“Certainly, tell Monsieur Langlade I shall be most happy to receive him,” said the General; and turning to his daughter, he added, “You will be glad to see your old friend. He has done me good service: at Ticonderoga he conducted several scouting parties; now he is in the neighbourhood of Montreal. I always feel that I have some one I can depend upon when he is near. I shall never understand how he came to join the Indians. Love of freedom, I suppose.”
He had scarcely finished speaking when the door opened and Charles Langlade entered. Mercèdes was sitting in the shadow, so that he did not see her immediately, but she noticed at once that a great change had come over him. There was a look of pain—even more than pain, of great sorrow—in his face. The General was also quick to see that something was wrong; and, holding out his hand to welcome him, as if moved by some instinct, he asked,—
“What has happened?”
“Ah! you see it!” answered the young man, drawing his brows together and compressing his lips. “My mother told me I should repent of my self-will, and now I am truly punished. God has humbled me. My people are slain and the home of my fathers is in ruins.”
“I suppose you mean the Indians have made a raid on the Marsh settlement and destroyed it?” said the General.
“Yes,” answered Charles sadly. “I am given to understand that a tribe of the Iroquois attacked the Marshes. I believe it is the same tribe which has been following up my old friend Roger the Ranger, and from which he twice escaped. They were fearfully irritated against him, and of course in my position I could not interfere to protect him; but the Marshes they knew to be my home, and it was an understood thing they were to respect them. I suppose they were, as usual, carried away by their desire for vengeance. The man who brought me the news says most of the women and children escaped; but the men have perished or been taken prisoners, which is worse, and the village was in flames when he left. He has been stopped on the road by illness, or I should have known this a month ago. It appears that at the last moment some one, I do not know who, warned those at the Marshes that an attack was meditated, and so to a certain extent they were prepared; as I said, the women and children were got rid of, and the men defended themselves to the death. Some must have escaped, but my informant was unable to tell me who they were.” And having spoken, he stood with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground, with all the appearance of a man who has lost heart.
“It is indeed a terrible misfortune,” said the General; “but, who knows? perhaps you have heard an exaggerated account. Come and sit down. We are just going to supper; stay and have it with us. You have not noticed my daughter; she came with Bigot and Co. from Quebec to-day. You may imagine I am not best pleased.”
On hearing of Mercèdes’ presence, Charles looked up, and a light came into his eyes; and going up to her, he said quietly,—
“This is unexpected; it does me good, if anything can do me good.”
“I am so sorry for you,” said Mercèdes, holding out her hand. “Won’t you sit down and tell us more about it? Surely you will cease to live with the Indians now, and return to your own people.”
“Alas! I cannot,” answered Charles; “I am bound to them.” He hesitated. “I married Ominipeg’s daughter. I have a squaw wife.”
If any one had observed her closely they would have seen Mercèdes’ cheek pale for a second—only for a second; it was her father who answered.
“It seems incredible,” he said; “how came you to commit such an act of folly?”
“As early as I can remember,” said Charles thoughtfully, “my father took me with him on his hunting expeditions. He was very popular with the Indians, delighted in sport of every kind; and I grew accustomed to the freedom. I was more at home in an Indian wigwam than at Alpha Marsh. There I was impatient of restraint. I set myself against a regular life with the headstrong self-will of youth; and when my father died it was worse still. More was then expected of me. I was the heir, and had to stay at home and attend to the business of the settlement. Father Nat humoured me, Roger and Loïs screened me; but it was of no use, I was like a spoilt child. I wanted my own way, my liberty, and nothing short of it could satisfy me. Besides, my sympathies were enlisted on the side of the French. You know I am descended from a Chevalier de Langlade, one of the earliest French colonists, and I considered, and do still consider, that by right of pre-occupation Canada belongs to France and not to England; and yet for no consideration would I have served under the present Canadian Government. I am willing to fight for France freely and independently, but not with those who are robbing her and virtually bringing about her ruin. This was my excuse to my own conscience for breaking the bonds which had become irksome to me; and yet I loved my mother and sisters—above all, Loïs; and of Roger I cannot speak. I do not think, if I had realised how completely this contemplated act of mine would have parted us, I should have had the courage to go through with it. But I imagined time would reconcile him to the change, and that he would continue to join our hunting parties and visit me in my wigwam; instead of which he entirely withdrew himself, and after the expedition against Old Britain it was open enmity between us. From that time to this he has waged incessant war against the tribes. He is greatly feared; his name is coupled with a sort of superstitious terror, and his unusual strength, and the way in which he always manages to escape capture, tend to make the Indians believe him invulnerable, and so they are set upon destroying him. When I joined the Indians my first act was to marry Nadjii, the chief Ominipeg’s daughter.”
He said this in a low voice, with averted head.
“You mean to say you deliberately married one of those wild Indian women?” exclaimed Montcalm.
“Yes, in all honour, according to Indian rites, I took Nadjii for my squaw. We have a son. I am irrevocably bound to her,” he continued. “Fully as I recognise the mistake I have made, I would not have you misjudge her. Nadjii is no wild Indian woman: she is very gentle, tender, and true; her devotion to me is unbounded. I believe she would lay down her life for me. No, she is not to blame; if a wrong has been done it has been of my own doing, and in all honour I must abide by it.”
“I pity you with all my heart,” said the General.
“I never felt the need of pity until now,” answered the hunter. “Of course you cannot understand the charms of such a life as I have led for nearly seven years. It is purely physical. To gallop over the prairies, to hunt in the forests, to penetrate into mountain fastnesses and deep, glorious valleys—no one who has not partaken of it can conceive the delight of such an existence. The mere fact of living is in itself a joy. You, with your high European civilisation, have mental and intellectual enjoyments; but we colonists have nothing of all that—we know only the primitive pleasures of hunting, fishing, and warfare. And then there is a strange poetry, a wonderful charm, in this Indian life. To lie in a birch canoe throughout the calm summer days upon the bosom of some great inland lake, to cast the line into its deep, pellucid waters, and, gazing down into its depths, watch the trout glide shadowy and silent over the glistening pebbles, has a mysterious fascination; or, again, to explore the forests, floating down rivers or lakes beneath the shadows of moss-bearded firs, to drag the canoes up on the sandy beach, and, lighting the camp fire, recline beneath the trees, and smoke and laugh away the sultry hours, in a lazy luxury of enjoyment, indescribable, and which you cannot realise, but which I have lived and revelled in, forgetful, alas? that there are higher duties incumbent upon man than mere personal indulgence. And now I reap the bitter fruit. If I had remained at my post, all this would not have happened.”
“But where was the Ranger?” asked Montcalm.
“In October he was, you know, somewhere up by Ticonderoga. You remember he had a skirmish with one of our scouting parties about that time?”
“Yes,” said Montcalm, “and he punished our men terribly, driving them back with such heavy loss that I determined that for the winter, at least, no more scouting parties should be sent out. But now what are your plans? What do you propose doing?”
“I came to let you know that I am going down to the Marshes to reconnoitre, and see with my own eyes the extent of the misfortune. As you say, there may be exaggeration in the account I have received, which was by no means through a direct channel. You will not begin operations till March, and I shall be back long before that.”
“I hope so,” answered the General; “for I depend greatly upon you to keep the Indians in order. I expect the English will attack us by way of Lakes Champlain and Ontario; in any case, I am preparing even now to resist them.”
“I am more inclined to think they will attack Quebec itself.”
“Hardly,” answered Montcalm; “the navigation of the St. Lawrence is too difficult and dangerous for any hostile fleet to attempt. Besides, the position of Quebec renders it impregnable unless we are betrayed. I have a plan of defence which will prevent the enemy approaching Quebec.”
“I am satisfied to believe such to be the case,” said Charles; “and now, farewell, sir; you may trust me to be back before the rivers and lakes are unthawed.”
“Will you not stay to supper?” said Montcalm. “We are alone; all my officers are dancing attendance upon the Quebec ladies.”
“Thank you,” answered Charles; “I have still certain things to settle with the chiefs, and I start to-morrow before dawn. I must therefore take leave of you now. Farewell, Mademoiselle,” he said, approaching Mercèdes.
“Adieu,” she answered; and for one second as their fingers touched their eyes met. He bowed his head over her hand; then turned away, and, with a hurried salutation to the General, left the room.