Master Kingswell and his party returned from their daring reconnoitre early in the afternoon. They had not met with the enemy, though they had found the camp and torn down the temporary lodges. After that they had followed the broad trail of the retreat for several miles, and had discharged the cannon twice into the inscrutable woods. Their daring had been rewarded by the capture of about two hundred pounds of smoked salmon and dried venison.
Both Kingswell and William Trigget were unable to account for the fact that the savages had not attacked them in the cover of the woods. In reality they owed their bloodless victory to the presence of the little cannon. That third and last discharge of slugs, on the day of the big fight, had killed three of the braves, wounded five more, and inspired an hysterical terror in the hearts of the rest. But for that, the hidden enemy would not have been content with playing a waiting game and with the attempted killing of one man each night; and neither would they have retired, so undemonstratively, before the advance of the five. But, despite their fear of the cannon, they had no intention of giving up the siege of the fort. They placed trust in the darkness of night and their own cunning.
Kingswell and the elder Trigget were drawn aside by Sir Ralph. The baronet looked less care-haunted than he had for years.
"D'Antons and I have broken our truce," he whispered, "and behold, the heavens have not fallen,—nor even the poor defences of this plantation." He smiled cheerfully. "The great captain alone has come to grief," he added. "Maggie Stone saved him from my hand by felling him herself with some sort of stew-pan. I was frantically angry at the time, but am glad now that I did not have to kill the rogue."
"Such cattle are better dead, sir," remarked Trigget, coolly.
"I grant you that, my good William," replied Sir Ralph, "but he is harmless as a new-born babe, after all—and we'll see that he remains so."
Then he told them the story of the duel, and of what had led to it. Kingswell flushed and paled.
"God's mercy!" he cried, "but I would I had been in your boots, sir."
"You'd have died in them, more than likely," replied the baronet, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. "D'Antons has a rare knowledge of swordsmanship, and eye and wrist to back it with."
"Even so," replied Kingswell, "it would have been—it would have been a pleasure to die in such a cause." He blushed, and hurriedly added, "But I doubt if he'd have killed me, for all his gimcrackery and side-stepping. I've seen such gentry hopping and poking for hours, when one good cut from the shoulder would have ended their tricks."
The baronet smiled kindly, though with a tinge of sadness. "Ah, what a fine thing is the heart of youth," he said, "and the confidence of youth. I even bow to the ignorance of youth. But, my dear boy, valour and confidence are not more than half the battle, after all. The edge is a fine thing, and has spilled a deal of blood since the hammering of the first sword; but the point becomes no less deadly simply because one stout young Englishman is ignorant of its potency. Lad, if it were not that I have won the distinction—beside many a less enviable one—of being the best swordsman in England, I could not have withstood D'Antons' play for long enough to make sure of the colour of his eyes."
Kingswell felt like a fool, and did not know which way to turn his abashed countenance. Both Sir Ralph and Trigget felt sorry for him.
"But I can assure you, Bernard," said the former, "that, if it came to a matter of cutlasses, neither the Frenchman nor I would stand up for long against either you or Trigget."
"It is kind of you to say so," replied Kingswell, staring over the baronet's shoulder at nothing in particular, "but I haven't a doubt that even Maggie Stone, with her stew-pan, would be more than a match for me."
William Trigget laughed boisterously at that. "We must ease the young gentleman's temper, sir," he said to the baronet. "I have a pair of singlesticks."
"Get them," said the baronet. He slipped his hand under Kingswell's arm and led him into the cabin. Beatrix welcomed him cordially, with a shy compliment to his bravery thrown in. The youth immediately felt better in his pride.
"Say nothing of D'Antons, or the duel," Sir Ralph whispered in his ear. "He is safe in his own bed, being nursed conscientiously, if not over-tenderly, by Maggie Stone."
Kingswell seated himself beside Mistress Beatrix on the bench by the fire. He noticed that she had been weeping. Her eyes seemed all the brighter for it. He gave her a detailed account of the brief expedition from which he had just returned. He told of the cluster of lodges, the cooking-fires still burning, the utensils and food scattered about, and not a human being in sight.
"And what if you had seen the savages?" she asked. "Surely, four Englishmen and a lad could do nothing against such a host?"
"We would have fallen in the first flight of arrows," replied Kingswell.
"Then why did you risk it?"
The young man shook his head and laughed. "Some one must take risks," he said, "else all warfare would come to a standstill."
The girl was looking down at her hands, and reflectively twisting a jewelled ring around and around on one slim finger. "And I wish it would with all my heart," she sighed. "Warfare and bloodshed—they are the devil's inventions, and strike innocent and guilty alike."
"Nay," replied Kingswell, "there is more harm done to the innocent in courts and fine assemblies, and at the sheltered card-tables, than on all the battle-fields of the world. War is a good surgeon, and, if he sometimes lets the good blood with the bad, why, that's just a risk we must accept."
Beatrix raised a flushed face, and eyed him squarely. "You preach like a Puritan," she said, "with your condemnation of courts and play. You should give my father the benefit of some of your wisdom. His friends have all been generous with such help."
Kingswell bit his lip, and for an awkward minute studied the toes of his moccasins. Presently he looked up.
"I am sorry," he said.
Her glance softened.
"I am as ignorant of battle-fields as I am of courts," he added. "I am ignorant of everything."
His voice was low and bitter. Beatrix laughed softly.
"Pray do not take it so much to heart," she said. "Nothing is so easily mended as ignorance."
He looked at her gravely.
"I am going to ask Sir Ralph to give me lessons in French sword-play," he said. "Is there nothing that you would teach me?"
"Embroidery," she replied, "and how to brew a Madeira punch."
At that moment the baronet opened the door and admitted William Trigget. The master mariner carried a pair of stout oak sticks with basket-work guards under his arm.
"Does your education commence so soon?" inquired Beatrix of Kingswell.
"Somebody's does," he replied, with a return of his old confidence. With the lady's permission and Sir Ralph's assistance, Trigget and Kingswell cleared the middle of the floor of rugs and the table. They removed their outer coats. Trigget was the taller, as well as the heavier, of the two. Without further preliminaries, they fell on, and the dry whacking of the sticks against one another, varied occasionally by the muffled thud of wood against cloth, filled the cabin. It was a fine display of the English style—slash, cut, and guard, with never a side-step nor retreat. After ten minutes of it, Trigget cried "enough," and stumbled out of the danger zone. His right arm was numb. His shoulders and sides ached, and his head swam; Kingswell was without a touch.
Neither Beatrix nor Sir Ralph, nor yet Trigget, for that matter, concealed their astonishment at the result of the bout. "And now, sir," said Kingswell, "I should like a lesson in the other style."
The baronet took down a pair of light, edgeless blades with blunted points. After a few words as to the manner of standing, they crossed the lithe weapons. In a second Kingswell's was jerked from his hand and sent bounding across the room. He recovered it without a word and returned to the combat. By this time the light was failing. After about a dozen passes, he was again disarmed. His gray eyes danced, and he laughed gaily as he picked up his weapon.
"I see the way of that trick," he said.
He returned to the one-sided engagement with, if possible, more energy and eagerness than before. Already he had the attitude and stamping manner of attack to perfection. Sir Ralph tested his defence again and again without slipping through. Three times he tried the circular, twisting stroke with which he had disarmed the novice before without success. Wondering, and slightly irritated, he put out fresh efforts, and forgot all about his defence. The blades rasped, and rang, and whispered. The blunted point was at Kingswell's breast, at his throat, at his eyes; but it never touched. And, just as Mistress Beatrix was about to bid the combatants cease their exertions, because of the gathering dusk, Kingswell's point touched the insignificant but painful wound on the baronet's shoulder. With an exclamation, in which disgust, pain, and amusement were queerly blended, Sir Ralph dropped his foil to the floor.
Captain Pierre d'Antons' injury kept him indoors for ten days. During that time he saw nobody but Maggie Stone, Bernard Kingswell, and Ouenwa. Kingswell could not help feeling sorry for him, in spite of the enmity and distrust in his heart. D'Antons made no mention of how he came by his cut head to the young Englishman. He knew that the other knew—and sometimes he wondered how much. He accepted such attentions at Kingswell's hand as any fair-hearted man will make to any invalid, with what seemed gratitude and humility. But under the mask his blood was raging. If his hand trembled while receiving a glass of water from the Englishman, it was as much from the effort of restraining an outburst of hate as from weakness. Kingswell, clear-sighted by now, suspected the real state of the other's feelings.
During the days of D'Antons' inactivity, the Beothics made three night attacks on the fort. Two were repetitions of the one-man demonstrations of cunning, in which Clotworthy had met his death and young Trigget had received the cut on his arm. Happily both had failed. The third was an attack in force, made in that darkest hour just before the first stirrings of dawn. By good fortune, both William Trigget and Kingswell were dressed and about at the time of the first alarm. They both ran to the gun-platform, and there found Tom Bent desperately engaged with two savages, who had scaled the stockade over the massed shoulders of their fellows. The intruders were speedily hurled backward, they and a portion of the breastworks falling on the devoted heads below. At the moment, Dame Trigget puffed valiantly up the ladder and handed a torch to her husband. In a second the coverings were pulled from the guns. The muzzles of the little weapons were declined as far as they would go, and the fuses were ignited. Comprehending the trend of affairs, some of the enemy let fly their arrows at the little group in the torch's illumination. Both William Trigget and Tom Bent were hit, and fell to their knees. In the same instant of time the guns belched their flame and screaming missiles into the wavering mass of savages. A yell of terror and pain, made up of many individual cries, followed the reports of the guns like an echo.
But along the opposite stockade, things were not going so well for the settlers. About a dozen of the enemy had gained foothold on the roof of the storehouse, and from there had jumped into the yard, driving Peter Harding before them. They were immediately engaged by the Donnellys. Torches and lanterns glowed and swung about the edges of the conflict. Matters were looking serious for the defenders (who by that time were joined by Sir Ralph, Ouenwa, and the redoubtable Maggie Stone) when the discharge of artillery across the square turned the courage of the attackers to water, and their victory to defeat. Six of them were cut down while endeavouring to escape by way of the ladder against the wall of the storehouse. The rest got away, but none of them unscathed. With that the fight ended, though the defenders kept to their posts until broad daylight.
In the morning it was discovered that one of the six warriors who remained within the fort was still alive. Sir Ralph had him carried to D'Antons' cabin, and his wounds attended to. They were not of a serious nature. Black Feather, who was a convalescent by now, recognized a bitter enemy in the disabled captive. He was for despatching him straightway, recalling the bitter days of his slavery and the loss of wife and children. He was dragged away by Kingswell, and Ouenwa remonstrated with him at some length.
The little garrison had suffered in the brief engagement. William Trigget had halted three arrows with his big body. Only one had reached the flesh, thanks to his thick garments of wool and hide; but that one had cut deep into the muscles of his chest, and the others had bruised his ribs. Tom Bent was more seriously injured, with a gaping slash in the side of his neck. Young Peter Harding was laid on his back with a cracked rib, dealt him by a stone-headed axe, and seemed in a fair way to remain on the sick-list for some time to come.
The dead Beothics were carried out and buried in a shallow grave near the honest Clotworthy's desolate resting-place.
It was evident, from the smoke above the woods, that the enemy were still maintaining the siege, and at even closer range than before. The continual sight of that evidence of their presence, and the idleness due to confinement within a few hundred yards of the stockade, began to tell on the spirits of the settlers. It became a matter of difficulty to forget the wounded men in such restricted quarters. Bandages and salves, gruels and plasters, seemed to pervade every corner. Every one who was not an invalid was a nurse. In addition, the lack of fresh meat was beginning to be felt. Sir Ralph, who had seemed more cheerful just after his affair with D'Antons, was fallen back on his black moods. Mistress Beatrix's cheeks and eyes were losing something of their radiance, though she carried herself bravely and cheerfully.
Master Kingswell, who had a knack with bandages and such, found his time fully occupied. He inspected all the wounded twice a day, and he and Ouenwa took entire charge of D'Antons and the captured Beothic. His only recreation was a few hours of each afternoon or evening spent with the Westleighs. He and the baronet fenced, if the visit happened to be paid during the day; if in the evening, they sometimes played chess, or, better still, the baronet paced the room in uneasy meditation, and the youth and the maiden bent their young heads above the pieces of carved ivory.
Behind the girl's laughter and hospitality, Kingswell detected an aloofness toward him that had not been noticeable during the first days of their acquaintance. The thing was very fine—so fine that it was scarcely a matter of attitude or manner. One of duller perception would have missed it altogether. It was in no wise a physical aloofness, save in a certain reservation in the glance of the eye and the softer notes of the voice. But it worried the young man. He felt that he had failed in something—that she had set a standard for him, and that he had not risen to it. With native shrewdness, he suspected that she considered him crude and conceited. He knew that she considered him brave, and that she admired his courage; but he was equally sure that his prowess with the singlesticks against Trigget, and his increasing dexterity with the rapier, did not tell in his favour in her eyes. "Women are evidently as unreasonable as the poets depict them," he decided, and tried to acquire a modest demeanour. But the ability to do so had not been born in him, and no matter how low and self-abasing his speech, pride shone in his clear eyes and self-confidence was in the carriage of head and shoulders.
The baronet's attitude toward Master Kingswell became more affectionate every day. He recognized the sterling qualities in the youth,—the honesty, courage, and loyalty, as well as the physical and mental gifts of quick eye and wrist and clear brain. He derived no little comfort from his presence in the fort. He felt that in this golden-haired son of the Bristol merchant-knight his daughter had a second guardian. He knew that the Kingswell blood, though not noble by the rating of the College of Heralds, was to be depended on as surely as any in England. In happier times he had known and enjoyed a certain amount of familiarity with the elder Kingswell, and had found the broad-minded merchant's heart as sound as his self-imported wines. He remembered the wife, too, as a person of distinction and kindliness.
For his own part, the baronet realized more surely, with the passing of each narrow day, that life offered no further allurement to him. The slight exhilaration that had followed the defiance and defeat of D'Antons was of no more lasting a quality than the flavour of a vintage. The Frenchman was harmless, poor devil, like the rest of them; and in as fair a way as himself to leave his bones in the wilderness. Yes, he felt a twinge of pity for him! He could understand that, to an adventurer like D'Antons, unrequited love was the very devil,—worse, perhaps, than the fever of the gaming-table. But of course he felt no regret for having put an end (as he believed) to the fellow's audacious suit. His regret—if, indeed, he entertained any concerning so recent an event in his career—was that he had not pricked the buccaneer's bubble of false power months before—despite the promise he had made him. But as things had turned out,—as Time had dealt the cards, to use his own words,—the other's behaviour had allowed him to strike without too flagrant a breach of his word of honour. He was thankful for that.
When Pierre d'Antons was able to move about again, he found himself shunned, without disguise, by every one of the inmates of the fort save Bernard Kingswell. The West Country sailors, no longer under orders to treat him with respect and obedience, simply grunted inaudibly and turned their backs when he addressed them. Of course, the door of Sir Ralph's habitation was closed against him. He spent almost all his time in his own cabin, with the captured and slowly convalescing Beothic for companion. He read a great deal, and thought more. Now and again, in a fit of chagrin, he would stamp about the room, cursing, crying out for a chance of revenge, with clinched hands uplifted. During such paroxysms, the Beothic would watch him closely, with understanding in his gaze. The savage was no linguist; but hate burns the same signals in eyes of every nationality.
D'Antons continued to suffer from his infatuation for Mistress Westleigh. The blow of the skillet had changed nothing of that. Whatever his passion lacked in the higher attributes of love, it lacked nothing in vitality. It was a madness. It was a bitter desire. How gladly he would risk death, fighting for her—and yet he would not have hesitated a moment about killing her happiness, to win his own, had an opportunity offered. Self-sacrifice, worshipful devotion, and tenderness were things apart from what he considered his love for the beautiful English girl.
In this state of mind he built a hundred wild dreams of carrying her away, and of ultimately imprisoning her, should she still be averse to his love, in a Southern stronghold. Then a realization of his position would come over him and set him stamping and raving. To Kingswell, despite the fire in his heart, he showed a contrite and friendly exterior. He wondered if he could not turn the young man to some use. He gave the matter his attention.
One evening D'Antons told a plaintive story to Kingswell. All through it the Englishman was itching to be gone; for he spent no more of his time than was absolutely necessary under the Frenchman's roof. But the narrator held him with a mournful eye. The tale was an alleged history of Pierre d'Antons' youth. It dealt with a great family that had fallen upon lean years; with a ruinous château, a proud and studious father, and a saintly mother; with a boyhood of noble dreams and few pleasures; with a youth of hard and honourable soldiering wherever the banners of France led the way; and with an early manhood of high adventure and achievement in the Western colonies.
Kingswell listened coldly, though the other's voice fairly trembled with emotion. He believed no more of the tale than if he had already heard the truth of the matter—which was, in plain English, that D'Antons was the bastard of a blackleg nobleman by a Spanish dancer; that he had spent his youth as a pot-boy on French ships, and had won, by courage and cunning, to the position of a captain of buccaneers in early manhood. The achievements in the Western colonies had been matters of the wrecking and plundering of what others had built; the high adventures—God spare me the telling of them!
After Kingswell left him, the pirate fell into one of his reddest moods. He was sure that the pink-cheeked youth had not believed a word of his story—had been laughing up his sleeve at the most touching passages. He was sorry that he had not twisted the lad's neck instead of concluding the narrative. It was a sheer waste of breath, this artistic lying to such a pig's head! He jumped to his feet, with a violence that almost startled the Beothic to outcry, and flung himself about the room like a madman. He kicked the stolid logs of the walls. He knocked the few pieces of furniture out of his erratic course, and spilled his books and papers, quills and ink, to the floor: all this without any ringing oaths or blistering curses. His rage worked inward, as bodily wounds sometimes bleed. It played the devil with his limbs, his features, and his hands, but found no ease in articulation. A trickle of blood ran down his chin, from where he had set a tooth into his lower lip. Withal, he was such a daunting spectacle that Red Cloud, the Beothic, crouched fearfully against the wall, and followed his movements with wide eyes; for, though a mighty warrior in his own estimation, Red Cloud was a craven at heart.
Presently the tumult of the madness ceased, and the victim of it sank languidly into a chair beside the Beothic's couch. He groaned and shivered. For awhile he sat limp, with his thin face hidden between his hands. Looking up, his eyes met the eyes of the native. In their furtive regard, he read that which suggested a new move. Though, owing to an inborn caution, he had never displayed a knowledge of the Beothic language to his fellow settlers, and had refrained from using any words of it before Ouenwa, he had picked up a fair idea of it during his sojourn at Fort Beatrix. Hitherto he had paid but scant attention to Red Cloud, for he entertained the Spanish attitude of intolerance toward uncivilized peoples; but now he leaned forward and spoke kindly to his companion.
It was late when Kingswell and Ouenwa returned to D'Antons' cabin. Under the new order of things, Ouenwa had volunteered his services as assistant night-guard of the two prisoners—for the Frenchman was virtually a prisoner. It was their custom to keep watch turn and turn about, in two hours' vigils, one sleeping while the other sat in a comfortable chair by the hearth. Their couch was also by the hearth. This precaution was taken for fear of some treachery on the part of Red Cloud.
When the two entered the outer room, the fire was burning brightly, and by its ruddy light they saw the muffled figure of the Beothic, face to the wall, in the far corner. They shot the bar of the door. When the morning was well advanced, they opened windows and door, and replenished the fire. Kingswell drew aside the curtain between the rooms, and looked in to see how D'Antons was faring. His fire was out and he was still abed. Kingswell moved noiselessly across the floor and peered close. What an awkward figure the graceful buccaneer cut in his sleep! He laid his hand on the shapeless shoulder. It encountered nothing but yielding pelts and blankets. He dragged the things to the floor frantically. His exclamation brought Ouenwa to his side. The Englishman pointed a finger of dismay at the demolished dummy.
"Tricked!" he cried. "Rip me, but what a fine jailer I am!" They rushed back to the other room and investigated the figure on the Beothic's couch. That, too, proved to be a shape of rolled furs and bedding. Red Cloud also had faded away.
News of the disappearance of D'Antons and the savage went through the fort like an electric current. The settlers were more interested and surprised over it than concerned. Even the invalids sat up and conjectured on the captain's object in fleeing to the outer wilderness, and the doubtful but inevitable reception by the natives. They could hardly bring themselves to the belief that he and Red Cloud had gone as fellow conspirators, remembering the haughty Frenchman's bearing toward the aborigines with whom he had traded on occasions.
William Trigget shook his head when he heard the story, and rated the men who had been on duty along the palisade with unsparing frankness. Sir Ralph looked worried, and Mistress Beatrix looked surprised.
"It seems a very simple trick," she murmured, "to bundle up a few blankets into lifelike effigies, and then to slip away while the jailer is elsewhere spending a social evening."
Kingswell flushed hotly, and looked at the girl steadily; but he failed to meet her eyes.
"Yes," he said, "they slipped away while two men were on guard along the walls, and while the self-appointed jailer, who has not had four hours' sleep in any night in the past three weeks, was playing chess with your ladyship."
"I am sure it is no loss to us," interposed the baronet quickly. "We have no use for the savage; and as to D'Antons—why, if the enemy kill him, it will save some one else the trouble. But I cannot help wondering at him taking so dangerous a risk. If he had been on friendly terms with the natives at any time, one would have a clue. But he always treated them like dogs."
Kingswell turned a casual shoulder toward the lady, and gave all his attention to the baronet and the affair of the Frenchman. The blush of shame had gone, leaving his face unusually pale. His eyes, also, showed a change—a chilling from blue to gray, with a surface glitter and a shadow behind.
"You may be sure," he replied to Sir Ralph, "that D'Antons has taken what he considers the lesser risk. I'll wager he has won the savage to him, hand and heart. I was a fool not to have removed Red Cloud to one of the other huts."
"He was kept to D'Antons' cabin by my orders," said the baronet.
"I had forgotten that," replied Kingswell. "Then I am not the only scapegrace of the community."
The baronet's face lighted whimsically, and he smiled at the young man. But the girl did not receive the implication in the same spirit. She stared at the speaker as if he were some surprising species of bird that had flown in at the window.
"Such a remark rings dangerously of insubordination," she exclaimed, "not to mention the impertinence of it."
Sir Ralph looked at her, completely puzzled, and murmured a remonstrance. It is a wise father that knows his own daughter. Kingswell turned an expressionless face toward the fire for a moment. Then he bowed to Sir Ralph. "If I am guilty of impertinence, sir, I humbly crave your pardon," he said. "As to insubordination—why, I believe there is nothing to say on that head, as I am a free agent; but I think you understand, sir, that I and my men are entirely at your service, as we have been ever since the day we first accepted the hospitality of Fort Beatrix. My men, at least, have not failed in any duty, whatever my delinquencies."
With an exclamation of sincere concern, the baronet stepped close to his friend and placed a hand on either of his shoulders.
"Bernard—my dear lad—why all this talk of pardon, and duty, and delinquencies, and God knows what else? If you believe that I consider you guilty of any carelessness, you must think me ungrateful indeed."
His voice, his look, his gesture, all convinced Kingswell that the words were sincere, and so did something toward the mending of his injured feelings. To the baronet, his eyes brightened and his manner unbent. He took his departure immediately after.
Sir Ralph turned to his daughter as the door closed behind Kingswell.
"I do not understand your treatment of him," he said. "Surely you realize that he is a friend—and friends are not so common that we can afford to flout them at every turn." He did not speak angrily, but the girl saw plainly enough that he was seriously displeased.
"The boy is so insufferably self-satisfied," she explained, weakly. "How indignation would have burned within him had some one else allowed the prisoners to escape."
The baronet gazed at her pensively for several seconds, and then took her hand tenderly between his own.
"You do the brave lad an injustice, my sweeting," he said. "What you take for conceit is just youth, and strength, and fearlessness, and a clean conscience. He has nothing of the braggart in him—not a hint of it. I am sorry you like him so little, my daughter, for he is a good lad and well-disposed toward us."
For a time after D'Antons' departure into the unknown, the little garrison of Fort Beatrix turned day into night. Not a man indulged in so much as a wink of sleep between the hours of dusk and dawn; but from sunrise until afternoon the place was as if it lay under an enchantment of slumber. On the sixth day after the flight of the Frenchman and Red Cloud, Ouenwa approached Kingswell with a request to be allowed to leave the fort, in company with Black Feather. He told how Black Feather was of the opinion that many of the tribesmen were against the leadership of Panounia, and that, if they could be found, it would be an easy matter for Ouenwa to win their support. He, Ouenwa, was of the blood of the greatest chief they had ever known. They would gather to the totem of the Bear. Assured of the friendship of the English people, they could be brought to the rescue of the settlement. So Black Feather had told the tale to Ouenwa, and so Ouenwa believed.
"And you would have to go with Black Feather?" inquired Kingswell, none too cheerfully; for he looked upon the lad as a very dear younger brother.
"Truly, my friend-chief, for I am the grandson of Soft Hand," replied the boy. "When they see me, their blood will rise at the memory of Soft Hand's murder. I will talk great words of my love for the English, and of my hatred for Panounia, and of the great trading that will be done at the fort when the night-howlers have been driven away. Thus we shall all be saved—thus Mistress Beatrix shall escape capture."
At that Kingswell started and eyed his companion keenly. "You think Panounia can break into the fort?" he inquired.
Ouenwa smiled. "Hunger can do it before the snow melts," he replied, "and hunger will fight for Panounia and the black captain."
"What do you know of the black captain?"
"He is with the night-howlers. He will keep their courage warm. He will struggle many times to bring us to our deaths and to capture the lady. That is all I know."
"But how do you know so much, lad?" asked Kingswell.
Ouenwa looked surprised. "How could I know less, who dwelt within eyeshot of the black captain for so many days, and who have learned the ways of such wolves?" he asked, in his turn. "You know it already without my telling, friend-chief," he added.
"Let us to Sir Ralph for his advice," said the other.
Master Kingswell had not crossed the threshold of the baronet's cabin since the time of his rebuff at the hands of Mistress Beatrix. Of course he had seen the baronet frequently, and they had smoked some pipes of tobacco together by the hearth of the departed Frenchman; but from the presence of the lady he had kept off as from a lazaretto. At the voice of duty, however, he sought the baronet in his own house with excellent composure. Anger at the knowledge that a girl could hurt him so nerved him to accept the risk of again seeing the displeasure in her dark eyes.
Mistress Beatrix was not in the living-room when they entered. Sir Ralph welcomed them cordially. Upon hearing Ouenwa's and Black Feather's plan for winning some of the tribesmen to the succour of the fort, he was deeply moved. He took a ring from his own hand and slipped it over one of Ouenwa's fingers. He gave the lad a fine hunting-knife for Black Feather, and a Spanish dagger for himself. He told Kingswell to supply them unstintingly from the store, with provisions and clothing for themselves and gifts for the natives whom they hoped to win.
"'Tis a chance," said he to Kingswell. "A chance of our salvation, and the only one, as far as I can see."
At that moment Mistress Beatrix entered the room. At sight of the visitors by the chimney, she swept a grand curtsey. The visitors bowed low in return. Her father advanced and led her, with the manner of those days, to his own chair beside the hearth. He told her, in a few words, of the venture upon which Ouenwa and Black Feather intended to set forth. The thought of it stirred the girl, and she looked on Ouenwa with shining eyes.
"'Tis a deed for the great knights of old," she said. "Lad, where have you learned your bravery?"
Unabashed, Ouenwa stood erect before her. "Half of it is the blood of my fathers," he replied, "and half is the teaching of Master Kingswell—and half I gather from your eyes."
The girl flushed with suppressed merriment. The baronet concealed his lips with his hand. Kingswell clutched his outspoken friend by the shoulder.
"Brother, you have named one-half too many," he said, laughing, "so your reason will carry more weight if you leave out that in which you mention my teaching. But come, we must find Black Feather, and make arrangements to leave as soon as dusk falls."
At that Beatrix tightened her hands on the arms of the chair and turned a startled face toward the speaker. "Surely, sir, you do not mean to leave us, too!" she exclaimed.
Neither the baronet nor Kingswell were looking at her; but Ouenwa saw the expression of eyes and lips. Kingswell, however, did not miss the note of anxiety in the clear young voice.
"I do not go with them, mistress," he said, "because my company would only delay their movements. And perhaps even spoil their plans. I am a poor woodsman—and already our garrison is none too heavily manned."
"I am glad you are not going," replied the girl, quietly. "I am sure that my father looks upon you as his right hand, and that the men need you."
Sir Ralph looked at his daughter with ill-concealed surprise. Kingswell, murmuring polite acknowledgment of her gracious words, strove to get a clearer view of her half-averted face. He failed. Ouenwa was the only one of the three who knew that the words were sincere; but he had the advantage of his superiors in having caught sight of the sudden fear in the lady's face.
Sir Ralph and Kingswell lowered the light packs over the stockade to Ouenwa and the big warrior. When the figures merged into the gloom, heading northward, the two commanders descended from the storehouse and entered the baronet's cabin. Beatrix was by the fire, radiant in fine apparel.
"I am in no mood for chess," said Sir Ralph. "The thought of those two brave fellows stealing through the dark and cold fidgets me beyond belief."
He began his quarter-deck pacing of the floor—up and down, up and down, with his head thrust forward and his hands gripped behind his back.
"The wind is rising," said the girl to Kingswell. "It will be bleak in the forest to-night—away from the fire."
She shivered, and held her jewelled hands to the blaze.
"It is blowing for a storm," replied the young man. "The sky was clouded over when they left. 'Tis safer for them so. The snow will cover their trail and, very likely, will keep the enemy from prowling abroad for a good many hours to come."
Mistress Beatrix crossed the room to a cupboard in the wall, and from it produced a violin. Kingswell stood by the chimney, watching her. The baronet continued his nervous pacing of the floor. The girl touched the strings here and there with skilful fingers, resined the bow, and then returned to the hearth and stood with her eyes on the fire. Suddenly she looked up at Kingswell. Her eyes were as he had never seen them before. They were full of firelight and dream. They were brighter than jewels, and yet dark as the heart of a deep water.
"Please do not stand," she said, and her voice, though free from any suggestion of indifference, sounded as if her whole being were far from that simple room. Her gaze returned to the fire. Kingswell quietly reseated himself; and at that she nestled her chin to the glowing instrument and drew the bow lightly, lovingly, almost inquiringly, across the strings. A whisper of melody followed the touch and sang clearer and more human than any human voice, and melted into the firelight.
At the first strain of the music, the baronet sat down and reclined comfortably with his head against the back of his chair. For awhile he watched his daughter intently; then he turned his eyes to the heart of the fire and journeyed far in a waking dream.
The girl played on and on, weaving enchantments of peace with the magic strings. Kingswell, leaning back with his face in the shadow, could not look away from her. The minutes drifted by unheeded behind the singing of the violin. The candles on the table flared at their sockets. The logs on the hearth broke, and the flames sprang to new life. Outside the wind raced and shouldered along the walls. And suddenly the player stilled her hand, and, without a word to either of the men, took up one of the guttering candles from the table and went quickly to her own chamber. She carried the fiddle with her against her young breast, and the bow like a wand in her hand.
Sir Ralph started and sat erect in his chair. Kingswell got to his feet with a sigh, and lifted his heavy cloak from the bench.
"I must go the rounds," he said. "Good night, sir."
With that he went out into the swirling eddies of the storm. The baronet sat still for another hour. The music had uncovered so many ghosts of joy and song, of love and hate and shame. It had rung upon past glories and called up more recent dishonours. And still another matter occupied his mind, and was finally dismissed with a smile and a yawn. It was that Beatrix had indulged in one of her deliriums of music in young Kingswell's presence, and that she had never before played in any mood but the lightest in the hearing of a stranger.
Kingswell paced beside the sentry at the drifted gate; but he kept his thoughts to the picture of the girl, the glowing fiddle, and the music and firelight that had seemed to pulse and spread together about the long room. Again he saw the candle flames leap high and waver, as if lured from their tethers by the crying of the instrument. But clearest of all was the player's face. His heart was filled to suffocation at the memory of it. Had other men seen her so beautiful? Had other men heard her soul and her dear heart singing and crying from the strings of the violin?
Ouenwa and Black Feather turned their faces from the little fort and the hostile camp beyond the white river, and set bravely forward into the darkness. Black Feather led the way, avoiding hummocks, bending and twisting through the coverts, crossing the open glades like a shadow—and all without any noise except the scarcely audible padding of his stringed shoes. Ouenwa trod close after. They had not gone far before the snow began to fall and puff around them in blinding clouds. The trees bent tensely under the lash of the wind. More than one frost-embrittled spire came crashing down. Still the warrior and the lad held on their journey, for they were both fresh and strong, and eager to widen the spaces of wilderness between themselves and the camp of Panounia.
Shortly before dawn they dug a trench in the snow on the leeward side of a thicket of low spruces, broke fir-branches for a bed, built a fire between the walls of white, and cooked and ate a frugal repast, and then rolled themselves in their rugs of skin and fell asleep. They had no fear that any of Panounia's people would disturb their slumbers. They lay as motionless and unknowing as logs for several hours. Then Ouenwa turned over and yawned, and Black Feather sat up, wide-awake in an instant. The morning was bright and unclouded. The white sun was half-way up the blue shell of the eastern sky. All around the new snow lay in feathery depths. On the dark firs and spruces it clung in even masses, which showed that the wind had died down long before the flakes had ceased to fall. Ouenwa and his comrade ate frugally of cold meat and bread, swallowed some brandy and water, and resumed their journey.
Not until the afternoon of the third day following their departure from Fort Beatrix did the travellers sight the smoke of a fire. It was Black Feather, attaining the summit of a ridge a few paces ahead of Ouenwa, who caught the first sight of the thin, melting signal of human life. It wavered up from a wood in a valley a few hundred of yards in front. On their right hand lay the ice-edged gray waters of an arm of the sea. On their left stretched dark forest and empty barren to a mountainous horizon. In front lay hope, and behind the spur of menace.
"Is there a village yonder?" asked Ouenwa.
Black Feather replied negatively.
"The stream is Little Thunder," he said, in his own language, "and there was no lodge there when last I saw it. We will approach under the shelter of those spruces in the hollow. It makes the journey a few paces longer, and perhaps the arrival twenty times safer."
Ouenwa nodded his sympathy with the caution expressed by his friend.
"But let us hurry," he said. "Remember that around the stockade the black captain is ever stirring the courage of the night-howlers."
At last, creeping on all fours, they peered from the screen of brush into a tiny clearing on the north bank of Little Thunder. The stream was not ten yards across at this point. On its white surface ran several trails of snow-shoes. The smoke which had attracted them to the place curled up from the apex of a large, bark-roofed wigwam. As the travellers watched, an old woman appeared in the doorway of the lodge. Ouenwa recognized her as a wise herb-doctor who had been a friend and adviser of Soft Hand. He whispered the information to Black Feather.
"Then we may show ourselves," said the other, "for if this woman was the great chief's friend you may be sure that death has only strengthened her loyalty. It is so with women—with the wise and the foolish alike. A man will stand close to his comrade in the days of his glory and in the press of battle; but it is the squaw who keeps the fallen shield freshly painted and the cause of the departed ever before the matters of the present day. A man must have the reward of his friend's praise and the joy of his companionship; but a woman makes a god of the departed spirit and looks for her reward beyond the red gates."
Ouenwa had nothing to say to his friend's sage reflections, for all he knew of women was that a radiant creature far back in Fort Beatrix had his heart in thrall. So he led the way from cover, and down the bank, in silence.
The old squaw in the doorway of the lodge caught sight of them immediately. She turned into the dark interior of the wigwam, but appeared before they were half-way across the frozen stream, with a bow in her hand and an arrow on the string. Black Feather and the lad raised their right hands, palms forward, above their heads, and continued to advance. The old hag lowered her weapon, but did not relax her attitude of vigilance. Close to the rise of the bank the travellers paused, and the lad called out that he was Ouenwa, grandson of Soft Hand, and that his companion was Black Feather, the adopted son of Montaw, the arrow-maker. At that the guardian of the wigwam forsook her post and advanced to meet them.
The herb-doctor, who had been one of Soft Hand's advisers, was not attractive to the eye. She was bent hideously, though still of surprising bodily strength. Her head was uncovered, save for the matted locks of hair that clung about it and fell over her ears and neck like a wig of gray tree-moss. Her eyes were deep and black and fierce. One yellow fang stood like a sentinel in the cavity of her mouth. Her hands were claws. Her skin was no lighter in hue and no finer in texture than was the tanned leather of her high-legged moccasins. Her garments were unusually barbaric—lynx-skins shapelessly stitched together and hung about with belts and charms, and a great knife of flint nearly as long as a cutlass. Her corded, scraggy arms hung naked at her sides, as indifferent to the nip of the frost as to the regard of strange eyes.
"Child," she said, "I heard that you were killed—that Panounia's men had slain you and a party of English; but that I knew to be false, for I saw not your spirit with the spirits of your fathers. So I believed that you had crossed the great salt water with the strangers."
Ouenwa told his story, to which the old woman listened with the keenest interest and many nods of the head.
"It is well," she said. "They are scattered now, some in hiding, some sullenly obedient to Panounia, and some in captivity. Your need will bring them together and awake their sleeping courage. I know of a full score of stout warriors who will draw no bow for Panounia, and who are all within a day's journey of this spot, but sadly scattered,—yea, scattered in every little hollow, like frightened hares."
"Do you live in this great lodge all by yourself?" inquired Black Feather.
"My sons are in the forest, seeing to their snares," replied the woman, eying the tall brave sharply, "but within are a sick woman and a small child who escaped, ten days ago, from one of Panounia's camps."
She stood aside and motioned them to enter the lodge. Ouenwa went ahead, with Black Feather close at his heels. Within, it took them several seconds to adjust their eyes to the gloom of smoke and shadow. Presently they made out a couch of fir-branches and skins beyond the fire, and on it a woman, half-reclining, with her arm about a child. Both the woman and the child were gazing at the visitors. The child began to whimper.
Black Feather uttered a low cry, and sprang over the fire. He had found his squaw and one of his lost children.
The sickness of Black Feather's wife was nothing but the result of hardship and ill-treatment. Already, under the herb-doctor's care, she was greatly improved. The meeting with her warrior went far to complete the cure of the old woman's broths and soft furs. The child was well; but the woman knew nothing of the whereabouts of their elder offspring.
Ouenwa and Black Feather did not tarry long at the lodge beside Little Thunder. With the younger of their aged hostess's sons for guide, they set out that same day to find the hidden warriors who were against the leadership of Panounia.
Back at Fort Beatrix the time passed in weary suspense. The wounded men recovered slowly. The enemy remained inactive beyond the river and the dark forest. Only the haze of their cooking-fires, melting against the sky, told of their presence. The inaction ate into the courage of the English men and women like rust. The boat-building and the iron-working at the forge were carried on listlessly, and without the old-time spurs of song and laughter. Even William Trigget and Tom Bent displayed sombre faces to their little world.
Bernard Kingswell, however, found life eventful. He was not blind to the danger of their position, and he continued to do double duty in everything; but for all that he awoke each day with keen anticipation for whatever might befall, and, sleeping, dreamed of other things than the poised menace and the monotony. Why should he regret Bristol, or any other city of the outer world, when Beatrix Westleigh was domiciled within the rough walls of the fort on Gray Goose River? His heart would not descend to those depths of despondency in which lurk fear and hopeless anxiety. What power of man, in that wilderness, could break down his guard and harm the most wonderful being in the world? The girl's brief season of unkindness toward him was as a cloud that her later friendliness had dispersed as the sun disperses the morning fog. He had caught a glimpse of her heart in her music, in her eyes, in her voice, and on several occasions something that had set his heart thumping in the touch of her hand. At least she was neither averse nor indifferent to his society, and the glances of her magnificent eyes were open to translations that set him looking out upon life and that wilderness through a golden haze. Let a dozen black-visaged D'Antons draw their rapiers upon him—he would out-thrust, out-play, and out-stamp them all! Let a hundred fur-clad savages howl about the fort—he, Bernard Kingswell, with his lady's favour on his breast, would scatter them like straw! And all this because, for the first time in his life of twenty-one years, he was bitten with love for a woman,—and twenty-one was a fair, manly age in those days. He had won to it unknowingly, by the brave paths of adventure and the sea. So let not even the oldest of us criticize his attitude toward life. A man's emotions cannot always be herded and driven by the outward circumstances of need and danger, like a flock of sheep at the mercy of a dog and a dull countryman. That to which cautious Worldliness has given the name of madness, from the earliest times, is nothing but a spark of God's own courage and imagination in the heart of youth: the years having not yet smothered it with the ashes of cowardice and calculation.
Bernard Kingswell had never displayed any but an assured front to the world. Now this love that had him so irresistibly in its services only heightened the confidence of his address toward men and events; but in the presence of its inspiration it clothed him in unaccustomed and unconscious meekness. You may be sure that Beatrix had been quick to notice the change. It pleased her mightily, of course; for was it not a greater and a more pleasant matter to have brought a high-hearted, adventure-bred youth like this to bondage and slavery than to have a dozen idle courtiers bowing before one, and a dozen sentimental poets mouthing verses that could, with equal sincerity, be applied to any charming lady? So Mistress Beatrix decided, and could not find it in her heart to regret the beaux of London Town. But she did not know her heart as the man knew his—and as she knew his.
One morning they walked together along the river-bank, before the open gate of the fort. The air was clearer than any crystal. The shadows along the snow were bluer than the dome of the sky. The girl talked cheerily; for in the bright daytime, with the sounds of peaceful labour rising from the fort so close at hand, and with a strong and worshipping man, sword-girt, within arm's length, it was hard to remember the menace concealed by the southern woods. Her eyes were very bright, and the blood mantled under the clear skin of her cheeks at the wind's caress. Now and then, for a bar or two, she broke into song.
Their path was one that Kingswell had beaten firm with his snow-shoes, after the last storm, expressly as a promenade for Mistress Westleigh. It was about a hundred yards in length, and broad enough for two persons to walk in abreast, and firm enough to make the wearing of snow-shoes unnecessary. It ran north and south, parallel with the stockade and the course of the river at that point. When the turn was made at either end of the beat, Kingswell's glance searched the horizon and every tree, every knoll, and hollow. It was done almost unconsciously, as a traveller instinctively loosens his sword in its sheath at the sound of voices ahead of him on a dark road.
After a time the girl noticed her companion's vigilance. "What do you expect to see?" she asked, touching his arm lightly and swiftly with her gloved hand. For a moment he was confused, but recovered his wits with an effort.
"Nothing," he replied, "or surely we would not be walking here."
She smiled at that. "Are you afraid?" she inquired.
He looked down at her, displayed the desperate condition of his heart in his eyes, and then looked back again to the strip of woods that approached them along the back.
"I am not afraid," he said—and then, with a gasp of dismay, he caught her and swung her behind him. She did not resist, but cowered against his sheltering back.
"We must return to the fort," he said. "Something is going on in that covert."
"Come! We will run!" she whispered, pulling at his elbows to turn him around.
"No," he replied. "I shall walk backwards, and you must keep behind me, and guide me. It is no great matter to avoid an arrow, if one knows in what quarter to look for it."
She made no reply. They began the retreat along the narrow branch path that led to the gate of the fort, he stepping cautiously, heels first, and she pulling at his belt and gazing fearfully past his shoulder at the woods. They were within a few yards of the gate when he suddenly put his arms behind him, caught her close, and lurched to one side. The unexpected movement threw the girl to her knees in the deep snow beside the path. Her cry of dismay brought her father and two others from the fort. They found Kingswell staggering and confusedly apologizing to Beatrix for his roughness. In the thickness of his left shoulder stuck a war-arrow. Supporting Kingswell and fairly dragging the frightened girl, they rushed back to safety and closed and barred the gate.
Hour after hour passed without the hidden warriors of Panounia making any further signs of hostility, or even of their existence. The watchers on the stockade scanned the woods in vain for any movement. A shot was fired into the nearest cover from one of the cannon, but without apparent effect.
Kingswell was on duty again within an hour of the receiving of his wound. The ragged cut caused him a deal of pain; but the salve that really took the sting and ache out of it was the thought that he had been serving Beatrix as a shield when the arrow struck him. He went the rounds of the stockades with a glowing heart and dauntless bearing, and his air of calm assurance put courage into the men. He saw to the strengthening of several points of the defence, cleared the loopholes of drifted snow, and gave out an extra supply of powder and ball.
It was dusk of that day before Kingswell again saw Mistress Westleigh. He was passing the baronet's cabin, and she opened the door and called to him shyly. He turned and stepped close to her, the better to see her face in the gathering twilight. She extended her hands to him, with a quick gesture of invitation. He dropped his heavy gloves on the snow before clasping them in eager fingers.
"But you must not stand here, without anything 'round your shoulders," he said; but, for all his solicitude, he maintained his firm hold of her hands. She laughed, very softly, and a slight pressure of her fingers drove his anxiety to the winds. He would have nothing of evil befall her, God knows!—nay, not so much as a chill—but how could he keep it in his mind that she wore no cloak when his whole being was a-thrill with love and worship? So he stood there, speechless, gazing into her flushed face. Presently her eyes lowered before his ardent regard.
"I called to you to thank you for saving my life," she murmured. He had nothing to say to that. Perhaps he had saved her life—and again, perhaps he had not. At that moment he was the last person in the world to decide the question. His heart and mind were altogether with the immediate present. He realized that her hands were strong and yet tender to the touch of his. The faint fragrance of her hair was in his brain like some divine vintage. The sweet curves of cheek and lips—how near they were! She had called to him with more than kindness in her voice. God had made a high heaven of this fort in the wilderness.
"You were very brave," she said, leaning nearer ever so slightly. Sweet madness completely overthrew the lad's native caution, and he was about to catch her to him bodily, when she slipped nimbly into the cabin, and left him standing with arms extended in silent invitation toward the figure of the imperturbed Sir Ralph.
"Well, my lad?" inquired the baronet, calmly.
"Good evening to you, Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, hiding his chagrin and confusion with exceeding skill.
"You looked just now as if you were expecting me," said the elder. "Come in, come in. We can talk better by the fire."
Kingswell's blushes were safe in the dusk. He picked up his gloves from the trampled snow by the threshold, and silently followed the baronet into the fire-lit living-room. Beatrix was not there—which fact the lover noticed with a sinking of the heart. He was alone with her father, and evidently under marked suspicion,—a fearful matter to a young man who aspires to the hand of an angel, and has not yet his line of action quite laid down. He took a deep breath, trembled at thought of his presumption, called the respectability of his parents and his income to his aid, and was ready for the baronet when that gentleman turned and faced him in front of the fire.
"I love your daughter," he said, with his voice not quite so cool and manly as he had intended it to be.
Sir Ralph bowed, but said nothing. His back was to the fire, and so his face was in heavy shadow.
"I love her very dearly," continued the other. "I believe no man could love a woman more, for it is with my whole heart, and with every fibre of my being. I know, sir, that my rank is not exalted, and that she is the—"
The baronet raised his hand sharply.
The gesture silenced Kingswell in the middle of his sentence more effectively than a clap of thunder would have done it.
"Yes," said Sir Ralph, harshly, "she is the daughter of a blackleg. She is the daughter of a criminal exile. She is the daughter of a broken gamester. Ay, Bernard, you do indeed look high,—you, the son of a humble merchant of Bristol."
Kingswell was dismayed for the moment. Then, with a hardy oath, he slapped his hand to his hip.
"Though she were the daughter of the devil himself," he began, and came to a lame stop. The baronet's smile passed unseen. It was a kindly smile, and yet a bitter one by the same tokens. Kingswell gave up all attempt at politic speech. He had his own feelings to express. "Your daughter, sir, is the best and the loveliest," he said, huskily. "Whatever your backslidings and misfortunes have been, they can reflect in no way on her sweetness, and wisdom, and virtue. But, sir, I do not mean to sit in judgment on any man, and last of all on the father of the most glorious woman in the world. I remember you in your strength,—the greatest man in the county and my father's noble friend. The world has taken a twirl since then, but you may be sure that, whatever betide, my heart is with you warmer than my worthy father's ever was."