The dawn had hardly broken over the land when a low prolonged whistle intimated to General Montcalm and his party that Charles Langlade, true to his promise, awaited them. The cold was intense, more especially to those born and bred in the sunny plains of Provence, and Mercèdes and her foster-mother Marthe, notwithstanding all their resolution, shivered under their thick furs, as they stood on the deck of the Licorne for the last time. Charles Langlade leapt on board, saluted the General and his officers, and then, turning to Mercèdes, said,—
“You are still quite decided to make the venture, Mademoiselle?”
“Quite,” she answered in a clear, sweet voice, which struck like the notes of a silver bell on the Canadian’s ear.
“It is well,” he answered. “I think we shall be fortunate. Snow has fallen all night; it is freezing now; travelling will be easier than I expected.” He left her, and helped to hand what little luggage the travellers ventured to take with them into the canoe. No Indians had accompanied him on the present occasion; he had only brought his faithful John Stone, who had rarely left him since together they had bidden adieu to New England.
He was standing up in the canoe now, ready to receive the strangers. Mercèdes was the first to be lowered; Marthe, Estève, and the two servants followed. The General lingered to say a few parting words to the officers he left in command; then he, too, dropped into the canoe, and took his place beside his daughter. A few seconds later the canoe was paddled to the shore.
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” said Charles Langlade, and quietly he took Mercèdes in his arms and leapt on land with her. John Stone did as much for Marthe. Two Indians were awaiting them; one picked up the canoe, the other the luggage, and all disappeared in the direction of the forest. It was the middle of April, but the land was still snow-bound, though the thaw which had set in had begun to loosen the ice on the lakes and rivers: it had been an unusually severe and prolonged winter.
Charles Langlade produced snowshoes for the party, and having duly adjusted them they started.
“As soon as we have crossed the forest we shall gain the open country for some miles,” Charles explained to the General, “and sleighs will then carry us rapidly over the ground.” But after their long confinement on the ship, the travellers found walking for miles over the snow-covered ground so fatiguing that, after a couple of hours’ march, they were obliged to rest before entering the forest. A clearance was made, a huge fire lighted, round which they all gathered, wrapped in skins and blankets to protect them from the cold winds. Mercèdes was so exhausted that, after partaking of some food, she lay with her head on her father’s shoulder and fell asleep.
When she awoke she found herself being carried by two strong arms. She was so muffled up that she could not in the least see who her bearer was, and a sensation of unreasoning fear crept over her. “Father,” she called out, trying to move.
“Gently, Mademoiselle,” said a voice which she recognised at once. “You have had a good rest, and will be glad to walk now, I daresay,” and she felt herself placed on the ground, and her wraps loosened from around her.
The whole party had stopped, and, as she stood in their midst, her father said, smiling,—
“You’ve had the best of it, Mercèdes; we are nearly done up again, and you are fresh as a young colt, or ought to be. Thank Monsieur; he has carried you for the last two hours.”
“Oh, how could you let him?” exclaimed Mercèdes reproachfully.
“We could not leave you behind, and you were sleeping so deeply that it would have been impossible to rouse you sufficiently for you to walk. Monsieur is kind enough to say that your weight is nothing compared to that of a deer.”
Charles laughed. “Indeed no,” he said; “you need not fear having wearied me, Mademoiselle. I hardly knew I had a burden, you are so small and light. But now we must hurry forward; we have still some distance to go before we reach the log hut where we shall put up for the night.”
“Poor Marthe! Let me help you; you can hardly drag yourself,” said Mercèdes to her foster-mother.
“I’m not so bad as that, Mademoiselle,” answered the patient peasant woman; “the man’s like the master, he’s helped me along;” and she pointed to John Stone, who smiled and nodded without understanding her, and, once more taking her arm, he almost carried her over the ground.
The day was drawing to a close when they reached the log or lumber camp, and saw the smoke rising straight in the air, giving promise at least of shelter and of warmth.
These log or lumber camps were and are still all constructed on much the same model, being composed of pine trunks, placed lengthwise one above the other, with a sloping roof covered over with pine boughs, and often, as on the present occasion, with a thick layer of snow. The fire is in the centre, and the inmates lie on pallets made of the soft twigs of the spruce, with their feet inwards, and well wrapped up in rugs and blankets. None but those who have experienced it can conceive the comfort of a log hut in the depths of a primeval forest. When Charles Langlade and his party arrived it was already fairly crowded: but room was instantly made for the new-comers; they were welcomed with true, genuine hospitality, such as is often lacking in more civilised countries. They were offered a share of the coarse but wholesome food—salt pork, bread, and potatoes, washed down with a weak decoction of a sort of herb tea. Mercèdes and Marthe, with the wife of the lumber-man, were the only women, amidst a score of men; but they were treated with the most perfect respect, the warmest and most secluded corner being assigned to them; and although every available space was occupied, there was no impurity in the atmosphere, as an enormous log fire was kept constantly burning, and the apartment was thus freely ventilated through the large smoke flue of the roof. It would have required far greater discomfort to have prevented any of the party from resting, so thoroughly were they all worn out with the unaccustomed method of travelling and the exhilarating air they had inhaled all day. So it came to pass that, wrapped in furs and blankets on the primitive pallets, they fell asleep, and did not awake till with the dawn of day their companions began to move; then they arose, and, after a frugal meal, started off once more.
There had been a heavy frost that night, which enabled them to run with ease on snowshoes, with which they had now become familiar; therefore the fatigue was less, and before noon they had reached the border of the forest. Here they found the two Indians awaiting them with sleighs, in which, after resting for a couple of hours, they started off again. This new way of travelling appeared to them simply delightful, notwithstanding the cold wind which cut their faces as they flew across the country.
“We must hurry on,” said Charles Langlade to the General, who, with Mercèdes and Marthe, occupied his sleigh; “the thaw is coming, and then the roads will be impassable.”
Several times they were stopped by rivers or broad streams, but they always found the Indians waiting for them with the canoe or raft.
“How have you done it? It is wonderful, such forethought,” said the General on one occasion to Charles.
“There is nothing wonderful in it,” he said. “The Indians know where I am bound for and my needs; they are swift of foot, and every inch of the way is familiar to them; it is child’s play.”
The last part of the journey was comparatively easy; their road lay through many a Canadian village, where they found ready hospitality; and when by chance the General made himself known, the enthusiasm of the inhabitants was unbounded. The population was entirely French, and intensely patriotic, loving the old France with a, so to speak, idealised affection.
“You may rest assured they will rise to a man when you call upon them to do so,” said Charles Langlade; and then he added, with something very like a sigh, “To-morrow you will reach Quebec.”
“Thanks to you,” said the General. “I do not know how to express my gratitude for your services!”
“By making use of me whenever you can,” said Charles hastily. “Remember, I am always ready. I ask for nothing better than to serve the cause of France, to keep Canada for the old country. But the English are strong; they are determined. Pitt is Minister, and he is sending out troops. It will be a hard struggle, a desperate struggle; but if you conciliate the Indians they will side with France, and they are a power in themselves. You do not know me yet; but in Quebec Charles Langlade’s name is familiar, and you will learn that I am a true man, ready to support you, and that you may have faith in me.”
“You have no need to tell me that; you have proved it,” said the General. “You are the first friend I have made in this country; from henceforth you will rank first in my estimation and affection.”
So saying, he held out his hand, and Charles Langlade clasped it, saying solemnly, “It is a covenant between thee and me.”
“Let it be so,” answered Montcalm. “And now we must hurry forward. I cannot express to you my anxiety to begin operations. What I have already seen convinces me that we must conquer in the long run.”
“I trust so,” answered Charles; but, nevertheless, in his heart there was a doubt. He knew better than the sanguine General all the difficulties and stumbling-blocks which awaited him—party spirit, jealousies, corruption, treason in high places. But he restrained himself, and would not give utterance to the warning note. “Time enough; he will find it out for himself,” he murmured, as he turned away to give the final orders for their last day’s march.
The thaw had set in now, and a south wind was blowing. The journey was to be finished by boat up the St. Lawrence; there was no danger, and it was the quickest mode of transport.
“I am sorry it is over,” said Mercèdes, as she stood beside her father waiting to embark.
The General looked down upon her and smiled.
“Decidedly Canadian travelling agrees with you; you are looking remarkably well. I think your mother would hardly know you.”
And he was right. The sallow-faced, thin girl had utterly changed: a rich softness, a glow of colour now tinged her cheeks; her lips were red, her eyes clear and bright like stars; the sharpness of feature had given place to a rounded symmetry. She was not beautiful, she could never be that; but she was pleasant to look upon—a picture of youth, wrapped in the dark sable cloak, the hood fastened underneath her chin framing the young face with its dark outline. Ten days of life and exercise in the open air had transformed Mercèdes.
“She’s never looked thus, Monsieur le Marquis, since she was a baby,” said Marthe, “and I used to carry her out into the vineyards. I never could imagine why from a brown rosy child she grew so pale; it’s air she wanted.”
“Yes; I suppose so,” replied the Marquis carelessly, and then they descended the bank and entered the boats.
Charles Langlade sat in the stern behind Mercèdes, but he was silent. Had it been summer-time the scenery up the stately river would have been lovely, but winter still rested on all things. Not a green hue so much as tinged the black branches of the trees; only the groves of pines, upon the summits of which the snow still rested, gave colour to the landscape. They shot past the snowy fall of Montmorenci, with its perpetual leaping avalanche, along the low shores of the beautiful Isle of Orleans, where the wild grape festooned the primitive forest, and won from old Cartier the name of the Isle of Bacchus. Here and there villages clustered round slim-spired churches in the vales, or on some gentle height; it was no longer the wild desolation of the forest, but the gradual growth of civilisation creeping upon them, until at last Quebec with its “mural-crowned” and castled rock rose before them.
It had been decided that they should land just outside Quebec, rest for the night at a farmhouse tenanted by friends of Charles Langlade, and enter the city the following morning. It was almost dark when they reached their destination, and as they left the boat and walked up to the farm, Charles found himself beside Mercèdes and Marthe.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, in a low tone, his voice trembling slightly, “I am glad of this opportunity of wishing you adieu. I shall be far on my way to join my tribe before the sun is risen to-morrow.”
“Will you?” said Mercèdes. “I am so sorry; you have been so good to me. I wish it were all to come over again. Cannot you go with us to Quebec?”
“Thank you,” he answered; “your words give me great happiness. I can go no farther with you now, but it will not be long before we meet again, I trust.”
“Meet again!” answered Mercèdes; and if he could have looked into her face he would have seen a shadow cross it. “Who can tell? It is not very likely we shall meet again. I am going to the Convent of St. Ursula to be a nun.”
“Ah no!” he exclaimed; “you must not; you are too brave and good to shut yourself away from the world.”
“But I must,” she said; “it was decided long ago, when I was a child.”
He made no answer, but set his teeth hard.
“Adieu, Mademoiselle,” he murmured; then caught her hand, raised it to his lips, dropped it, and was gone.
Mercèdes stood still with a pained feeling at her heart, and a regretful longing for the world which had suddenly become so pleasant in her eyes. She drew a short, impatient sigh.
“Come, Marthe,” she said; “my father will be wondering why we linger;” and they hurried forward.
“He need not have bidden me adieu to-night,” she thought, when an hour later she stood at the window of the room which had been allotted for her use, and looked up at the sky, brilliant with myriads of stars. She could not guess that he was gazing up at her from behind the garden fence—the star of his life, although he knew it not.