"The big man--dead!" Cassion drew back, as though struck a blow. "What big man? Who do you mean?"

"The one in the second canoe, Monsieur; the one who roared."

"Chevet? Hugo Chevet? What has happened to him? Come, speak up, or I'll slit your tongue!"

The man gulped, gripping the door with one hand, the other pointing outward.

"He is there, Monsieur, beyond the trail, at the edge of the wood. I saw him with his face turned up--_Mon Dieu_! so white; I dare not touch him, but there was blood, where a knife had entered his back."

All were on their feet, their faces picturing the sudden horror, yet Cassion was first to recover his wits, and lead the way without.

Grasping the soldier's arm, and bidding him show where the body lay, he thrust him through the door. I lingered behind shrinking from being again compelled to view the sight of the dead man, yet unable to keep entirely away. Cassion stopped, looking down at the object on the grass, but made no effort to touch it with his hands. The soldier bent, and rolled the body over, and one of the priests felt in the pockets of the jacket, bringing forth a paper or two. Cassion took these, gripping them in his fingers, his face appearing gray in the early light.

"_Mon Dieu_! the man has been murdered," he exclaimed, "a dastard blow in the back. Look about, and see if you find a knife. Had he quarrel with anyone, Moulin?"

The soldier straightened up.

"No, Monsieur; I heard of none, though he was often rough and harsh of tongue to the men. Ah! now I recall, he had words with Sieur de Artigny on the beach at dusk. I know not the cause, yet the younger man left him angrily, and passed by where I stood, with his hands clinched."

"De Artigny, hey!" Cassion's voice had a ring of pleasure in it. "Ay!

he is a hothead. Know you where the young cock is now?"

"He, with the Chief, left an hour ago. Was it not your order, Monsieur?"

Cassion made a swift gesture, but what it might signify I could not determine, as his face was turned away. A moment there was silence, as he shaded his eyes, and peered out across the water.

"True, so I did," he said at last. "They were to depart before dawn.

The villain is yonder--see; well off that farthest point, and 'tis too late to overtake him now. _Sacre_! there is naught for us to do, that I see, but to bury Hugo Chevet, and go our way--the King's business cannot wait."

They brought the body into the mission house, and laid it upon the bench. I did not look upon the ghastly face, which the young priest had covered, but I sank to my knees and prayed earnestly for the repose of his soul. For a moment I felt in my heart a tenderness for this rough, hard man who in the past had caused me such suffering.

Perchance he was not altogether to blame; his had been a rough, hard life, and I had only brought him care and trouble. So there were tears in my eyes as I knelt beside him, although in secret my heart rejoiced that De Artigny had gone, and would not be confronted with his victim; for there was no longer doubt in my mind of his guilt, for surely, had the man been innocent, he would have sounded an alarm. It was Cassion's hand which aroused me, and I glanced up at his face through the tears clinging to my lashes.

"What, crying!" he exclaimed, in apparent surprise. "I never thought the man of such value to you as to cause tears at his death."

"He was of my blood," I answered soberly, rising to my feet, "and his murder most foul."

"Ay! true enough, girl, and we will bring to book the villain who did the deed. Yet we cannot remain here to mourn, for I am on the King's service. Come, we have lost time already, and the canoes wait."

"You would go at once?" I asked, startled at his haste, "without even waiting until he is buried?"

"And why not? To wait will cost us a day; nor, so far as I can see, would it be of the slightest value to Hugo Chevet. The priests here will attend to the ceremony, and this handful of silver will buy him prayers. _Pouf_! he is dead, and that is all there is to it; so come along, for I will wait here no longer."

The man's actions, his manner, and words were heartless. For an instant I stood in revolt, ready to defy openly, an angry retort on my lips; yet before I found speech, Pere Allouez rested his hand on my shoulder.

"'Tis best, my child," he said softly. "We can no longer serve the dead by remaining here, and there are long leagues before us. In the boat your prayers will reach the good God just as surely as though you knelt here beside this poor body. 'Tis best we go."

I permitted him to lead me out through the door, and we followed Cassion down the steep path to the shore. The latter seemed to have forgotten all else save our embarkation, and hurried the soldier off on a run to get the boats in the water. The _pere_ held to my arm, and I was conscious of his voice continually speaking, although I knew nothing of what he said. I was incapable of thinking, two visions haunting me--the body of Hugo Chevet outstretched on the bench in the mission house, and Rene de Artigny far away yonder on the water. Why had it happened? What could ever excuse a crime like this?

On the beach all was in readiness for departure, and it was evident enough that Moulin had already spread the news of Chevet's murder among his comrades. Cassion, however, permitted the fellows little time for discussion, for at his sharp orders they took their places in the canoes, and pushed off. The priest was obliged to assume Chevet's former position, and I would gladly have accompanied him, but Cassion suddenly gripped me in his arms, and without so much as a word, waded out through the surf, and put me down in his boat, clambering in himself, and shouting his orders to the paddlers.

I think we were all of us glad enough to get away. I know I sat silent, and motionless, just where he placed me, and stared back across the widening water at the desolate, dismal scene. How lonely, and heart-sickening it was, those few log houses against the hill, the blackened stumps littering the hillside, and the gloomy forest beyond.

The figures of a few men were visible along the beach, and once I saw a black-robed priest emerge from the door of the mission house, and start down the steep path.

The picture slowly faded as we advanced, until finally the last glimpse of the log chapel disappeared in the haze, and we were alone on the mystery of the great lake, gliding along a bare, uninhabited shore. I was aroused by the touch of Cassion's hand on my own as it grasped the side of the canoe.

"Adele," he said, almost tenderly. "Why should you be so serious?

Cannot we be friends?"

My eyes met his in surprise.

"Friends, Monsieur! Are we not? Why do you address me like that?"

"Because you treat me as though I were a criminal," he said earnestly.

"As if I had done you an evil in making you my wife. 'Twas not I who hastened the matter, but La Barre. 'Tis not just to condemn me unheard, yet I have been patient and kind. I thought it might be that you loved another--in truth I imagined that De Artigny had cast his spell upon you; yet you surely cannot continue to trust that villain--the murderer of your uncle."

"How know you that to be true?" I asked.

"Because there is no other accounting for it," he explained sternly.

"The quarrel last evening, the early departure before dawn--"

"At your orders, Monsieur."

"Ay, but the sergeant tells me the fellow was absent from the camp for two hours during the night; that in the moonlight he saw him come down the hill. Even if he did not do the deed himself, he must have discovered the body--yet he voiced no alarm."

I was silent, and my eyes fell from his face to the green water.

"'Twill be hard to explain," he went on. "But he shall have a chance."

"A chance! You will question him; and then--"

He hesitated whether to answer me, but there was a cruel smile on his thin lips.

"Faith, I do not know. 'Tis like to be a court-martial at the Rock, if ever we get him there; though the chances are the fellow will take to the woods when he finds himself suspected. No doubt the best thing I can do will be to say nothing until we hold him safe, though 'tis hard to pretend with such a villain."

He paused, as if hoping I might speak, and my silence angered him.

"Bah, if I had my way the young cockerel would face a file at our first camp. Ay! and it will be for you to decide if he does not."

"What is your meaning, Monsieur?"

"That I am tired of your play-acting; of your making eyes at this forest dandy behind my back. _Sang Dieu_! I am done with all this--do you hear?--and I have a grip now which will make you think twice, my dear, before you work any more sly tricks on me. _Sacre_, you think me easy, hey? I have in my hand so," and he opened and closed his fingers suggestively, "the life of the lad."

CHAPTER XVI

MY PLEDGE SAVES DE ARTIGNY