I went to the dog and stirred him with my sword point. He was a noisome heap, but I knew that I must overcome my repugnance and bury him, or I should have to explain the whole tale to the camp at dawn.

And explanation would take time and was not necessary. The Huron was following me, and had no quarrel with the Pottawatamies. When I departed on the morrow he would undoubtedly retie his sandals and continue the voyage. A wife and a ghost! Two traveling guests I had not reckoned with in planning this expedition. I shrugged, and stooped to spit the dog upon my sword, when I saw a skin pouch lying blood-bathed at the creature's side. It was a bag such as savages wear around their necks, and the Indian had probably let it fall when he stooped to kill the dog.

I seized it, careless of the smearing of my fingers, and took it to the moonlight. It was made of the softest of dressed doeskin, and embroidered in red porcupine quills with the figure of a beaver squatting on a rounded lodge. I had seen that design before. It was the totem sign of the house of the Baron, and this bag had hung from Pemaou's neck that day when he danced between me and the sunset and flung the war spear at my heart.

I felt myself grow keenly awake and alive. So it was Pemaou who was following. Well, I had told him that we should meet again. I untied the strings of the bag and turned its contents into my handkerchief.

There was an amulet in the form of a beaver's paw, a twist of tobacco, a flint, a tin looking-gla.s.s, and a folded sheet of birch bark. I stopped a moment. Should I look further? It was wartime and I was dealing with a savage. I unfolded the bark and pressed it open in my palm. There, boldly drawn in crayon, was a head in profile; it was the profile of the woman who lay in the lodge, and whose mat-hung door I was guarding. Yes, it was her profile, and it was one that no man could forget, though when I speak of a straight nose and an oddly rounded chin, they are but words to fit a thousand faces.

I refolded the bark, put it in my pocket, and buried the dog. Then I sat down before the woman's wigwam. I had one point to work on in my speculations. No Indian would draw a head in profile, for he would be superst.i.tious about creating half of a person. I slept no more that night.

CHAPTER XIV

A PROVISIONAL BARGAIN

I began my day as early as I thought it wise to disturb the sleepers around me, and by the time the sun was two hours high I had accomplished several things. I had confessed to the priest, had had a clean lodge of green boughs built for the woman, and had bargained and bantered with the Indians, and bl.u.s.tered over them with knowledge of their language till they accorded me reluctant grins. They had a village of seven or eight hundred souls, and I found them a marked people. They were cleaner than any savages I had seen,--the women were modest and almost neat,--and their manners had a somewhat European air.

I judged them to be politicians rather than warriors, for the braves, though well shaped and wiry, lacked the look of ferocious hardihood that terrified white men in the Iroquois race. But I found them keen traders.

One purchase that I made took time. I wished a new suit of skins for the woman, and I went from lodge to lodge, searching and brow-beating and dangling my trinkets till I was ready to join with the squaws in their laughter at my expense. But my purchase once completed pleasured me greatly. I had found it a little here and a little there, and it was worthy any princess of the woods. I had gathered blouse, skirt, leggings, and moccasins, all new, and made of white dressed deerskin pliable as velvet to the hand. They looked to me full of feminine bravery. The leggings and moccasins were beaded and quill broidered, and the skirt was fringed and trimmed with tiny hawk's bells.

I took the garments to the green lodge, laid them out in order, saw that there were trenchers of fresh water, and brought what conveniences we had from the canoe. The pity of the situation came upon me hard. I had to be father and friend,--lover I could not be. The woman had great self-control, but she would need it. Well, I could trust her to do her best. I went to find her.

As yet I had not said good-morning to her, although I had seen her from the distance, and knew that she had breakfasted and had talked with Father Nouvel. She was sitting now under a beech tree on the headland, and when I bent before her she shook her head.

"It is not real," she said, with a look over water and forest. "It is all a dream."

I stopped to send a group of curious squaws upon their way. It was indeed like a pictured spectacle,--the green wood, the Indian village, and the headland-guarded bay opening northward over rolling water.

"Yes, it is a dream," I agreed. "You will soon wake. Where would you like the wakening to take place, mademoiselle? At Meudon?"

She looked up with a smile. "What would you like to know about me?"

she asked, with a sober directness, which, like her smile, was friendly and brave. "You heard something last night. I am entirely willing to tell you more. But is it not wise for us to know as little as possible about each other?"

"Why, mademoiselle?"

She hesitated. "As we stand now," she explained slowly, "we have no past nor future. We live in a fantasy. We are cold and hungry, but life is so strange that we forget our bodies. It is all as unreal as a mirage. When it is over, we part. If we part knowing nothing of each other, it will all seem like a dream."

I thought a moment. "Then you think that we must guard against growing interested in each other, mademoiselle?"

She looked at me gravely. "Yes. Do you not think so, monsieur?

'Friends for the night's bivouac.' Those were your words."

Now was here a woman who felt deeply and talked lightly? I had not met such. "It is wise," I rejoined, "but difficult." I took the crayon from my pocket and began drawing faces on the white limestone rock at my side. I drew idly and scowled at my work. "The Indians can do better," I lamented. "Was your cousin, Benjamin Starling, clever with his pencil, mademoiselle?"

She drew back, but she answered me fairly. "Very clever," she said quietly. "It was a talent. Why do you ask, monsieur?"

"I find myself thinking of him." I dropped the crayon. "Listen, mademoiselle. I must ask you some questions. Believe me, I have reasons. Now as to your cousin,--is he alive?"

She looked off at the water. "I do not know, monsieur."

She had become another woman. I hated Benjamin Starling that his name could so instantly sap the life from her tone.

"Please look at me," I begged irritably. "Mademoiselle, I think that I must ask you to tell me more,--to tell me much more."

She rose. "Is it necessary?"

I bowed. "Else I should not ask it. Please sit, mademoiselle."

She sat where my hand pointed. "You know that we were Tories," she began, in the quiet monotone I had learned to expect from her under stress, "and that our family followed King James to France. My parents died. I had no brothers or sisters, and so, a year ago, I came to the Colonies where I had friends. Later, my cousin followed, and we were betrothed. We had the same cause at heart, and our joint estates would give us some power. We planned to use them for that purpose."

"And your capture? Did your cousin know of it?"

"Monsieur, you say that this is necessary? My nurse had come to America, and married a settler, in a village on the frontier. She was ill, and I went to see her, and stayed some days. My cousin followed, and stayed at a neighboring house. One night the Indians came. The woman's husband was away, and the little maid-servant ran at the first outcry. I was alone with the woman, who could not leave her bed. I cut my hair roughly, put on a suit of her husband's clothing, and took a musket. It was a blockhouse, and I hoped that I might hold the Indians off for a time if they thought me a man."

"And your cousin?"

"He came to me. He was running. He said it was of no use. He had seen men brained. There were legions of Indians. He said there was nothing left but flight. He tried to take me with him."

"And when you would not go? When you would not desert?"

"Monsieur, he went alone."

I laid myself down on the gra.s.s before her, and covered her hands with mine. "I am not quite a brute," I said. "I had to ask it. Look, look, mademoiselle, it is all over. See, the sky is gentle, and the Indians are friendly, and my sword---- Well, I will not leave you, mademoiselle, until you tell me to go. But I must say more. Your cousin---- Is he Lord Starling?"

"Yes."

"Lord Starling is probably alive. If he is, he is searching for you.

Have you thought of that?"

"But the wilderness,--the terrible leagues of wilderness! He could not track me, monsieur."

"When there is money and influence, even the wilderness has messengers.

He was close to the person of James. Is he a Catholic?"

"He professed it, monsieur."

I shook my head. "You are very bitter. You need not be. He was insane that night. I have known the sight of Indian butchery to turn good men into whimpering animals. He was not responsible. I know that he is lavishing time and fortune and strength to find you now."

I thought she winced. "You know this, monsieur?"

It was my turn to look away. "I know something of a man's heart," I answered deliberately. "If I loved you, mademoiselle, and lost you--lost you, and played the craven,--I should find you. The wilderness would not matter. I should find you. I should find you, and retrieve myself--some way. Lord Starling has wit and daring, else he would not be an exile, else you would not have promised to marry him. Be a.s.sured that he is following you, and is probably not far behind. Do you want him to find you, mademoiselle?"

I turned with the last word, and looked her full in the face. It was a stupid trick, but it served. I had her answer.

"There!" I cried, and I laughed a little jerkily. "Never mind. Don't answer. We have talked enough, mademoiselle. We will be married at noon to-day. Ah, you never loved him, else, no matter what he had done, you could never look as you look now. Wherever he is, or whatever kind of man he may be, I do him no wrong in giving you my name to-day." I took the pictured birch bark from my pocket, and tore it in fine strips. "A useless map," I said in explanation. "Mademoiselle, may I have your finger to measure?"

She gave me her hand, and I circled her finger with a gra.s.s blade, and warned her that the ring that I should give her would be almost as crude. She was trying to keep herself from asking questions, and was going to succeed. I liked that. It was useless to terrify her with fables of prowling Indians, and profiles on bark. And then, what was there to tell? I knew at once too much and too little. I took some bent gold wire from my pocket, and showed it to her.