Cassion, Chevet, and Pere Allouez accompanied me as I walked beside a young priest up the beaten path, but De Artigny was left behind with the men. I overheard Cassion order him to remain, but he added some word in lower voice, which brought a flush of anger into the younger man's face, although he merely turned on his heel without reply.

The young Jesuit beside me--a pale-faced, delicate appearing man, almost emaciated in his long black robe--scarcely breathed a word as we climbed the rather steep ascent, but at the door of the mission house paused gravely, and directed our attention to the scene unrolled behind. It was indeed a vista of surpassing beauty, for from this point we could perceive the distant curve of the shore, shadowed by dark forests, while the lake itself, silvered by the setting sun stretched afar to the horizon, unbroken in its immensity except for an island lifting its rock front leagues away.

So greatly was I impressed with the view, that after we had been shown into the bare room of the mission, where scarcely a comfort was to be seen, I crossed to the one window, and stood there staring out, watching the light fade across those leagues of water, until the purple twilight descended like a veil of mist. Yet I heard the questions and answers, and learned that nearly all the inhabitants were away on various expeditions into the wilderness, none remaining except the two priests in charge of the mission, and the few _engages_ necessary for their work. Only a few days before five priests had departed to establish a mission at Green Bay, and visit the Indian villages beyond.

The young Jesuit spoke freely when once convinced that our party journeyed to the Illinois country, and was antagonistic to La Salle, who had shown small liking for his Order. The presence of Pere Allouez overcame his first suspicion at recognition of De Artigny, and he gave free vent to his dislike of the Recollets, and the policy of those adventurous Frenchmen who had dared oppose the Jesuits.

He produced a newly drawn map of the great lake we were to traverse, and the men studied it anxiously while the two priests and the _engage_ prepared a simple meal. For the moment I was forgotten, and left alone on a rude bench beside the great fireplace, to listen to their discussion, and think my own thoughts.

We remained at St. Ignace three days, busily engaged in repairing our canoes, and rendering them fit for the long voyage yet before us. From this point we were to venture on treacherous waters, as yet scarcely explored, the shores inhabited by savage, unknown tribes, with not a white man in all the long distance from Green Bay to the Chicago portage. Once I got out the map, and traced the distance, feeling sick at heart as I thus realized more clearly the weary journey.

Those were dull, lonely days I passed in the desolate mission house, while the others were busy at their various tasks. Only at night time, or as they straggled in, to their meals, did I see anyone but Pere Allouez, who was always close at hand, a silent shadow from whose presence I could not escape. I visited the priest's garden, climbed the rocks overlooking the water, and even ventured into the dark forest, but he was ever beside me, suave but insistent on doing his master's will. The only glimpse I had of De Artigny was at a distance, for not once did he approach the mission house. So I was glad enough when the canoes were ready, and all preparations made for departure.

Yet we were not destined to escape thus easily from St. Ignace. Of what occurred I must write as it happened to me then, and not as its full significance became later clear to my understanding. It was after nightfall when Cassion returned to the mission house. The lights were burning on the table, and the three priests were rather impatiently waiting their evening meal, occasionally exchanging brief sentences, or peering out through the open window toward the dark water.

As long as daylight lasted this had been my post of observation, while watching the distant figures busily engaged in reloading the canoes for the morrow's journey. They were like so many ants, running across the brown sands, both soldiers and Indians stripped to the waist, apparently eager enough to complete their task. Occasionally the echo of a song reached my ears, and the distance was not so great but that I could distinguish individuals. Cassion sat upon a log directing operations, not even rising to lend a hand, but Chevet gave his great strength freely.

De Artigny was back among the huts, in charge of that end of the line, no doubt, and it was only occasionally I gained glimpse of his presence. An Indian canoe came ashore just before sundown, and our men knocked off work to cluster about and examine its cargo of furs.

Angered by the delay Cassion strode in among them, and, with bitter words and a blow or two, drove them back to their task. The loss of time was not great, yet they were still busily engaged when darkness shut out the scene.

Cassion came in alone, yet I observed nothing strange about his appearance, except that he failed to greet me with the usual attempt at gallantry, although his sharp eyes swept our faces, as he closed the door, and stared about the room.

"What! not eaten yet?" he exclaimed. "I anticipated my fate to be a lonely meal, for the rascals worked like snails, and I would not leave them rest until all was finished. Faith, the odor is appetizing, and I am hungry as a bear."

The younger priest waved his hand to the _engage_, yet asked softly:

"Monsieur Chevet--he is delayed also?"

"He will sup with his men tonight," returned Cassion shortly, seating himself on the bench. "The sergeant keeps guard of the canoes, and Chevet will be useful with those off duty."

The man ate as though nearly famished, his ready tongue unusually silent, and at the conclusion of the meal, appeared so fatigued, that I made early excuse to withdraw so he might rest in comfort, climbing the ladder in one corner to my own bed beneath the eaves. This apartment, whose only advantage was privacy, was no more than a narrow space between the sloping rafters of the roof, unfurnished, but with a small window in the end, closed by a wooden shutter. A partition of axe-hewn planks divided this attic into two compartments, thus composing the priests' sleeping chambers. While I was there they both occupied the one to the south, Cassion, Chevet, and Pere Allouez resting in the main room below.

As I lowered the trap in the floor, shutting out the murmur of voices, I was conscious of no desire to sleep, my mind busily occupied with possibilities of the morrow. I opened the window, and seated myself on the floor, gazing out at the night. Below extended the priests'

garden, and beyond the dark gloom of forest depths. A quarter moon peeped through cloud rifts, and revealed in spectral light the familiar objects. It was a calm, peaceful scene, yet ghostly in the silvery gleam and silence--the stumps of half-burned trees assuming grotesque forms, and the wind tossing branches as though by some demon hand. Yet in my restless mood that outside world called me and I leaned forth to see if it was possible to descend.

The way of egress was easy--a mere step to the flat roof of the kitchen, the dovetailed logs of which afforded a ladder to the ground.

I had no object in such adventure, but a restless impulse urged me, and, almost before I realized my action, I was upon the ground.

Avoiding the gleam of light which streamed from the open window of the room below, I crossed the garden, and reached the path leading downward to the shore. From this point I could perceive the wide sweep of water, showing silvery in the dim moonlight, and detect the darker rim of the land. There was fire on the point below the huts, and its red glare afforded glimpses of the canoes--mere blurred outlines--and occasionally the figure of a man, only recognizable as he moved.

I was still staring at this dim picture when some noise, other than the wind, startled me, and I drew silently back behind a great stump to avoid discovery. My thought was that someone had left the mission house--Cassion perhaps with final orders to those on the beach--but a moment later I realized my mistake, yet only crouched lower in the shadow--a man was advancing from the black concealment of the woods, and crossing the open space.

He moved cautiously, yet boldly enough, and his movements were not those of an Indian, although the low bushes between us and the house shadow, prevented my distinguishing more than his mere outline. It was only when he lifted his head into the gleam of light, and took hasty survey through the window of the scene within, that I recognized the face of De Artigny. He lingered scarcely a moment, evidently satisfied with what he saw, and then drew silently back, hesitating a brief space, as though debating his next movement.

I waited breathless, wondering what his purpose could be, half inclined to intercept and question him. Was he seeking to serve my cause? to learn the truth of my relationship with Cassion? or did he have some other object, some personal feud in which he sought revenge?

The first thought sent the warm blood leaping through my veins; the second left me shivering as if with sudden chill.

Even as I stood, hesitating, uncertain, he turned, and retraced his steps along the same path of his approach, passing me not ten steps away, and vanishing into the wood. I thought he paused at the edge, and bent down, yet before I found voice, or determination to stop him, he had disappeared. My courage returned, spurred by curiosity. Why should he take so roundabout a way to reach the shore? What was that black, shapeless thing he had paused to examine? I could see something there, dark and motionless, though to my eyes no more than a shadow.

I ventured toward it, creeping behind the bushes bordering the path, conscious of an odd fear as I drew closer. Yet it was not until I emerged from the fringe of shrubbery that even the faintest conception of what the object I saw was occurred to me. Then I stopped, frozen by horror, for I confronted a dead body.

For an instant I could not utter a sound, or move a muscle of my body.

My hands clung convulsively to a nearby branch, thus supporting me erect in spite of trembling limbs, and I stared at the grewsome object, black and almost shapeless in the moonlight. Only part of the trunk was revealed, the lower portion concealed by bushes, yet I could no longer doubt it was a man's body--a large, heavily built man, his hat still crushed on his head, but with face turned away.

What courage overcame my horror, and urged me forward I cannot tell; I seemed impelled by some power not my own, a vague fear of recognition tugging at my heart. I crept nearer, almost inch by inch, trembling at every noise, dreading to discover the truth. At last I could perceive the ghastly features--the dead man was Hugo Chevet.

I scarcely know why this discovery of his identity brought back so suddenly my strength, and courage. But it did; I was no longer afraid, no longer shrank from contact with the corpse. I confess I felt no special sorrow, no deep regret at the fate which had overtaken him.

Although he was my mother's brother, yet his treatment of me had never been kind, and there remained no memories to touch my heart. Still his death was from treachery, murder, and every instinct urged me to learn its cause, and who had been guilty of the crime.

I nerved myself to the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to enable me to discover the wound--he had been pierced by a knife from behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry, dead ere he struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a blow in the back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred, of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet, staring about through the weird moonlight, every nerve throbbing, as I thought to grip the fact, and find its cause. Slowly I drew back, shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the priest's garden. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain beginning to grasp the situation, and assert itself.

CHAPTER XV

THE MURDER OF CHEVET

Who had killed him? What should I do? These were the two questions haunting my mind, and becoming more and more insistent. The light still burned in the mission house, and I could picture the scene within--the three priests reading, or talking softly to each other, and Cassion asleep on his bench in the corner, wearied with the day.

I could not understand, could not imagine a cause, and yet the assassin must have been De Artigny. How else could I account for his presence there in the night, his efforts at concealment, his bending over the dead body, and then hurrying away without sounding an alarm.

The evidence against the man seemed conclusive, and yet I would not condemn. There might be other reasons for his silence, for his secret presence, and if I rushed into the house, proclaiming my discovery, and confessing what I had seen, he would be left without defense.

Perhaps it might be the very purpose of the real murderer to thus cast suspicion on an innocent man, and I would be the instrument. But who else could be the murderer? That it could have been Cassion never seriously occurred to me, but I ran over in my mind the rough men of our party--the soldiers, some of them quarrelsome enough, and the Indians to whom a treacherous blow was never unnatural. This must have been the way it happened--Chevet had made some bitter enemy, for he was ever prodigal of angry word and blow, and the fellow had followed him through the night to strike him down from behind. But why did De Artigny fail to sound an alarm when he found the body? Why was he hiding about the mission house, and peering in through the window?

I sank my face in my hands, so dazed and bewildered as to be incapable of thought--yet I could not, I would not believe him guilty of so foul a crime. It was not possible, nor should he be accused through any testimony from my lips. He could explain, he must explain to me his part in this dreadful affair, but, unless he confessed himself, I would never believe him guilty. There was but one thing for me to do--return silently to my room, and wait. Perhaps he had already descended to camp to alarm the men; if not the body would be early discovered in the morning, and a few hours delay could make no difference to Hugo Chevet.

The very decision was a relief, and yet it frightened me. I felt almost like an accomplice, as though I also was guilty of a crime by thus concealing my knowledge, and leaving that body to remain alone there in the dark. Yet there was nothing else to do. Shrinking, shuddering at every shadow, at every sound, my nerves throbbing with agony, I managed to drag my body up the logs, and in through the window. I was safe there, but there was no banishing from memory what I had seen--what I knew lay yonder in the wood shadow. I sank to the floor, clutching the sill, my eyes staring through the moonlight. Once I thought I saw a man's indistinct figure move across an open space, and once I heard voices far away.

The priests entered the room opposite mine, and I could distinguish the murmur of their voices through the thin partition. These became silent, and I prayed, with head bowed on the window sill. I could not leave that position, could not withdraw my eyes from the scene without. The moon disappeared, the night darkening; I could no longer perceive the line of forest trees, and sitting thus I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

I do not know that I was called, yet when I awoke a faint light proclaiming the dawn was in the sky, and sounds of activity reached my ears from the room below. I felt tired and cramped from my unnatural position, but hastened to join the others. The morning meal was already on the table, and we ate as usual, no one mentioning Chevet, thus proving the body had not been discovered. I could scarcely choke the food down, anticipating every instant the sounding of an alarm.

Cassion hurried, excited, no doubt, by the prospect of getting away on our journey, but seemed in excellent humor. Pushing back the box on which he sat, he buckled his pistol belt, seized his hat, and strode to the door.

"We depart at once," he proclaimed briefly. "So I will leave you, here, to bring the lady."

Pere Allouez, still busily engaged, murmured some indistinct reply, and Cassion's eyes met mine.

"You look pale, and weary this morning," he said. "Not fear of the voyage, I hope?"

"No, Monsieur," I managed to answer quietly. "I slept ill, but shall be better presently--shall I bear my blankets to the boats?"

"The _engage_ will see to that, only let there be as little delay as possible. Ah! here comes a messenger from below--what is it, my man?"

The fellow, one of the soldiers whose face I did not recall, halted in the open door, gasping for breath, his eyes roving about the room.

"He is dead--the big man," he stammered. "He is there by the woods."