About mid-afternoon of the day of Kingswell's advent into the settlement on Gray Goose River—Fort Beatrix it was called—the sky clouded, the voice of the river thinned and saddened, and snow began to fall. By Trigget's advice—and Trigget seemed to be the working head of the plantation—the pelts and gear of the Pelican were removed to the storehouse.
"Ye must winter in Newfoundland, sir, however the idea affects your plans, for no more ships will be sailing home this season; and ye couldn't make it in your bully," said the hospitable skipper.
"We might work 'round to St. John's," replied Kingswell.
Trigget shook his head. "This be the safer place o' the two," he answered, "and your Honour's company here will help keep Sir Ralph out o' his black moods. He wants ye to stay, I know. There'll be work and to spare for your men, what with cuttin' fuel, and huntin' game, and boat-buildin'."
So Kingswell decided that, if this should prove the real setting-in of winter, and if no objections were raised by any of the pioneers, he would share the colony's fortunes until the following spring. D'Antons expressed himself as charmed with the decision; but, for all that, Kingswell saw, by deeper and finer signs than most people would credit him with the ability to read, that his presence was really far from agreeable to the French adventurer.
When night closed about the little settlement, the snow was still falling, and ground and roofs shone with bleak radiance through the veil of darkness. The flakes of the storm were small and dry, and unstirred by any wind. They wove a curtain of silence over the unprotesting wilderness.
Kingswell and Ouenwa supped with the Westleighs. But before the meal, and before Mistress Beatrix appeared from her little chamber, the two gentlemen had an hour of private conversation.
"This Captain d'Antons—what of him?" inquired Kingswell.
"He is none of our choosing," replied the baronet. "Several years ago, before I had quite given up the old life and the old show, I met him in London. He was reported rich. He had sailed many voyages to the West Indies, and talked of lands granted to him in New France. I had sold Beverly, and Beatrix was with me in town. She was little more than a child, but her looks attracted a deal of attention. She had nothing else, as all the town knew, with her father a ruined gamester, and her dead mother's property gone, with Randon Hall and Beverly! Dear God, but here was a dower for a beautiful lass! Well, the poets made a song or two, and three old men were for paying titles and places for her little hand—and then the end came. We won back to Somerset, spur and whip, lashed along by fear. We hid about, in this cottage and that, while my trusted friend Trigget provisioned his little craft and got together all the folk whom you see here, save D'Antons. After a rough and tiring voyage of three weeks' duration, and just when we were looking out for land, we were met by a French frigate, and forced to haul our wind. A boat-load of armed men left the pirate—yes, that's what she was, a damn pirate—and there was Captain d'Antons seated in the stern-sheets of her, beside the mate. He had not been as long at sea as we had, and he knew all about my trouble, curse him! He left the frigate, which he said was bound on a peaceful voyage of discovery to the West Indies, and joined our expedition. I could not forbid it. I was at his mercy, with his cutthroats alongside and the gallows at the back of it. He has hung to us ever since; and he has acted civil enough, damn him. If he'd show his hoof now and again, I'd like it better—for then we would all be on our guard."
"But why does he stay? Why does he live in this place when he might be reaping the harvests common to such husbandmen?" inquired Kingswell. "Has he a stake in the colony?"
The baronet gazed reflectively at the young man. "The fellow has kept my secret, and shared our rough lot and dreary exile, and even expended some money on provisions," he replied, deliberately, "for no other reason than that he is in love with my daughter."
"He! A buccaneer!" exclaimed Kingswell, warmly.
"Even so," answered the baronet. "There, on the high seas, when he had us all in his clutch, when he might have seized by force that for which he now sues, he accepted my word of honour—mark you, he accepted what I had scarce the face to offer—that I would not withstand his suit, nor allow my men to do him any treasonable hurt so long as he kept my hiding-place secret and behaved like a gentleman."
"And Mistress Beatrix?" asked the young man, softly.
"Ah, who can say?" responded the broken baronet. "At one time I feared that he was appearing as a hero to her. But I do not know. He played his game cleverly at first, but now he is losing patience. I would to God that he would lose it altogether. Then the compact would be broken. But no, he is cautious. He knows that, at a word from the girl, my sword would be out. Then things would go hard with him, even though he should kill me, for my men hate him."
"Why not pick a quarrel with him?" asked the headstrong Kingswell.
"You do not understand—you cannot understand—how delicate a thing to keep is the word of honour of a man who is branded as being without honour," replied the other, sadly.
"And should Mistress Beatrix flout him," said Kingswell, "he would find his revenge in reporting your whereabouts to the garrison at St. John's."
"He is well watched," said Sir Ralph, "and this is not an easy place to escape from, even in summer. We are hidden, up here, and not so much as a fishing-ship has sighted us in the two years."
"I'll wager that he'd find a way past your vigilance if he set his mind to it," retorted Kingswell. "Gad, but it maddens me to think of being billeted under the roof of such an aspiring rogue! Rip me, but it's a monstrous sin that a lady should be plagued, and a whole body of Englishmen menaced, by a buccaneering adventurer."
"My boy," replied Sir Ralph, wearily, "you must curb your indignation, even as the rest of us do. Discretion is the card to play just now. I have been holding the game with it for over two years. Who knows but that Time may shuffle the pack before long?"
Just then Mistress Beatrix joined them. She wore one of the gay gowns—in truth somewhat enlarged and remodelled—by which her girlish beauty had been abetted and set off in England. There seemed a brightness and shimmer all about her. The coils of her dark hair were bright. The changing eyes were bright. The lips, the round neck and dainty throat, the buckled shoes, and even the material of bodice and skirt were radiant in the gloom and firelight of that rough chamber. To all appearances, her mood was as bright as her beauty. Sir Ralph watched her with adoring eyes, realizing her bravery. Kingswell joined in her gay chatter, and found it easy to be merry. Ouenwa, silent on the corner of the bench by the hearth, gazed at this vision of loveliness with wide eyes. He could realize, without effort, that Sir Ralph and D'Antons and even his glorious Kingswell were men, even as Tom Bent, and the Triggets, and Black Feather were, but that Mistress Beatrix was a woman—a woman, as were William Trigget's wife and daughter, and Black Feather's squaw—no, he could not believe it! He was even surprised to note a resemblance to other females in the number of her hands and feet. She had, most assuredly, two hands and two feet. Also she had one head. But how different in quality, though similar in number, were the members of this flashing young divinity.
"I left Montaw's lodge to behold the wonders of the world," mused the dazzled child of the wilderness, "and already, without crossing the great salt water, I have found the surpassing wonder. Can it be that any more such beings exist? Has even Master Kingswell ever before looked upon such beauty and such raiment?"
His spellbound gaze was met by the eyes of the enchantress. To his amazement, the lady moved from her father's side and seated herself on the bench.
"You are so quiet," she said, "that I did not notice you before. So you are Master Kingswell's ward?"
Her voice was very kind and cheerful, and her silks brushed the lad's hand. He looked at the finery uneasily, but did not answer her question.
"You told us he knew English," she said to Kingswell.
"He does," replied the young man. Then, to the boy: "Ouenwa, Mistress Westleigh wants to know if you are my friend."
"Yes," said the lad. "Good friend."
"And my friend, too?" asked the girl.
"Yes," replied Ouenwa. "You look so—so—like he called the sky one morning." He pointed at Master Kingswell.
"What was that?" she queried.
"What morning?" asked Kingswell, leaning forward and smiling.
"Five mornings ago, chief," replied Ouenwa.
Kingswell laughed. "You are right, lad," he said.
"But tell me what you called the sky, sir. Really, this is very provoking. No doubt the boy thinks I look a fright," said Miss Westleigh.
"Beatrix," interrupted Sir Ralph, "surely I see Kate with the candles."
The girl could not deny it, for the table was spread in the same room,—a rough, square table with a damask cloth, and laid out with a fair show of silver, decanters, and a great venison pasty, which had been cooked in the Triggets' kitchen across the yard.
The meal was a delightful one to Kingswell. He had not eaten off china dishes for many months. The food, though plain, was well cooked and well served. The wines were as nectar to his eager palate. And over it all was the magic of Mistress Westleigh's presence—potent magic enough to a young gentleman who had almost forgotten the looks and ways of the women of his own kind. Ouenwa sat as one in a dream, fairly stupefied by the gleam of silver and linen under the soft light of the candles. He ate painfully and slowly, imitating Kingswell. He looked often at the vivacious hostess. Suddenly he exclaimed: "I remember. Yes, it was lovely beautiful, what the chief said!" Kingswell laughed delightedly, and the baronet joined, with reserve, in the mirth. The girl looked puzzled for a moment,—then confused,—then, with a little, indescribable cry of merriment, she patted Ouenwa's shoulder.
"Charming lad!" she exclaimed. "I have not received so pretty a compliment for, oh, ever so long." She looked across the table at Kingswell, feeling his gaze upon her. His eyes were very grave, and darkened with thought, though his lips were still smiling.
For hours after retiring Kingswell lay awake, reviewing, in his restless brain, the incidents of that crowded day. His couch was luxurious, compared to the resting-places he had known since leaving the Heart of the West; but, for all that, sleep evaded him. From the other side of the hearth Ouenwa's deep and regular breathing reached his alert ears. He saw the yellow light blink to darkness above the curtain of skins, when D'Antons extinguished his candle in the other apartment. The red firelight rose and fell, dwindled and flooded high. The core of it contracted and expanded, and a straight log across the middle of the glow was like a heavy eyelid. It was like something alive—like something stirring between sleeping and waking, desiring sleep, yet afraid to forsake a vigil. To the restless explorer beside the hearth it suggested a drowsy servitor nodding and starting in a deserted hall. "What is it waiting for?" he wondered, and smiled at the conceit. "What does it fear? Mayhap the master and mistress are late at a rout, and are people without consideration for the feelings of their servants."
From such harmless imagery his mind slipped to the less pleasant subject of Sir Ralph Westleigh. He recalled what he had seen and heard of the days of the baronet's glory—of the great places near Bristol, with their stables that were the envy of dukes, and their routs that lured people weary and dangerous journeys—of the famous Lady Westleigh and her jewels—of Sir Ralph's kindliness to great and small alike. His own father, the merchant-knight of Bristol, had held the baronet in high esteem. Bernard himself, when a child, and later when a well-grown lad, had experienced the hospitality of Randon Hall and Beverly. At the time of his last visit to Beverly, rumour was busy with the baronet's affairs. During Lady Westleigh's life, all had gone well, apparently. After her death, Sir Ralph spent less of his time at home, and more of it in distant London, and even in Paris. Stories went abroad of his heavy gaming and his ruinous bad luck. People said the love of the dice and the cards had settled in the man like a disease, working on him physically to such an extent that he looked a different person when the heat of the play was on him. Also it played the devil with him morally—and perhaps mentally. So things took the turn and started down-hill. Then the run was short and mad, despite warnings of friends, threats of relatives, and the baronet's own numerous clever checks and parries to avoid disaster. There was a season of hope after the sale of Randon. But the lurid clouds gathered again. Then Beverly was impoverished to the last oak and the last horse in the stud. The baronet took his daughter to town, and, by a turn of luck, put in a few merry months. Then a certain Scotch viscount caught him playing as no gentleman, no matter how dissolute, is supposed to play. The Scotchman made a clamour, and was killed for his trouble. That was the last known of Sir Ralph Westleigh and his daughter by any one of the outside world until the Pelican landed her voyagers before the stockade of Fort Beatrix on Gray Goose River.
All these matters employed Kingswell's thoughts as he lay awake in Captain d'Antons' cabin and watched the fire on the rough hearth fall lower and lower. Pity for the young girl, who had been born and bred to such a different heritage, pained and fretted him more keenly than a personal loss. The discomfort of it was almost as if his conscience were accusing him of disloyalty to a friend, though that was absurd, as neither he nor his had helped Westleigh in his descent, nor cried out against him when he met disaster at the bottom. But he had never, during those two years after their disappearance, given them more than a passing thought—and they had been friends and neighbours. He had experienced no pity for the young and beautiful girl with whom he had played in the racquet court at Beverly. Like the great world of which he was so insignificant a part, he had forgotten. Two lives, more or less, were of no consequence in such stirring times. He groaned, as if the realization of a great sin had come to him. Then, to the anger against himself was added anger against the world that had dragged Sir Ralph into this oblivion of dishonour, and the innocent girl into exile. What had she done to be driven beyond the bounds of civilization, her safety dependent on the whims of a French buccaneer? Ah, there was the raw spot, sure enough! In the little space of time between two risings of the sun, Kingswell had met a man and marked him for an enemy. Nursing a bitter, though somewhat muddled, resentment, he at last fell asleep, guarded from storm and frost by the roof of the very man who had inspired his anger.
For the next few days matters went smoothly at Fort Beatrix. It was evident to even the least experienced of the settlers that the winter had come to stay. The snow lay deep and dry over the frozen earth. The river was already hidden under a skin of gleaming ice, made opaque by the snow that had mingled with the water while it was freezing. The little settlement took up the routine of the dreary months. Axes were sharpened at the great stone in the well-house. The men donned moccasins of deerskin. They tied ingenious racquets, or snow-shoes, to their feet and tramped into the sombre forests. All day the thud, thud of the axes jarred across the air, interrupted ever and anon by the rending, splitting lament of some falling tree.
Kingswell put his men under William Trigget's orders, and he and Ouenwa spent much of their time with the choppers. Also, they journeyed with the trappers. Captain d'Antons, who was a skilled and tireless woodsman, led them on many weary marches in quest of game and fur. Most of the caribou had travelled southward, in herds of from ten to one hundred head, at the approach of winter; but a few remained in the sheltered valleys. Fortunately the settlers were familiar with the habits of the deer, and had laid in a supply of dried venison during the summer. However, whenever the hunters managed to make a kill, the fresh meat was enthusiastically received at the fort. Hares and grouse were snared, as were foxes and other small animals. A few wolves and one or two wildcats were shot. The bears were all tucked safely away in their winter quarters, and the beavers were frozen into theirs. On the whole, the hunters had a hard time of it, and no great reward for their toil. But it was work that kept both their brains and sinews employed, and so was of a deal more worth than the bare value of the pelts and dinners it supplied.
One day in early December, when Kingswell, D'Antons, the younger Donnelly, and Ouenwa were traversing a drifted expanse of "barren," marching in single file and without undue noise, they came upon another trail of racquet prints. They halted. They regarded this unexpected evidence of the proximity of their fellow man with misgivings—for snow had fallen in abundance, and therefore the trail was new. They glanced uneasily about them, scanning clumps of spruce and fir and mounds of snow-drifted rock with anxious eyes. They strained their ears for some warning sound—or for the twanging of bowstrings. They saw nothing. They heard nothing but the disconsolate chirping of a moose-bird in a thicket close at hand. D'Antons lowered his gaze to the trail.
"From the westward, and heading for the river," he said. "Then they are not from the village on Gander Lake."
"Big number," remarked Ouenwa. "Ten, twenty, thirty—don't know how much! Whole camp, I think."
"Ay," agreed Donnelly, "they sure has packed clear down through two falls o' snow. Ye could trot a pony along the pat' they has made."
"Are you on friendly terms with the savages?" inquired Kingswell of Captain d'Antons. The Frenchman smiled uncheerfully and shrugged his lean shoulders. He was not one to speak unconsidered words.
"Yes, we are on friendly terms with the people from Gander Lake," he replied, presently. "That is, we have traded with them a number of times, and have exchanged gifts with their chief, and through him with old Soft Hand. But Soft Hand is dead now; and these fellows are evidently from the West. Also, friendship means nothing where these vermin are concerned. Treachery is as the breath of life to them."
"Panounia," whispered Ouenwa, excitedly. "Panounia no good for friend. He is a murderer. He is a false chief. He make trade—yes, with war-arrows from the bushes and with knives in the dark. In friendship his hand is under his robe, and his fingers are on the hilt of his knife. Evil warms itself at his heart like an old witch at a fire."
D'Antons smiled thinly at the lad. "There is a time for all things," he said—"a time for oratory and another time for action. If you are willing, Master Kingswell, let us now retrace our steps as swiftly and quietly as may be. It would be wise to warn the fort that a band of the sly devils is abroad."
Ouenwa glanced uncertainly at the speaker and flushed darkly. Kingswell intimated his willingness to return immediately to Fort Beatrix by a curt nod. It was in his heart to administer a kick to Captain Pierre d'Antons, though just why the desire he could not say. They turned in their tracks and started back along the twisting, seven-mile trail. D'Antons led; and the pace he set was a stiff one. Mile after mile was passed, with no other sound save those of padding racquet and toiling breath. In the hollows their shoulders brushed the snow from the crowding spruce-fronds. Going over the knolls, they crouched low, and scanned the horizon with alert eyes as they ran.
At last, all but breathless from the prolonged exertion, the hunters turned aside from the path and ascended the gradual, heavily wooded side of a hill which overlooked the fort from the south. They crossed the naked summit with painful caution, bending double, and taking every advantage of the sheltering thickets.
"The choppers are inside," whispered D'Antons to Kingswell, as they peered furtively out between the snow-weighted branches. "See! And the savages are in cover along the river." It was quite evident to Kingswell that the place had been attacked, and was now in a state of siege. The platform in the southeast corner of the stockade was protected by shields composed of bundles of firewood. Men whom he recognized as those who had been working in the woods earlier in the day moved about within the enclosure. The wide, snow-covered clearing that had been so spotless when he had last seen it was trampled and stained here and there by dark patches. Along the fringe of timber that shut the river from the clearing, and extended to within a dozen paces of the southeast corner of the stockade, a Beothic warrior would frequently show himself for a moment, hoot derisively, and let fly a harmless shaft. Presently the watchers on the knoll saw the head and shoulders of William Trigget above the shield of the gun-platform. The master mariner shaded his eyes with his hand and seemed to be scanning the woods along the river and then the timber in which his own comrades were concealed. He lowered his hand and ducked quickly—and not a second too soon; for a flight of arrows rattled against his stronghold, a few stuck, quivering, into the pickets of the stockade, and many fell within the fort.
Kingswell turned to D'Antons. "More of them than we thought," he said. "There must have been a hundred arrows in that volley."
Captain d'Antons nodded with a preoccupied air. He did not look at his companion, and his brow was puckered in lines of thought. If the Englishman had been able to read the other's mind at that moment, a deal of future trouble would have been spared him. However, as Kingswell was but an adventurous, keen-witted young man, with no superhuman powers, he was content with the Frenchman's nod, and returned his attentions to the fort.
Suddenly, from the screen of faggots above which Trigget had so lately exposed his head, burst a flash of yellow flame, a spurt of white smoke, and a clapping bulk of sound. The stockade shook. A spruce-tree shook in the wood by the river, and cries of fear and consternation rang across the frosty air. A score of savages darted from their cover and as quickly sped back again. Flight after flight of arrows broke away and tested every inch of surface of Trigget's shelter. Then, with shrill screams and mad yells of defiance, the whole party of Beothics emerged into the clearing and dashed for the palisade. They drew their bows as they ran, and some hurled clubs and spears. In front, with red feathers in his hair and his right arm bandaged across his breast, Panounia shouted encouragement and led the charge. They were half-way across the open when the second cannon spat forth its message of hate. The ball passed low over the advancing mass and plunged into the timber beyond. For a second or two, the attackers wavered, a few turned back, then they continued their valorous onset. They were already springing at the palisade when the muskets crashed in their faces from half a dozen loopholes. This volley was followed immediately by another. The savages dropped back from their futile leapings against the fortification, hung on their heels for a moment, clamorous and undecided, and then broke for cover. They dragged their dead and wounded with them, and left sanguinary trails on the snow. They were within a few yards of the sheltering trees when one of the little cannon banged again. The ball cut across the mass of crowded warriors like a string through cheese.
"Now is our time!" exclaimed Kingswell. "Run for the gate, lads."
The returning hunters were promptly admitted to the fort. The little garrison welcomed them joyfully. The West Country sailors were, for the moment, cordial even toward D'Antons, whom they usually ignored. The party had taken a hundred chances with death in the crossing of the narrow clearing. Arrows had followed them from the fringe of wood along the river, like bees from an overturned hive. Ouenwa's left arm had been scratched. D'Antons' fur cap had been torn from his head, pierced through and through. A hail of missiles had clattered against the gate as the good timbers swung to behind them. Cries of rage and chagrin, in which Ouenwa's name was repeated many times, rang from the retreat of the defeated warriors. The garrison answered with cheers. Ouenwa's shrill voice carried clear above the tumult, lifted in Beothic insults.
Sir Ralph himself was in command of the imperilled fortress. The excitement had stirred him out of his customary gloom. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flew a patch of colour. His sword was at his side, and he held a musket in his hand.
"That was their third attempt to get over the stockade," he said to Kingswell and D'Antons. "They are filled with the very devil to-day. But I scarcely think that they will come back for more, now that Trigget has got his growlers into working order."
"How did it begin?" asked the Frenchman.
"Why, about three score of them marched up and said they wanted to come in and trade," replied the baronet, "but, as they seemed to have nothing to trade save their bows and spears, Trigget warned them off. Then they went out on the river and began chopping up the Red Rose and the Pelican. At that we let off a musket, and they retired to cover, from which they soon emerged with reinforcements and tried to carry the place by weight of numbers."
"Hark," said the Frenchman. "What is that they are yelling?"
"My name," replied Ouenwa. "They are my enemies."
"Ah, and so it is our privilege to fight this gentleman's battles for him," remarked D'Antons, with an exaggerated bow to the lad. "Perhaps this is the explanation of the attack."
"I think not," answered Kingswell, crisply. "They are surprised at discovering him here. Also they are surprised and displeased at seeing me again. They have smelled our powder before, as you have heard, I think."
"Yes, I have heard the heroic tale, monsieur," replied the captain, smiling his thin, one-sided, Continental smile.
The blood mounted in Kingswell's cheek. He turned on his heel without any further words. Ouenwa followed him to the Trigget cabin, whence he was bound for something to eat.
Panounia and his braves retreated across the frozen river, and did not show themselves again that day. In the fort every musket was loaded, the improvised gun-shields were repaired and strengthened, and the guns were again got ready for action. In place of round shot, William Trigget charged them with scrap-iron and slugs of lead.
"When ye has a lot o' mowin' to do in a short time, cut a wide swath," he remarked to Tom Bent.
"Ay, sir," replied Kingswell's boatswain, turning a hawk-like eye on the dark edges of the forest. "Ay, sir, cut a wide swath, an' let the devil make the hay. It be mun's own crop."
At the time of the hunters' return, Mistress Beatrix was looking from the doorway of her father's cabin. Now she knelt in her own chamber, sobbing quietly, with her face buried in her hands. All the bitterness and insecurity of her position had come to her with overmastering force. The sight of Captain d'Antons' thin face and uncovered, bedraggled hair, as he leaned on his musket and talked with her father and the young Englishman, had melted the courage in her heart. She prayed confusedly, half her thoughts with the petitions which she made to her God, and half with the desperate state of her affairs and the features and attitude of the buccaneer.
She was disturbed by some one entering the outer room. She recognized the footsteps as those of Sir Ralph. She got up from her knees, bathed her face and eyes, touched her hair to order with skilful fingers, and opened the door of her chamber. The baronet looked up at the sound.
"Ah, lass," he said, "we've driven the rascals off. They have crossed the river."
With that he fell again to his slow pacing of the room.
"I do not fear the savages," she cried. "Oh, I do think their knives and arrows would be welcome."
"Poor child! poor little lass!" he said, pausing beside her and kissing her tenderly. "You have been weeping," he added, concernedly. "But courage, dear. The fellow is harmless for five long months to come. His fangs are as good as filed, shut off here and surrounded by the snow and the savages."
Evidently the sight of his daughter's distress had dimmed the finer conception of his promise to D'Antons. He looked about him uneasily and sighed.
She laid her face against his coat and held tight to his sleeves.
"I hate him," she whispered. "Oh, my father, I hate him for my own sake as much as I fear him for yours. His every covert glance, his every open attention, stings me like a whip. And yet, out of fear, I must smile and simper, and play the hypocrite."
"No—by God!" exclaimed Westleigh, trembling with emotion. Then, more quietly, "Beatrix, I cannot wear this mask any longer. The fellow is hateful to me. I despise him. How such a creation of the devil's can love you so unswervingly is more than I can fathom. I would rather see you dead than married to him. There—I have broken my word again! Let me go."
He freed himself from the girl's hands, caught up his hat and cloak, and left the cabin. He crossed over to the well-house, where some of the men were grinding axes and cutlasses, and joined feverishly in their simple talk of work, and battle, and adventure. Their honest faces and homely language drove a little of the bitterness of his shame from him. Presently Kingswell and Ouenwa joined the group about the complaining grindstone.
"Come," said Sir Ralph, "and look at the cannon."
He plucked Kingswell by the sleeve. Ouenwa followed them. All three ascended the little platform on which the guns were mounted, by way of a short ladder. The pieces, ready loaded, were snugly covered with tarpaulins that could be snatched off in a turn of the hand.
"A worthy fellow is William Trigget," remarked the baronet. "Ay, he is true as steel."
He laid a caressing hand on the breech of one of the little cannon. "I would trust him, yea, and his good fellows, with anything I possess," he said, "as readily as I trust these growlers to his care."
Just then Ouenwa pointed northward to the wooded bluff that cut into the white valley and hid the settlement from the lower reaches of the river. From beyond the point, moving slowly and unsteadily, appeared a solitary human figure. Its course lay well out on the level floor of the stream, and the forest growth along the shore did not conceal it from the watchers. It approached uncertainly, as if without a definite goal, and, when within a few hundred yards of the fort, staggered and fell prone.
"What the devil does it mean?" cried Sir Ralph.
Kingswell shook his head, and questioned Ouenwa. The lad continued to gaze out across the open. The sun was low over the western hills, and its light was red on the snow.
"Hurt," he said, presently. "Maybe starved. He is not of Panounia's band."
"How do you know that, lad?" asked the baronet.
"I know," replied the boy. "He is a hunter. He is not of the war-party. He is from the salt water."
"He is usually right when he maintains that a thing is so, without being able to give a reason for it," said Kingswell, quietly. "And, if he is, it seems a pity to let the man die out there under our very eyes."
"God knows I do not want any one to suffer," said the baronet, "but may it not be a trick of this Panounia's, or whatever you call him?"
"No trick," replied Ouenwa; and, without so much as "by your leave," he vaulted over the breastwork of faggots and landed lightly on the snow outside the stockade. Without a moment's hesitation, Kingswell followed. Together they started toward the still figure out on the river, at a brisk run. They had reached the bank before Sir Ralph recovered from his astonishment. He quickly descended to the square, and, without attracting any attention, informed William Trigget of what had happened. Trigget and his son immediately ascended to the guns and drew off their tarpaulins. "We'll cover the retreat, sir," said the mariner. They saw their reckless comrades bend over the prostrate stranger. Then Kingswell lifted the apparently lifeless body and started back at a jog trot. Ouenwa lagged behind, with his head continually over his shoulder. The elder Trigget swore a great oath, and smacked a knotty fist into a leathern palm.
"Them's well-plucked uns," he added.
The baronet and John Trigget agreed silently. They were too intent on the approach of the rescuers to speak. Also, they kept a keen outlook along the woods on the farther shore. But the enemy made no sign; and Kingswell, Ouenwa, and the unconscious stranger reached the stockade in safety. The stranger proved to be none other than Black Feather, the stalwart and kindly brave who had built his lodge beside the old arrow-maker's, above Wigwam Harbour, in the days of peace. He was carried into Trigget's cabin and dosed with French brandy until he opened his eyes. He looked about him blankly for a second or two, and then his lids fluttered down again. He had not recognized either Kingswell or Ouenwa.
"Oh, the poor lad, the poor lad," cried Dame Trigget. "Whatever has mun been a-doin' now, to get so distressin' scrawny? An' a fine figger, too, though he be a heathen, without a manner o' doubt."
"Never mind his religious beliefs, dame, but get some of your good venison broth inside of him," said Master Kingswell. "That's a treatment that would surely convert any number of heathen."
While they were clustered about Black Feather's couch, D'Antons entered. He peered over Dame Trigget's ample shoulders and looked considerably surprised at finding an unconscious, emaciated Beothic the centre of attraction.
"What's this?" he asked. "A tragedy or a comedy?"
His tone was sour, and too bantering for the occasion.
The baronet turned on him with an expression of mouth and eye that did not pass unnoticed by the little group.
"Certainly not a comedy, monsieur," he replied, coldly; "and we hope it will not prove a tragedy."
Meals were not served in Captain d'Antons' cabin. The little settlement possessed but one servant among all its workers, and that one was Maggie Stone, Mistress Westleigh's old nurse. The care of Sir Ralph's establishment was all she could attend to. So the men who had no women-folk of their own to cook for them were fed by Dame Trigget and her sturdy daughter Joyce, or by the Donnelly women. Kingswell and D'Antons took their meals at Dame Trigget's table, and were served by themselves, with every mark of respect. Ouenwa, Tom Bent, Harding, and Clotworthy shared the Donnellys' board.
A few hours after Black Feather's rescue, Kingswell and D'Antons sat opposite one another at a small table near the hearth of the Triggets' living-room. A stew of venison and a bottle of French wine stood between them. D'Antons took up the bottle, and made as if to fill the other's glass.
"One moment," said Kingswell, raising his hand.
The Frenchman looked at him keenly and set down the vintage. The Englishman leaned forward.
"Captain d'Antons," he said, scarce above a whisper, "a remark that you made to-day seemed to imply that you considered me a braggart. Your remark was in reference to the brushes between the Pelican and a party of natives during our cruise from the North. Before I take wine with you to-night, I want you to either withdraw or explain your implication."
While Kingswell spoke, the other's eyes flashed and calmed again. Now his dark face wore an even look of puzzled inquiry. His fine eyes, clear now of the expression of cynicism which so often marred them, held the Englishman's without any sign of either embarrassment or anger. His hand returned to the neck of the bottle and lingered there. Lord, but the drama lost an exceptionally fine interpreter when the high seas claimed Pierre d'Antons! The thin, clean-shaven lips trembled—or was it the wavering of the candle-light?
"My friend," he said, softly, "how unfortunate am I in my stupidity—in my blundering use of the English language. Whatever my words were, when I spoke of having already heard of your fights with the savages, my meaning was such that no one would take exception to. Did I use the word heroic, monsieur? Then heroic, noble, was what I meant. An Englishman would have made use of a smaller, a simpler word, perhaps; or would have refrained from any display of admiration. Ah, I am unfortunate in my heritage of French and Spanish blood—the blood that is outspoken both for praise and blame."
Poor, honest Kingswell was shaken with conflicting emotions. His heart told him the man was lying. His eyes assured him that he had been grievously mistaken, not only in the matter of the remark concerning the skirmishes with the Beothics, but in his whole opinion of the Frenchman. His blood surged to his head, and whispered that he was a young fool to be hoodwinked so easily. His brain was sadly uncertain. A twinge of pity for the handsome adventurer—for the love-struck buccaneer—went through him. But it faded at remembrance of Sir Ralph's story. He knew the fellow was playing with him.
"Wine, monsieur?" inquired D'Antons, softly, with a smile of infinite sweetness and shy persuasion.
With a mumbled apology, the young Englishman pushed forward his glass, and the red wine swam to the brim. And all the while he was inwardly cursing his own weakness and the other's strength. He had not the courage to meet the Frenchman's look when they raised their glasses and clinked them across the table. Lord, what a calf he was!
Had he no will of his own? Did he possess neither knowledge of men nor mother wit? Ah, but he rated himself pitilessly as he bent his flushed face over his plate of stew.
When the meal was finished, Kingswell returned to Black Feather's couch, and D'Antons went over to his own cabin. By this time Black Feather had recovered consciousness and swallowed some of Dame Trigget's broth; also, he had recognized Ouenwa and murmured a few words to the lad in his own tongue. But, beyond that, he was too weak to disclose anything of what had happened in Wigwam Harbour after the slaying of Soft Hand. He lay very still, apparently lifeless, except for his quick, bright eyes, which moved restlessly in questioning scrutiny of the strange women and bearded men who sat about the room. Ouenwa held one of the transparent hands and smiled assuringly.
For half an hour Kingswell sat beside the man he had rescued so courageously from death by starvation. Then, feeling the heat of the room and the confusion of his thoughts too much to entertain calmly, he went out into the cold and darkness and paced up and down. All unknowing, he kicked the snow viciously every step. He was still in a perturbed state of mind and temper when William Trigget approached him through the gloom and touched his elbow.
"Askin' your pardon, master," he said, standing close, "but what of that Injun in there? Be he really sick, or be he playing a game?"
"He is surely sick, and he is just as surely not playing a game," replied Kingswell. "But why do you ask? The fellow is a friend of Ouenwa's, and was one of old Soft Hand's warriors."
"Ay, sir, but maybe mun has changed his coat," said Trigget, "an' has shammed sick just to get carried inside the fort. There be something goin' on outside, for certain."
"What?" asked the other.
Then Trigget told how he had been startled, while standing under the gun-platform, by a sound of scrambling outside the stockade. He had crawled noiselessly up the ladder and looked over the breastworks about the guns. He had been able to distinguish something darker than the surrounding darkness crouched against the palisade under him. The thing had moved cautiously. He had detached a faggot from one of the bundles beside him, for lack of a better weapon, and had hurled it down at the black form. There had sounded a stifled cry, and the thing had vanished in the night.
"It were one o' they savages, I know," concluded Trigget.
Kingswell forgot his personal grievance in the face of this menace from the hidden enemy.
"The guards should be doubled," he said. "But come, we must let Sir Ralph know of it."
They crossed the yard to the baronet's cabin and knocked on the door. Maggie Stone admitted them to the outer room, where Sir Ralph and Mistress Beatrix were seated, the girl reading aloud to her father by the light of one poor candle. But the great fire on the hearth had the place fairly illuminated.
William Trigget, undismayed by fog and bad weather, cool in any risk of land or sea, was too abashed at the presence of the lady to tell his story. So Master Kingswell told it for him.
"The guards must be doubled," said Sir Ralph.
"They be that already, sir," replied Trigget, breaking the spell of the bright eyes that surveyed him.
"That is well," answered the baronet. "There is nothing else to be done, at least until morning, but sleep light and keep your muskets handy."
Kingswell and the master mariner returned to the darkness without.
"I will stake my word," said Kingswell, "that the place is surrounded by the devils even now, and that they will try again to get a man over the wall to unbar the gates."
Neither Kingswell nor Trigget found time for sleep that night. D'Antons also kept awake, though he spent only a few hours out-of-doors. His candle burned until daylight. Ouenwa experienced a restless night beside Black Feather's couch. From ten o'clock until two Tom Bent, John Trigget, and the younger Donnelly were on guard, with cutlasses on their hips and half-pikes in their hands—for a musket would have proved but an unsatisfactory weapon to a man engaged in a sudden scuffle in the dark. One man was placed on the gun-platform, another at the gate, and a third on the roof of the storehouse. Kingswell and William Trigget moved continually from one point to another. At two o'clock the elder Donnelly, Clotworthy, and Harding relieved their companions. But the two officers remained at their self-imposed duty.
At last dawn outlined the eastern horizon. Kingswell, who had been pacing the length of the riverward stockade for the past hour, sighed with relief, yawned, and was about to retire to D'Antons' cabin, when William Trigget approached him at a run. The master mariner's face was ghastly above his bushy whiskers.
"Come this way, sir," he murmured, huskily.
Kingswell followed him to the storehouse and up to the roof, by way of a rough ladder that leaned against the wall. There, on the outward slope of the roof, where the snow was trampled and broken, sprawled the body of Peter Clotworthy.
"What! Asleep!" exclaimed Kingswell, peering close. The light was not strong enough to disclose the features of the recumbent sentinel.
"Ay, an' sound enough, God knows," replied Trigget, "with no chance o' wakin' this side o' the Judgment-Seat."
"Dead?" cried the other, sinking to his knees beside the body. He pressed his hand against the mariner's side, held it there for a moment, and withdrew it, wet with blood. He raised it toward the growing illumination of the east, staring at it with wide eyes. "Blood," he murmured. "Stabbed without a squeal—without a whimper, by Heaven!" Then he ripped out an oath, and followed it close with a prayer for his dead comrade's soul. For all his golden curls, this Bernard Kingswell had a hot and ready tongue—and a temper to suit, when occasion offered.
The two discoverers of the tragedy remained on the roof of the storehouse for some time. The light strengthened and spread on their right, and, at last, gave them a clear, gray view of the narrow clearing and wooded hummocks to the north. On the snow below them, which was otherwise unmarked, they saw the imprints of one pair of moccasined feet. The marks did not lead to or from the near cover of the woods, but to the south, around the fort. The telltale snow showed how Clotworthy's murderer had approached close under the stockade, and, after his silent deed of violence, had jumped a distance of about twenty feet, from the roof of the store, and landed on all fours. A stain of blood, evidently from the reeking knife in the slayer's hand, smirched the snow where it was broken by his fall. From there the steps returned by the same course, but at a distance of about ten paces from the stockade.
Kingswell looked from the tracks in the snow to the colourless, distorted features of the dead seaman. Then his gaze met Trigget's deep-set eyes. He was pale, and his lips were drawn in a hard line, as if the frost had stiffened them.
"Poor Clotworthy," he murmured, and swallowed as if his throat were dry. "Poor devil, knifed into eternity without a fighting chance. See, he was clubbed first and then knifed—felled and bled like an ox in a shambles! Ten nights of this hellishness will account for the whole garrison."
With a broad, deep-sea oath, Trigget replied that there'd be no ten nights of it.
They lifted the stiff body that had, so lately, been animated by the fearless spirit of Richard Clotworthy, able seaman, to the ground and carried it reverently to the Donnelly cabin. The other inmates of the little settlement were deeply affected by the sight, and by Kingswell's story. The younger men were for setting out immediately and driving the Beothics from the woods on the far side of the river. But the wiser heads prevailed against such recklessness, arguing that the only thing to be done was to remain constantly on guard. The women wept. Ouenwa, trembling with sorrow and rage, placed his fine belt and beaded quiver beside the body of his dead comrade, and vowed, in English and Beothic, that he would avenge this murder as he intended to avenge the murders of his father and his grandfather.
The day passed without any sign of the hidden enemy. Kingswell slept until noon. By evening Black Feather had recovered enough strength to enable him to tell his pitiful story to Ouenwa. His lodge, and that of Montaw, the arrow-maker, had been torn down by the followers of Panounia shortly after the departure of the Pelican from Wigwam Harbour. Montaw had died fighting. Black Feather, grievously wounded, had been bound and carried far up the River of Three Fires. His wife and children also had been captured and maltreated. The ships in the bay had looked on at the unequal struggle ashore without demonstrations of any kind. Upon reaching the village on the river, Black Feather had been driven to the meanest work—work unbecoming a warrior of his standing—and his wife and children had been led farther up-stream, very likely to Wind Lake. Black Feather had seen the body of Soft Hand lying exposed on the top of a knoll, at the mercy of birds and beasts. He had bided his time. At last he had gnawed the thongs with which his tormentors bound him at night, and had safely made his escape. He could not say how long ago that was. Days and nights had become strangely mixed in his desperate mind. He had lived on such birds and hares as he had been able to kill with sticks. Always he had kept up his journey, shaping his course toward the salt water, in the hope of meeting some tribesmen who might have remained loyal to the murdered chief. But he had met with nobody in all that desolate journey, until, only the day before, he had recovered consciousness in Fort Beatrix.
That night, John Trigget was attacked at his post on the gun-platform, and in the struggle that ensued was cut shrewdly about the arm. So sudden and noiseless was the onslaught out of the dark that he fought in silence, only remembering to shout for help after the savage had squirmed from his embrace and escaped. His arm was bandaged by Sir Ralph, and Tom Bent and Ouenwa took his place. But daylight arrived without any further demonstration on the part of the enemy.
By this time the little garrison was bitten by a restlessness that would not be denied. Even Kingswell and William Trigget were for making some sort of attack upon the hidden band beyond the river. D'Antons, contrary to his habit, had nothing to say either for or against an aggressive movement. Sir Ralph was for quietly and cautiously awaiting development; but, seeing the spirit of the men, he agreed that five of the garrison should sally forth in search of the enemy.
"Whom I have not a doubt you'll find," concluded the baronet, wearily, "though what the devil you'll do with them then is more than I can venture to predict."
Under William Trigget's supervision, one of the cannon was taken from the platform and mounted on a heavy and solid flat of logs, and that, in turn, was placed on a sled. On the same sled were fastened rammers and mops and bags of powder and shot. The daring party was made up of Master Kingswell, William Trigget, Ouenwa, Tom Bent, and the younger Donnelly. D'Antons did not volunteer his services on the expedition. The men were all well armed with muskets and cutlasses, and all save Ouenwa had fastened steel breastplates under their coats. As they marched away, Mistress Westleigh waved them "Godspeed" with a scarf of Spanish lace, from where she stood in the open gate between her father and Captain d'Antons.
The little party moved down the bank and across the river slowly and with commendable caution. Trigget and Kingswell walked ahead, and kept a sharp lookout on the dark edges of the forest. Donnelly and Tom Bent followed about ten paces behind, dragging the gun. Ouenwa scouted along on the left, with a musket and a lighted match, which he feared far worse than he did any number of Beothic warriors. The river was crossed without accident on the wide trail left by the enemy's retreat.
Sir Ralph Westleigh was in the storehouse, Maggie Stone was gossiping with Dame Trigget, and Beatrix was alone by the fire when Captain d'Antons rapped on the cabin door, and entered without waiting for a summons. He was dressed in his bravest suit and finest boots. After closing the door behind him, he bowed low to the girl at the farther end of the room. She instantly stood up and curtseyed with a deal of grace, but no warmth whatever.
"My father is not in, Captain d'Antons," she said.
He smiled and approached her with every show of deference.
"Ah, mademoiselle," he murmured, "I have not come to see the good baronet. I have come to learn my fate from the dearest lips in the world."
The girl blushed crimson, with a tumult of emotions that almost forced the tears past her lids. Fear, hate, and a reckless joy at the thought that she was done with pretence struggled in her heart. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, and accomplished nothing but a dry sob.
D'Antons' eyes shone with ardour. The hope which had been somewhat clouded of late flashed clear again. "Beatrix," he cried, softly, "I have wooed you long. Is it not that I have won at last beyond peradventure? Do not deny it, my sweet." He caught her to him, and attempted to kiss her bright lips; but, with a low cry and a quite unexpected display of strength, she wrenched herself from his embrace. She did not try to leave the room. She did not call for help. She faced him, with flashing eyes and angry cheeks and clinched hands.
The fellow stood uncertain for a moment, showing his chagrin and amazement like any country clown. But his recovery was quick. His mouth took on a thin smile; his eyes darkened with sinister shadows. He looked the girl coolly up and down. He laughed softly.
"This feigned anger adds to your beauty, Beatrix," he said.
"I beg you to leave me, sir," she replied, trembling. "Your presence is distasteful to me."
"A sudden turn," said he. "Now a month ago, or even a week ago, you seemed of a different mind. As for the days of our first meeting in merry London—ah, then your lips were not so unattainable."
"I hate you," she murmured. "I despise you. I loath you. You taint the air for me. Dog, to make a boast of having filched a kiss from a light-hearted girl—who did not know you for the common fellow that you are."
"Beatrix," cried the man, "this is no stage comedy. We are not players. I have asked you, too many times, to be my wife. I ask you once more. You know that your father's life is in my hands. Tell me now, will you promise to marry me, or will you let your father go to the gallows in the spring, and this plantation be put to the torch? Whatever your choice, my beauty, you will accompany me to New Spain next summer. It is for you to say whether you go as my wife or my mistress."
At that the girl's face went white as paper. But her eyes were steady.
D'Antons lowered his gaze. He was half-ashamed, nay, more than that, of his words.
"It would be hard to say," she replied, very softly, "which would be the most dishonourable position for an English gentlewoman to occupy. That of your wife, I think, monsieur—for, as your wife, she would be known by your name."
His shame leaped to anger at that soft-spoken insult. He caught her roughly by the wrists.
"Nay," she said, "you must be more gentle. You seem to forget that you are not sacking a defenceless town. Also, you forget that you have not a friend or a follower in this wilderness, and that any man or woman in the fort would shoot you down like a dog at a word from me."
For a little while they eyed each other steadily enough—her face still beautiful despite the bantering cruelty of lips and eyes, and the loathing in every line of it; his the face of a devil. Then, with a muttered oath, he closed his fingers on her tender flesh, pressing with all his strength.
"Ah, my fine lady," he cried, harshly, "you think yourself strong enough to flout Pierre d'Antons, do you? Strong enough to spurn the protection of a soldier and a gentleman! Cry now for your girl-faced Kingswell—for your golden-haired fellow countryman."
By that even her lips were colourless, and her eyes were wet. "There is no need," she said, bravely, "for I hear my father at the door."
D'Antons dropped her wrists and took a backward step. In doing so, his heel struck the leg of a stool, and the scabbard of his sword rang discordantly. He reeled, recovering himself just as Sir Ralph crossed the threshold. Before either of the men had time to speak, Beatrix darted forward and struck the Frenchman savagely across the face with her open hand. Then, without a word of either explanation or greeting to her father, she passed D'Antons swiftly, sped down the length of the room, and entered her own chamber.
"What does this mean, captain?" inquired the baronet, coldly. D'Antons, scarcely recovered from the blow, strode toward him.
"What does it mean?" he cried. "It means, my fine old cock, that your neck will be pulled out of joint when we get away from this God-forgotten desolation. Ah, you liar, why did I not have you strung up to a yard-arm when you were safely in my power? Stab me, but I've been too soft—and my reward is insults from the wench of an exiled card-cheat and murderer."
His voice was raised almost to a scream. His face quivered with passion. He thrust it within a few inches of the baronet's.
"Liar and cheat," he cried, furiously.
"Softly, softly," replied Sir Ralph. "I cannot abide being bawled at in my own house, especially by such scum of a French muck heap as you. Keep your distance, fellow, or, by God, I'll do you a hurt. What's this! You'd presume?"
They withdrew on the instant. The two swords came clear in the same second of time.
"Gabier de potence," cried D'Antons.
"Canaille," replied the baronet, blandly. Evidently the rasp of the steel had mended his temper. He even smiled a little at his adoption of his adversary's mother-tongue.
The men were excellently matched as swordsmen. But not more than half a dozen passes had been made and parried before Beatrix ran into the room, crying to them to put up their swords.
"Go back," said the baronet, with his eyes on D'Antons, "go back to your room, my daughter, and make a prayer for this fellow's soul. It will soon stand in need of a petition for God's mercy."
The girl went softly back and closed the door, in an effort to shut out the rasping and metallic striking of the blades. She prayed, but for strength to her father's wrist and not for the Frenchman's soul. She was afraid—desperately afraid. The truth of her father's skill in French sword-play had been kept from her. To her he was but a courteous, middle-aged gentleman who needed her care, and who had been maligned and robbed by the world into which he had been born. He was a good father. He had been a loving and considerate husband. She knelt beside her bed and beseeched God to succour him in this desperate strait.
In the meantime the fight went on in the outer room with more the air of a harmless bout for practice than a duel to the death. It was altogether a question of point and point, in the Continental manner, perfectly free from the swinging attack and clanging defence of the English style. The combatants were cool, to judge by appearances. Neither seemed in any hurry. The thrusts and lunges, though in fact as quick as thought, were delivered with a manner suggestive of elegant leisure.
"I believe you have the advantage of me by about three inches of steel," remarked the baronet, diverting a lightning thrust from its intended course.
"A chance of the game," replied D'Antons, smiling grimly.
Just then the baronet's foot slipped on the edge of a book of verses which Mistress Beatrix had left on the floor. For a second he was swerved from his balance; and, when he recovered, it was to feel the warm blood running down his breast from a slight incision in his left shoulder. But his recovery was as masterly as it was swift, and the Frenchman found himself more severely pressed than before, despite the advantage he possessed in the superior length of his sword. The little wound counted for nothing.
Just what the outcome of the fight would have been, if an untimely interruption in the person of Maggie Stone had not intervened, it is hard to say. Perhaps D'Antons' youth would have claimed the victory in the long run, or perhaps the baronet's excellent composure. In skill they were nicely matched, though the Englishman displayed superiority enough to even the difference in the length of the blades. But why take time for idle surmises? Maggie Stone, looking in, all unheeded, at the open door, saw her beloved master engaged in a desperate combat with a person whom she despised as well as feared. She saw the sodden stain of blood on her master's doublet. In her hand she held a skillet which she had just borrowed from Dame Trigget. Without waiting to announce herself, she rushed into the room and dealt Captain d'Antons a resounding whack on the head with the iron bowl of the utensil. The long sword fell from the benumbed fingers and clanged on the floor. With a low, guttural cry, the Frenchman followed it, and sprawled, unconscious, at the feet of the surprised and indignant baronet.