"Is it not a beautiful world, Madam?" said he, after a time, in a voice of great gentleness and charm. "I have seen the forest often thus in the West in the evening, when the day was done. It is wonderful!"

"Yes. Some of my folks is thinking of going out further into the West."

He turned to her abstractedly, yet endeavoring to be courteous.

"A wonderful country, Madam!" said he; and so he fell again into his moody staring out beyond the door.

After a time the hostess of the backwoods cabin sought to make up a bed for him, but he motioned to her to desist.

"It is not necessary," said he. "I have slept so much in the open that 'tis rarely I use a bed at all. I see now that my servant has come up, and is in the yard yonder. Tell him to bring my robes and blankets and spread them here on the floor, as I always have them. That will answer quite well enough, thank you."

Peria, it seemed, had by this time found his way to the cabin along the trail. He was alone.

"Come, man!" said Lewis. "Make down my bed for me--I am ill. And tell me, where is my powder? Where are the bullets for my pistols? I find them empty. Haven't I told you to be more careful about these things?

And where is my rifle-powder? The canister is here, but 'tis empty.

Come, come, I must have better service than this!"

But even as he chided the remissness of his servant, he seemed to forget the matter in his mind. Presently he was again pacing apart, stopping now and then to stare out over the forest.

"I must have a place to write," said he at length. "I shall be awake for a time tonight, occupied with business matters of importance.

Where is Major Neely? Where are the other men? Why have they not come up?"

Peria could not or did not answer these questions, but sullenly went about the business of making his master as comfortable as he might, and then departed to his own quarters, down the hill, in another building. The old backwoods woman herself withdrew to the other apartment, beyond the open s.p.a.ce of the double cabin.

The soft, velvet darkness of night in the forest now came on apace--a night of silence. There was not even the call of a tree toad. The voice of the whippoorwill was stilled at that season of the year. If there were human beings awake, alert, at that time, they made no sound. Meriwether Lewis was alone--alone in the wilderness again. Its silences, its mysteries, drew about him.

But now he stood, not enjoying in his usual fashion the familiar feeling of the night in the forest, the calm, the repose it customarily brought to him. He stood looking intently, as if he expected some one--nay, indeed, as if he saw some one--as if he saw a face! What face was it?

At last he made his way across the room to the heavy saddle-case which had been placed there. He flung the lid open, and felt among the contents. It seemed to him there was not so much within the case as there should have been. He missed certain papers, and resolved to ask Peria about them. He could not find the little bags of coin which he expected; but he found the watch, lying covered in a corner of the case. He drew it out and, stepping toward the flickering candle, opened it, gazing fixedly at the little silhouette cut round to fit in the back of the case.

It was a face that he had seen before--a hundred times he had gazed thus at it on the far Western trails.

He brought the little portrait close up to his eyes--but not close to his lips. No, he did not kiss the face of the woman who once had written to him:

You must not kiss my picture, because I am in your power.

Meriwether Lewis had won his long fight! He had mastered the human emotions of his soul at last. The battle had been such that he sat here now, weak and spent. He sat looking at the face which had meant so much to him all these years.

There came into his mind some recollection of words that she had written to him once--something about the sound of water. He lifted his head and listened. Yes, there was a sound coming faintly through the night--the trickle of a little brook in the ravine below the window.

Always, he recalled, she had spoken of the sound of water, saying that that music would blot out memory--saying that water would wash out secrets, would wash out sins. What was it she had said? What was it she had written to him long ago? What did it mean--about the water?

The sound of the little brook came to his ears again in some shift of the wind. He rose and stumbled toward the window, carrying the candle in his hand. His haggard face was lighted by its flare as he stood there, leaning out, listening.

It was then that his doom came to him.

There came the sound of a shot; a second; and yet another.

The woman in the cabin near by heard them clearly enough. She rose and listened. There was no sound from the other cabins. The servants paid no attention to the shots, if they had heard them--and why should they not have heard them? No one called out, no one came running.

Frightened, the woman rose, and after a time stepped timidly across the covered s.p.a.ce between the two rooms, toward the light which she saw shining faintly through the cracks of the door. She heard groans within.

A tall and ghastly figure met her as she approached the door. She saw his face, white and haggard and stained. From a wound in the forehead a broad band of something dark fell across his cheek. From his throat something dark was welling. He clutched a hand on his breast--and his fingers were dark.

He was bleeding from three wounds; but still he stood and spoke to her.

"In G.o.d's name, Madam," said he, "bring me water! I am killed!"

She ran away, she knew not where, calling to the others to come; but they did not come. She was alone. Once more, forgetful of her errand, incapable of rendering aid, she went back to the door.

She heard no sound. She flung open the door and peered into the room.

The candle was standing, broken and guttering, on the floor. She could see the scattered belongings of the traveling-cases, empty now. The occupant of the room was gone! In terror she fled once more, back to her own room, and cowered in her bed.

Staggering, groping, his hands strained to him to hold in the life that was pa.s.sing, Meriwether Lewis had left the room where he had received his wounds, and had stepped out into the air, into the night.

All the resolution of his soul was bent upon one purpose. He staggered, but still stumbled onward.

It seemed to him that he heard the sound of water, and blindly, unconsciously, he headed that way. He entered the shadow of the woods and pa.s.sed down the little slope of the hill. He fell, rather than seated himself, at the side of the brook whose voice he had heard in the night. He was alone. The wilderness was all about him--the wilderness which had always called to him, and which now was to claim him.

He sat, gasping, almost blind, feeling at his pockets. At last he found it--one of the sulphur matches made for him by good old Dr.

Saugrain. Tremblingly he essayed to light it, and at last he saw the flare.

With skill of custom, though now almost unconsciously, his fingers felt for dry bits of bark and leaves, little twigs. Yes, the match served its purpose. A tiny flame flickered between his feet as he sat.

Did any eye see Meriwether Lewis as he sat there in the dark at his last camp fire? Did any guilty eye look on him making his last fight?

He sat alone by the little fire. His hand, dropping sometimes, responsive only to the supreme effort of his will, fumbled in the bosom of his old coat. There were some papers there--some things which no other eyes than his must ever see! Here was a secret--it must always be a secret--her secret and his! He would hide forever from the world what had been theirs in common.

The tiny flame rose up more strongly, twice, thrice, five times--six times in all! One by one he had placed them on the flames--these letters that he had carried on his heart for years--the six letters that she had written him when he was far away in the unknown. He held the last one long, trying to see the words. He groaned. He was almost blind. His trembling finger found the last word of the last letter. It rose before him in tall characters now, all done in flame and not in block--_Theodosia!_

Now they were gone! No one could ever see them. No one could know how he had treasured them all these years. She was safe!

Before his soul, in the time of his great accounting, there rose the pa.s.sing picture of the years. Free from suffering, now absolved, resigned, he was a boy once more, and all the world was young. He saw again the slopes of old Albemarle, beautiful in the green and gold of an early autumn day in old Virginia. He heard again his mother's voice. What was it that she said? He bent his head as if to listen.

"Your wish--your great desire--your hope--your dream--all these shall be yours at last, even though the trail be long, even though the burden be too heavy to carry farther."

So then she had known--she had spoken the truth in her soothsaying that day so long ago! Now his fading eye looked about him, and he nodded his head weakly, as if to a.s.sent to something he had heard.

He had so earnestly longed--he had so greatly desired--to be an honorable man! He had so longed and desired to do somewhat for others than himself! And here was peace, here indeed was conquest. His great desire was won!

His lax hands dropped between his knees as he sat. A little gust of wind sweeping down the gully caught up some of the white ashes--stained as they were with blood that dropped from his veins as he bent above them--carried them down upon the tiny thread of the little brook. It carried them away toward the sea--his blood, the ashes, the secret which they hid.

At length he rose once more, his splendid will still forcing his broken body to do its bidding. Half crawling up the bank, once more he stood erect and staggered back across the yard, into the room. The woman heard him there again. Pity arose in her breast; once more she mastered her terror and approached the door.

"In G.o.d's name, Madam," said he, "bring me water--wine! I am so strong, I am hard to die! Bind up my wounds--I have work to do! Heal me these wounds!"

But not her power nor any power could heal such wounds as his. Once more she called out for aid, and none came.

The night wore away. The dying man lay on his bearskin pallet on the floor, motionless now and silent, but still breathing, and calm at last. It was dawn when the recreant servant found him there.