The moon was shining brightly on the snow-covered earth, causing the outlines of the houses and buildings of the Marshes to stand forth in bold relief, while the snow hid under its whiteness the ruins of the late invasion. Not a sound was heard; perfect stillness reigned over the land, even as it reigns in the chamber of death where the still figure lies beneath the white shroud, soon to be put away out of sight, until the dawn of the great resurrection day, when earth and sea shall give up their dead.
In springtime the earth bursts forth, leaf and bud and flower, and the heart of man rejoices and is made glad. Surely it is but the shadow of that joy which shall be ours when the graves shall give up their dead, and we shall see our loved ones glorified, made perfect, released from the bondage of earth, knowing but one law, the great law of Love, by the divine power of which their chains have been broken and they have been loosed. Truly then, and then only, shall we give utterance to the cry, “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”
Oh! how the heart aches and strains after that consummation. Our loved ones, who are gone before, whose spirits are still with us by night and by day, in the busy crowd as in the solitude of our chamber, whose voices we long to hear, whose hands we long to press—what agony of patient waiting!
But there was one standing out in the snow looking up at the Marshes travel-stained and worn, not daring to approach the home of his fathers. He had come many miles over a trackless country, over ice-bound rivers, through deep forests, over mountains and valleys covered with snow, enduring hardships which would have seemed intolerable to a less hardy nature, until at last he stood before the home of his childhood; and tears blinded his eyes when he saw that it was not utterly destroyed, that all had not perished, that still the village steeple rose in the moonlight, telling of God’s mercy.
Suddenly the loud bark of the house-dog warned him that, unless he retreated, his presence would be discovered. He had been standing in the high road; he moved quickly behind a clump of trees, only just in time. The front door opened, and a stream of light poured forth as Marcus stepped out on to the garden path and looked around, cautiously peering into the dark shadows cast by the house and the trees. He heard him say, “I can see no one. Had I better let Bob loose?” The dog’s bark had changed into a whine, which Charles Langlade knew full well to mean that his instinct had discovered a friend, not a foe, in the night watcher.
“It might be as well,” said a woman’s voice; and a second later there was a rush and a bound, and Charles Langlade felt two great paws upon his shoulders, and a loud whine of welcome went up into the still night air.
“Who’s there?” asked Marcus, in a clear, loud voice.
“Down, Bob; down, old boy,” said Charles, stepping out of the shadow; and crossing the road, he opened the wicket gate and entered.
“Marcus!”
“Charles!”
And the two brothers clasped hands.
“My poor boy! Will you ever forgive me?” said the elder.
“I have nothing to forgive,” answered Marcus; “you did what you thought right.”
“Nay, I did what pleased me,” answered Charles. “But tell me who is living and who is dead?”
At this moment Loïs came out of the house.
“Oh, Charles, my brother!” and her arms were round his neck.
The three stood there in the snow, so deeply moved they could give no utterance to their feelings, and Bob leapt around them, giving vent to his delight in short, sharp barks.
“Come in,” said Loïs. “We have so much to tell you.”
“My mother, the children?” said Charles.
“Are unhurt,” said Loïs.
“And Father Nat?”
“Ah! that is the worst of all; still, he is living. Come,” and she drew him across the threshold of what had been his home; and as he stood once more in the old familiar place, the glamour fell from his eyes, and he exclaimed bitterly,—
“How could I forsake you?”
The front kitchen was empty; but there was fire on the hearth, and the lighted lamp showed Loïs how worn and travel-stained he was. His face was thin and haggard, his lips shrivelled with exposure and cold; his bearskin partially hid the dilapidated condition of his clothes. He drew near the fire and stretched out his hands to the flame. Marcus, looking at him, said,—
“You will eat, Charles?”
“I have had no food since yesterday,” he said; “my provisions have come to an end, and there is no game abroad in this weather.”
“Sit down and warm yourself,” said Loïs, pushing him gently into the chair which had been his father’s. “All are gone to rest. I will get your supper.”
“Tell me first what of Father Nat. Does Roger know?”
“Father Nat was terribly wounded,” said Loïs; “and for a long time we despaired of saving him; but within the last fortnight there have been signs of gradual improvement; he has seemed to recognise us at times. But now ask no more until you are refreshed,” and she left the kitchen, whilst Marcus filled a pipe and handed it to his brother.
“It is the calumet of peace,” he said.
“You heap coals of fire on my head.”
But nature was so exhausted that he sank back in his chair, and, putting the pipe to his lips, slowly smoked.
The relief of finding that those nearest and dearest to him were living was so great, that in his weariness he seemed powerless to realise anything more; mind and body were alike benumbed; and when Loïs brought in the supper they had to rouse him and force him to eat. It was evident he had no idea of what had occurred, by the words to which he had already given utterance. After he had eaten, looking up at Loïs, he said,—
“I heard the settlement was burnt to the ground, and you were all slain. The man who told me said he was an eye-witness, and had fled when the village was in flames.”
“But for Nadjii’s warning and Roger’s sudden arrival, such would have been the case,” answered Loïs.
“Nadjii! what had Nadjii to do with it?” said Charles sharply.
“She told me you had bidden her watch over us. She came to me, and gave us notice that the Indians were coming to attack us; and so they did not surprise us, and we were able to defend ourselves until Roger came. It seems he had been warned by one of her people.”
“My true-hearted Nadjii, my brave little squaw!” said Charles, his whole face lighting up with pleasure and emotion. “Where is she? What has become of her? Has she returned to her tribe?”
There was a moment’s silence; he was quick to notice it.
“What has become of her? Where is she?” he asked hastily.
“She saved my life, she saved Father Nat’s life,—she died for us;” and standing before him, Loïs burst into tears.
He started; every particle of colour forsook his face.
“Tell me all,” he said, in a low voice.
And Marcus told him, for Loïs could not, how Nadjii had covered them with her own body, and how she had been wounded unto death.
“And the child?” said Charles, burying his face in his hands. “She would not have left it behind.”
Again there was a moment’s silence; then Loïs knelt down beside him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said,—
“When she was dying, she told us where to find it—in the trunk of a tree in the forest where she had laid it. Roger went to fetch it.”
“Roger did that?” exclaimed Charles. “Let me see my boy, Loïs!”
She hesitated just for one moment, then continued slowly, not daring to raise her tearful eyes to his face,—
“He looked for the child carefully; he found the spot where Nadjii had told him the babe was, but it was gone.”
Charles sprang up. “Stolen!” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing.
“We fear so,” said Loïs. “Certainly there was no trace of any bodily harm having befallen him; he had simply been taken away.”
“Did Nadjii know of this before she died?” asked Charles, with set teeth.
“No,” answered Loïs; “she thought she saw him. Her last words were ‘Jesus, Nenemoosha.’ Was she a Christian, Charles?”
“Yes, thank God, I taught her all she could understand,” he answered, “and her gentle soul delighted in the stories of Christ’s love. She was a better Christian than many who enjoy far greater privileges than did my squaw wife. I am glad she thought the child was safe. The Indians must have found and taken him. If they have wrought him harm, then his mother’s tribe will avenge him. He was such a bonnie two-year-old boy, Loïs;” and as one oppressed with a weight of sorrow, he let his head sink on to his bosom, and heavy tears fell from his eyes. It was the strong man’s agony.
His past life of physical enjoyment, without thought of the morrow, was fading as a mirage fades away even as he gazed, and his soul was steeped in stern reality. Ruin and death were around him. He had deemed himself all-powerful, capable of choosing his own way, shaping his own course, unmindful of any will save his own. A rebellious son! Even as the prodigal he had gone forth in the pride of his youth and manhood, feeling himself strong, and he had wasted his life, forgetful, or ignorant perhaps, that there is in man, made in God’s image, a higher, nobler nature than in the brute creation. Soul, heart, intellect, are surely given to bring the body into subjection—not doing away with material enjoyment, but tempering it; and as years go on we recognise that our bodies are but the caskets made to contain the never-dying spirit which God breathed into man, even the breath of life.
“My son was dead and is alive again.” Dead, though full of life and health, clothed in rich raiment, going forth, having gathered together all his substance, rich in friends and in all the world can give; yet he was dead!
“Alive again!” when hungry and athirst, his rich raiment in tatters, his head bowed in sorrow, and his lips giving utterance to the words, “Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee!” And his father rejoiced over him.
Suddenly Charles rose to his feet, threw one arm round Loïs, and drew her close up to him.
“Dearest,” he said, “if I have sinned in the past, God pardon me! I will find the boy and bring him to you; and when this war is over I will come home, and ease the burden from your shoulders, Marcus, so that you may take up your calling and be a minister of God, according to your heart’s desire, and I will care for our mother and the younger ones, and strive to do my duty in the land, as you, my younger brother, have done in my stead.”
He held out his hand to Marcus, who grasped it, saying,—
“Why not stay with us now, Charles?”
“Because my honour is pledged,” he answered. “Not to the Indians; I shall never again dwell among them or be one with them; but to Canada, to General Montcalm. I have sworn to stand by him to the end, and I will do so, not as an Indian chief if I can help it. I shall join the Canadian militia as a volunteer, as I ought to have done from the first, and fight for the cause which I still believe to be the right one. Tell Roger this; he will understand. And now let me have one look at Father Nat, after which I will lie down and sleep, for I am terribly weary. I have been three weeks on the road from Montreal, and must return as quickly as possible. Is Roger still here to protect you?”
“He will not leave us till the spring,” said Marcus. “He is gone now for a couple of days to Cauterets on business; when he does go for good he will leave us well protected. You need not fear; we have sentries out by night and by day now.”
“It is well; let me see Father Nat,” said Charles; and they led the way to the room where Nathaniel Boscowen lay sleeping. Shading the lamp she carried in her hand, Loïs approached the bed, and was surprised to see that his eyes were open and that he moved restlessly.
“Is that you, Loïs?” he asked.
“Yes, father,” she answered; “shall I arrange your pillows?” and signing to the two young men to keep in the shadow, she bent over him.
He lifted his hand. “My pillows are all right,” he said; “but I heard voices in the room below, and it seemed to me I recognised Charles’s. I would it were so; I loved the lad: if only I might see him before I die!”
“You are not going to die, Father Nat; you are getting well, and will be as hale and hearty as ever. Do you wish to see Charles so very much?” said Loïs.
“Yes,” answered Nathaniel shortly, as if the question irritated him.
“Then I will tell you something. It was his voice you heard; he is here,” said Loïs.
“Where?” asked Father Nat, trying to lift his head, but Charles was quickly beside him.
“Dear Father Nat,” he said, “forgive me.”
“Ay, my lad, I forgive thee,” and he clasped his hand. “I always told you they were a treacherous people. You will come back to us now?”
“Please God I will,” said Charles.
“Then I am content. The breach is healed; Langlade and Boscowen are not riven!” and closing his eyes, he settled himself to sleep. They watched him for a few minutes, and then crept softly out of the room.