He is a brave, noble friend. He believed you might be taken up to the straits and the child would be with you.”
She shuddered. She could not mar this happy moment by a relation of the dreadful fate which for a few days had hung over her and made her prefer death. Ah, how much harder the resolve would have been had she known of a certainty that her husband was living!
“After much tedious journeying we reached the Peoria settlement, back from the Illinois River, where the old Chief Neepawa governs a remnant of his tribe. They were most kindly and gave us rest and food until we were quite restored. Afterward they brought us home. Oh, my husband, my lord, my lover! To be with you once more is enough. I would have suffered twice the hardships and dangers for such a blissful end!”
He felt her frame tremble in his arms and pressed her closer in a transport of tenderness. Ah, the perfect content!
Then she bethought herself.
“The child,” she said, awakening to the more generous flow of sympathy that love for the time had overwhelmed. “The poor little Renée! She has looked forward every hour to meeting him again, and the disappointment will be bitter. It is more like a woman’s love than a child’s, though she is innocent of the deeper strivings of maidenhood. Come, let us go to her.”
Mère Lunde had to give the young wife a warm welcome. The tears of joy filled her faded eyes.
Renée lay on the settle, sobbing. Wawataysee bent over and would have taken her hand.
“Go away! go away!” she cried imperiously. “I do not want you. You have him to be glad with and I have no one, no one!”
The pathos of the tone was heartrending.
“Renée, my little dear, François is so glad.”
“Go away!” She turned her face to the wall and slapped impatiently with her hand. “I will not listen. The Indians have Uncle Gaspard, I know.”
Mère Lunde beckoned them. “She is very wilful at times, and now her heart is sore. But the good saints have led you both back. He has been north many a time and come home unharmed.”
“They will kill him this time!” the child almost shrieked. “There was that fierce Black Feather! Oh, he will never come back, never!”
The old woman waved them to the doorway and they turned and passed out. All the garden was abloom and sweet with the fragrance of growing fruit, tangled vines and flowers. The pale heavens had lost the light of day, and the blue of the night was hidden by a soft gray vagueness. Birds were singing good-night songs to each other and to sleepy nestlings. Marchand, with his arm around his wife, drew her into a secluded spot.
“Black Feather was a Huron,” he said, “mean, tricky, avaricious. Surely you were not in his hands?” and his grasp tightened.
“Only a little while. Oh, I would never have been taken alive to the straits! And this young Valbonais was their captive. Oh, where has he disappeared to? He had an uncle in St. Louis, whither he was coming when they captured him.”
“Tell me the story. I have had hundreds of fears for you, my darling, yet I kept trusting the All Father.”
“Oh, not to-night!” she pleaded. “Is it not enough that I am restored, and that no evil has happened to me? Let us not mar the joy of this meeting.”
So they sat until the white veil in the sky cleared away and all was a heavenly blue, with stars shining so bright they took on beautiful tints and twinkled as in a fairy dance. To the reunited hearts there had never been such a night of joy and splendor.
Renée sobbed herself to sleep, worn out with the pangs of disappointment. Mère Lunde would not disturb her. She set out a little supper for the other two, and they talked in low tones. Mère Lunde told of her wanderings, and that she had almost died of hunger and thirst.
“We who were so sadly bereft resolved to join forces,” explained Marchand. “Gaspard Denys ought not lose everything by his generosity. So I have watched the trade and tried to fill his place as best I could, and Mère Lunde has kept the house, both praying and hoping. Several prisoners have escaped or been left by the Indians, who really did not want them and were afraid to practise the cruelties of other days lest a severe punishment might overtake them.”
Renée was still dejected and inconsolable the next morning, and would receive no overtures from Wawataysee. The young wife understood. Not that Renée would have wished her any ill, but with the unreason of feminine things she could not endure the sight of their happy faces, the sound of the tender words they exchanged. She went out in the corner of the garden and made her moan, and would not be seen of the friends that came to congratulate the returned captives.
Nearly noon a young man paused at the gate, looking a little uncertain.
“It is André Valbonais!” cried Wawataysee, with delight. “I will bring him in and you must thank him with your full heart.”
Valbonais was bright and smiling, his ragged clothes, that scarcely held together, replaced by a comfortable suit, if not new; his hair trimmed and in good order—a very attractive young fellow now, certainly.
“We were going to set out on a search for you,” Wawataysee began. “In some unexpected manner we lost sight of you last night. How did you fare?”
“Oh, not badly,” with a cheerful smile. “I knew you would go to friends who would be overjoyed to see you, and I wandered down a street, trying to find an inn, for I was not sure I would be allowed to stop in the street all night. So in my inquiry I met some one who knew my uncle, Pierre Valbonais, who, it seems, is at work in your great mill, and who lives beyond the court-house, in the Rue des Grainges. My faith, but you are a very hospitable folk,” and his eyes shone with a joyous light. “This M. Pion would give me some supper and a bed, and we talked over my adventures smoking our pipes.”
“I am glad you found a friend. It was our desire to take you in. And your relative?” with a slight hesitation.
“I found my way to the mill, and the uncle greeted me cordially. There is an aunt and some cousins, it seems, and I am to make my home with them for the present. Moreover, I find there is plenty of work to do and I shall be happy. Where is the little maid?”
Wawataysee explained Renée’s grief at finding her uncle had not returned from his search. Then M. Marchand took him through to the shop, and was so earnest in his gratitude that it touched Valbonais deeply.
Renée came out of her garden corner as he was going away. Her pretty eyes were swollen with weeping.
“Oh, little one, you were so brave on the journey, amid all the hardships, that you must not lose heart now! And I hear your uncle has made many trips with the traders, so he knows about the Indians and is not likely to let them take him unawares. He will return, surely.”
She cast her eyes down and made no reply. She would not be comforted even by him.
The Renauds came over in the afternoon, and though the girls followed her to the garden, she would not be amused with their chatter. What did she care about a new frock or a tea-drinking on the green by the fort, or games and plays?
“She is very disagreeable and cold,” said Elise to Sophie as they were walking home. “I suppose because she has a ‘de’ before her name she thinks she can put on any airs. But I am older and shall have a lover first. Of course, M. Denys will return. He always has before.”
So everybody thought. And a child cannot be unhappy forever when every one joins to dispel her sorrow. She thawed out very slowly. André hardly knew what to make of her, she was so grave and indifferent.
He had found employment in the mill and felt quite elated. Madame Valbonais liked him very much. There was one son a trapper, though he did not take very long journeys. Then there were two bright girls who were not averse to having such an attractive cousin.
Through them he came to know the Renauds, and Barbe he thought extremely winsome. Before a fortnight had passed he was in the merrymakings and dances, and having a most enjoyable time. It did not trouble him now that he had been in more than one peril of his life.
The lieutenant-governor who had proved himself so unworthy was recalled. M. Cruzat was fortifying the town more securely than it had ever been, but for some time any body of Indians going back and forth roused a feeling of distrust and fear. Pleasure parties were careful not to trust themselves too far away.
Mère Lunde begged Wawataysee to remain with them, as M. Marchand was taking charge of the business. When Mattawissa came in with her pretty work and various articles, many of which went down to New Orleans, she and the young wife made very good friends.
“She will take every one away from me,” thought the child with a swelling heart, and she grew more reserved. Even Mère Lunde had to yield to the sweetness of Wawataysee. Sometimes she sang really beautiful Indian songs and described vividly the dances and entertainments, though there were many in which only old women were allowed.
July began to ripen fruits and fill the farmers with joy at the prospect of abundant crops. But Renée counted the weeks sadly. She was growing pale and thinner, and roamed about like an unquiet ghost. She would not play with the children, but rambled desolately by herself and occasionally stole down to the end of the stockade and ventured out to see her grandfather. He seemed nearly always at home now, sitting outside his neglected-looking cabin smoking his pipe and patching his clothes or making moccasins, on which he put stout soles of skin. He would nod and occasionally push a stool to her, which was the round of a log, and motion her to be seated.
One day he said sharply: “Has anything been heard of Gaspard Denys? Some traders have come in.”
She knew that. They had been at the shop.
“They have not seen him,” she admitted sorrowfully.
“There would be news if he had been killed.”
“Oh! oh!” A sharp pang went to the child’s heart. To have another put her dread into words was like confirming it.
“That might be,” said the old man. “The pitcher may go to the spring without spout or handle, but it gets an unlucky knock at the last.”
She was silent.
“He made me give you to him. He bound me with signing a paper. Then if you are his, what he has comes naturally to you. There is the house and the garden. And the shop, with all its stores. Gaspard Denys has a strong box. There may be gold and silver in it. It belongs to you.”
Renée stared at him. His skin was browner than ever, and his face wrinkled in every direction. His hair was unkempt, his eyes were so squinted up that they looked like two sparks merely.
“Oh,” she cried, “what should I want with it all, and no Uncle Gaspard?”
“It will be a good dot. It will make you a good marriage when the time comes. And they must not get it away from you.”
“They? Who?” in surprise.
“That man and his half-Indian wife. Ah, I have seen people before, men who can plan adroitly. And I tell you now he shall not have it. When the time comes I shall turn him out neck and heels, and we will see! I shall not have you cheated out of your rights, Renée de Longueville.”
“I don’t understand. If it is M. Marchand you mean——” and she eyed the old man resolutely.
“Who asked him to come in there? Gaspard Denys locked up his place, and he and that old woman opened it. They had no right, I say.”
He struck the flat stone beside him with his fist, but it did not seem to hurt that member.
“It was Mère Lunde’s home. And she looks for him every day. Oh, if word came that he was dead we should both die of grief!”
Her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears.
“Bah! No one dies of grief. And I will keep you out of that man’s clutches. I am your grandfather and I have some rights.”
Renée shuddered at the fierce old man. She had used to feel afraid of him, but it seemed of late that she did not fear anything, the darkness of the night nor the thunder storms, when it appeared as if the town would be hurled into the river. What if he should really claim her, if—if—Oh, she would a hundred times rather stay with M. Marchand, even if he was kissing and caressing Wawataysee half the time.
“I must go,” she said, rising. She had been trying to esteem him a little now that she was so lonely, but all the endeavor was like water spilled on the ground, and he had broken the bowl.
“You will come again. No one shall cheat you out of your rights,” nodding vigorously.
She turned away. First she thought she would walk along the river. It crept lazily to-day, yellow in the yellow sunshine. But when she reached the Rue Royale she turned into that. She did not care to pass the Renauds’—why was it that she could not love any one any more? that her heart seemed like lead in her bosom? So she went up to the Rue de l’Eglise straight on to the little church. She had not been Saturday afternoons of late. She knew the catechism and the prayers, and the children’s drawl seemed to spoil it for her. Sometimes people prayed for things and they came. Well, she was praying all the time for Uncle Gaspard’s return. Maybe it ought to be asked for in the church. She crept in softly.
The little old place was very, very plain. Even the altar and the high altar had but few decorations at this time. There was a candle burning and it shed a pale glow. There was a basin of holy water, and she reverently made the sign of the cross with it. Then she knelt down on the floor and clasped her small hands.
“O holy God,” she prayed, “O Christ, son of the holy God, listen to my sorrow, I beseech thee. Send back Uncle Gaspard, for my life is so lonely without him. Keep him safe from all danger.”
It seemed so different to pray here. She would come every day now. This was God’s house.
It was strange and she did not understand it a bit, but her heart felt lighter. The old garden was gay with bloom. Chatte came to meet her, arched his back and waved his tail like a flag, looking at her out of green, translucent eyes with a black bar straight up and down. She stooped and patted him and he began to purr with delight. He was as fond as she of sitting in Uncle Gaspard’s lap.
Mère Lunde was pounding green grapes, great, luscious wild grapes, into a mash. Then she would strain out the seeds and make a most delicious jam with maple sugar. How fragrant the room was with the spicy scent! She went up and kissed her tenderly, and tears came to the woman’s eyes at the unexpected caress.
Wawataysee sat by the open window doing some beautiful beadwork. M. Marchand was busy sorting goods and piling them up on the shelves, and whistling soft and low like the wood thrush. Well, why should he not be happy, now that he had Wawataysee back? And she had been almost angry about it—no, not angry, but hurt, and—perhaps she was selfish. Ah, think of her grandfather being here and turning things about, making it dismal and wretched! No, he should not order the place and turn out these two who had been so kind. Perhaps the Governor would know what was right. She would pray it might never happen. That would be another petition. And without understanding how religion comforted, she was happier.