"Here is your silver," came the queer, high voice over the rail. "You have overpaid me three times," and I saw his long arm reaching out to me.

"Keep it," I snapped. "We are in more haste to be gone than you to get rid of us."

In five minutes more the woods enfolded us, and the little _Osprey_ was hid from our view. I walked violently in my wrathful disappointment, till at last Mizpah checked me. "If the good soldier," said she, "might advise his captain, which would be, of course, intolerable, I would dare to remind you of what you have said to me more than once lately. Is not this pace too hot to last, Monsieur?" And stopping, she leaned heavily on her musket.

"Forgive me," I exclaimed, flinging myself down on the moss. "And what a fool I am to be angry, too, just because those poor b.u.mpkins wouldn't take up our quarrel."

The look of grat.i.tude which Mizpah gave me for that little phrase, "our quarrel," made my heart on a sudden strong and light. Presently we resumed our journey, going moderately, and keeping enough inland to avoid the windings of the coast. The little _Osprey_ we never saw again; but months later, when it came to my ears that a fishing vessel of Plymouth had been taken by the Indians that autumn while storm-stayed at Merigomish, and her crew all slain, I felt a qualm of pity for the poor lads whose selfish fears had so misguided them.

Chapter XIX

The Camp by Canseau Strait

It was perhaps to their encounter with the _Osprey_ we owed it that we saw no more of our pursuers. At any rate we were no further persecuted. After two days of marching we felt safe to light fires.

We shot partridges, and a deer; and the fresh meat put new vigour into our veins. We came to the beginning of the narrow strait which severs Ile Royale from the main peninsula of Acadie; and with longing eyes Mizpah gazed across, as if hoping to discern the child amid the trees of the opposite sh.o.r.e. At last, I could but say to her:--

"We are a long, long way from Philip yet, my comrade; were we across this narrow strait, we would be no nearer to him, for the island is so cut up with inland waters, many, deep, and winding, that it would take us months to traverse its length afoot. We must push on to Canseau, for a boat is needful to us."

And all these days, in the quiet of the great woods, in the stillness of the wilderness nights when often I watched her sleeping, in the hours while she walked patiently by my side, her brave, sweet face wan with grief suppressed, her eyes heavy with longing, my love grew. It took possession of my whole being till this doubtful, perilous journey seemed all that I could desire, and the world we had left behind us became but a blur with only Marc's white face in the midst to give it consequence. Nevertheless, though my eyes and my spirit waited upon all her movements, I suffered no least suggestion of my worship to appear, but ever with rough kindliness played the part of companion-at-arms.

One morning,--it was our fifth day from the _Osprey_, but since reaching the Strait we had become involved in swamps, and made a very pitifully small advance,--one morning, I say, when it wanted perhaps an hour of noon, we were both startled by a sound of groaning. Mizpah came closer to me, and put her hand upon my arm. We stood listening intently.

"It is some one hurt," said I, in a moment, "and he is in that gully yonder."

Cautiously, lest there should be some trap, we followed the sound; and we discovered, at the bottom of a narrow cleft, an Indian lad lying wedged between sharp rocks, with the carca.s.s of a fat buck fallen across his body. It was plain to me at once that the young savage had slipped while staggering under his load of venison. I hesitated; for what more likely than that there should be other Indians in the neighbourhood; but Mizpah cried at once:--

"Oh, we must help him! Quick! Come, Monsieur!"

And in truth the lad's face appealed to me, for he was but a stripling, little younger than Marc. Very gently we released him from his agonizing position; and when we had laid him on a patch of smooth moss, his groaning ceased. His lips were parched, and when I brought him water he swallowed it desperately. Then Mizpah bathed his face.

Presently his eyes opened, rested upon her with a look of unutterable grat.i.tude, and closed again. Mizpah's own eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, and she turned to me in a sort of appeal, as if she would say:--

"How can we leave him?"

"Let him be for a half hour now," said I, answering her look. "Then perhaps he will be able to talk to us."

We ate our meal without daring to light a fire. Then we sat in silence by the sleeping lad, till at last he opened his eyes, and murmured in the Micmac tongue, "water." When he had taken a drink, I offered him biscuit, of which he ate a morsel. Then, speaking in French, I asked him whence he came; and how he came to be in such a plight.

He answered faintly in the same tongue. "I go from Malpic," said he, "to the Shubenacadie, with messages. I shot a buck, on the rock there, and he fell into the gully. As I was getting him out I fell in myself, and the carca.s.s on top of me. I know no more till I open my eyes, and my mouth is hard, and kind friends are giving me water. Then I sleep again, for I feel all safe," and with a grateful smile his eyes closed wearily. He was fast asleep again, before I could ask any more questions.

"Come away," I whispered to Mizpah, "till we talk about this." She came, but first, with a tender thoughtfulness, she leaned her musket against a tree, with his own beside it, so that if he should wake while we were gone he should at once see the two weapons, and know that he was not deserted.

When we were out of earshot, I turned and looked into her eyes.

"What is to be done with him?" I asked.

"We must stay and take care of him," said she, steadily, "till he can take care of himself."

"And Philip?" I questioned.

She burst into tears, flung herself down, and buried her face in her hands. After sobbing violently for some minutes she grew calm, dashed her tears away, and looked at me in a kind of despair.

"The poor boy cannot be left to die here alone," she said, in a shaken voice. "It is perfectly plain what we must do. Oh, G.o.d, take care of my poor lonely little one." And again she covered her eyes. I took one of her hands in mine, and pressed it firmly.

"If there is justice in Heaven, he will," I cried pa.s.sionately. "And he will; I know he will. I think there never was a n.o.bler woman than you, my comrade."

"You do not know me," she answered, in a low voice; and rising, she returned to the sick boy's side.

Seeing that we were here for some days, or perchance a week, I raised two hasty shelters of brush and poles. That night the patient wandered in his mind, but in the morning the fever had left him, and thenceforward he mended swiftly. His grat.i.tude and his docility were touching, and his eyes followed Mizpah as would the eyes of a faithful dog. I think his insight penetrated her disguise, so that from the first he knew her for a woman; but his native delicacy kept him from betraying his knowledge. As far as I could see, there were no bones broken, and I guessed that in a week at furthest he would be able to resume his journey without risk.

For three days I troubled him not with further questions, Mizpah having so decreed. She said that questioning would hinder his recovery; but I think she feared what questioning might disclose. At last, as we finished supper, of which he had well partaken, he rose feebly but with determination, took a few tottering paces, and then came back to his couch, where he lay with gleaming eyes of satisfaction.

"I walk now pretty soon," said he. "Not keep kind friends here much longer. Which way you going when you stopped to take care of Indian boy?"

I looked across at Mizpah, then made up my mind to speak plainly. If I knew anything at all of human nature, this boy was to be trusted.

"We are going to Ile Royale," said I, "to look for a little boy whom some of your tribe have cruelly carried off."

His face became the very picture of shame and grief. He looked first at one of us, then the other; and presently dropped his head upon his breast.

"Why, what is the matter, Xavier?" I asked. He had said his name was Xavier.

"I know," he answered, in a low voice. "It was some of my own people did it."

"_What_ do you know? Tell us, oh, tell us everything! Oh, we helped you! You will surely help us find him!" pleaded Mizpah, breathlessly.

"By all the blessed saints," he cried, with an earnestness that I felt to be sincere, "I will try to help you. I will risk anything. I will disobey the Abbe. I will--"

"Where _is_ the child? Do you know that?" I interrupted.

"Yes, truly," he replied. "They have taken him north to Gaspe, and to the St. Lawrence. My uncle, Etienne le Batard, was in canoe that brought him to mouth of the Pictook. Then other canoe took him north, where a French family will keep him. The Abbe says he shall grow up a monk. But he is not starved or beaten, I swear truly."

"How do you know all this?" I asked, looking at him piercingly. But his eye was clear and met mine right honestly.

"My uncle came to Malpic straight," said he, "where the warriors had a council. Then I was sent with word to my father, Big Etienne, who is on the Shubenacadie."

"What word?" I asked.

But the boy shook his head. "It does not touch the little boy. It does not touch my kind friends. I may not tell it," he said, with a brave dignity. I loved him for this, and trusted him the more.

"This lad's tongue and heart are true," said I, looking at Mizpah. "We may trust him."

"I know it!" said she. Whereupon he reached out, grasped a hand of each, and kissed them with a freedom of emotion which I have seldom seen in the full blood Indian.

"You may trust me," he said, in a low voice, being by this something wearied. "You give me my life. And I will help you find your child."