"A wanderer lost in the forest. A spy from the fortress. One of Roussilac's creatures," his father muttered.

"They would take possession of the forest," the boy said pa.s.sionately.

"Along the river I have come upon trees marked by the robbers with--what is the name of that sign which they bear upon their flag?"

"The fleur-de-lys. They brand the pines with that mark to signify that the trees have been chosen for ship-masts and are the property of France. Our hut upon the island is faced with logs which bear their brand."

"The Cayugas fell such trees and burn them, or cut them in half as they lie. The Iroquois are yet masters, despite the decrees of King Louis.

How cold is this wind! Let me but warm my hands in the embers of our fire."

The boy crossed into the moonlight, and knelt within the smoke, rubbing the palms of his hands upon the warm ground. His father stood in the shadow, and watched every moving line of his son's body, muttering as he listened to the outside:

"At his age I was learning how to figure and spell in Tonbridge school.

Quarterstaff and tennis were my sports, with mumming and chess at home.

His sport is to hunt the wild beast, to track the deer, to lie in wait for men. The sword is his pastime. His pleasure the dream. G.o.d pardon me for bringing him into the world."

The breeze bore along in a gust, bringing the m.u.f.fled bayings of a hound.

"He calls me!" exclaimed the boy. "That is Blood's war-cry. Come!" he shouted.

"Patience, boy. Let the dog guide us. By advancing recklessly we may fall into a trap."

Each throb of the night brought the wild sounds nearer. Blood was in full cry, the foam blowing from his jaws, the hackles stiff upon his back. He was coming down the wind full-stretched. The bush gave, the dew scattered from the high gra.s.s in frosty showers as he leapt the moss-beds, his foot-tracks far apart. But no sound followed, except the play of the branches and the murmur of the rising lake.

"Remember how I brought him from the encampment as a puppy," said Richard appealingly, "how I have trained him from the time that his eyes opened. Whatever he discovers is mine. Say now that I may go with him. He and I can cover the ground together. You shall follow in your own time."

"Perchance they shall be too many for you," said the father.

"Nay, we shall advance with care, and hide if there be danger. The whole army of France could not follow me in this forest."

"There comes no noise of fighting."

"It is but a spy who has discovered New Windsor. He must not carry that secret back to the fortress."

The hound broke forth, clouding the cold air with his breath, his eyes like lamps. He leapt at his master, and s.n.a.t.c.hed his sleeve with a frothing muzzle, pulling him away.

"Say now that I may go," the boy cried. "The enemy may already have taken fear, and be retreating as fast as his cowardly feet may carry him."

The long awaited shout drifted down the wind, and the pale moon shivered when she heard.

"Go!" granted the stern man.

"St. George!" yelled the maddened child, clutching at the hound's thick collar of fur. The cry had no meaning. It was but a shout of war, a valve to his pa.s.sion. "On, Blood! St. George!"

At full cry they were gone from the moonlight into gloom.

CHAPTER XI.

THE SWORD IMBRUED

While the pendulum of a clock might have swayed thrice, the four venturers stood facing Onawa as though her words had turned them into stone. Then Hough, forgetting all save rage and l.u.s.t for vengeance, broke forward to reach the traitress. Instantly she ran for the bush, and the voice of Penfold called his follower back.

"Lift not your hand against a woman," he cried. "To the forest, my lads."

"To the forest an you will," Hough shouted. "I at least shall advance to smite this woman's partner in sin, be he Frenchman or devil."

"Be it so, neighbour," his captain answered. "Together let us stand, or together fall. Advance, then, and take the place by storm."

As they rushed out, La Salle braced himself to face the odds. He made a few pa.s.ses to free his arm, and trod the beaten ground to make sure that it would not yield. Then, loosening the top bar, he flung it forth as the spidery form of Hough descended, and it struck before the Puritan's feet and stopped him dead. The same moment La Salle sprang upon the lowest bar, but the support weighed down beneath its burden, and his blade merely stabbed the air.

"A priest, neighbours," Hough shouted. "Now to avenge our martyrs burnt at Smithfield by b.l.o.o.d.y Mary and the Pope."

Onawa, standing forgotten at the edge of the bush, cast around her a searching glance. The encampment of her tribe was far distant. The hound had gone out howling. Danger from that quarter was yet to come.

She stood in shadow, the moonlight whitening the sand in front and darkening the shapes which hurried to regain their own. No eyes were upon her. She raised her left hand to her right shoulder and with the same ominous motion dropped upon one knee, falling unconsciously into the pose of a G.o.ddess of the chase.

The attackers hesitated, knowing the reputation of the man with whom they had to deal. To attempt to scale the palisade at that point meant certain loss, and they were not strong enough to take the risk. Hunted and hunters glared at each other over the pine bars. "Get you round, Jesse," whispered Penfold. "The dog is bold because he knows his back is safe."

Woodfield ran beneath the palisading to a place known to him, where he might scale the fence and so take the priest from behind.

La Salle detected the ruse and taunted his baiters in native French, while his keen eyes sought an opportunity to strike. He bent cautiously and gathered a handful of sand. Hough sprang upon the bars, and for the first time swords were clashed; for the first time also the Puritan realised the power of the priest's wrist. The point escaped his forearm by a mere margin, and La Salle laughed contemptuously.

"Brave Lutherans!" he cried. "Four soldiers against a priest.

Advance, soldiers. The point a trifle higher. The elbow close to the side. Now you stand too near together."

"Wait until friend Woodfield comes up," muttered Flower. "Then he shall laugh his last."

As he spoke there came a sound through the moonbeams, as it were the vibrating of the wings of a humming-bird, and to the music of this disturbance Flower flung up his arms with a choking cough and closed his sentence with a gasp of pain. His sword darted to the ground. He swayed to and fro, his eyes wild, his mouth open in a useless endeavour to appeal to his comrades, and then plunged down, like a man diving into the water to swim, and sprawled at their feet, with a rough shaft topped by a crow's feather springing from his back.

A cloud of sand stung the faces of the survivors, and before they could recover their eyesight, or awaken to the knowledge of Woodfield's approaching shout, La Salle was across the bars and bearing down upon them, his cold face branded with its mocking smile. He dashed their opposition aside, and turned, flushed with success, to renew the struggle, the taunts still ringing from his tongue.

But help was near at hand. Before the maddened and half stupefied Englishmen were able to move the night again resounded. Blood had scented the foe and could no longer be restrained. The priest wheeled round when he heard those howls, and escaped into the shadows with Penfold and Woodfield at his heels.

There was indeed one man, and he the most vengeful of his enemies, who might have outstripped the priest, but it so happened that the long-striding Puritan had lost his reason. Obeying the first impulse, he pursued the traitress, mad to avenge the good yeoman who was stretched to his long sleep at the entrance to New Windsor. Nor did he realise his mistake until the shadow, after mocking him for a long mile, flitted into the unknown depths of the bush, and so disappeared.

"Fear not, masters," called young Richard, as boy and dog pa.s.sed, running as freshly as at the start. "Do but show my father which way I have gone. Blood shall hunt the Frenchman down, and I shall slay him.

I shall slay him, friends."

They swept on, flinging the dew across the bars of moonshine. That triumphant voice came back to the two men as they slackened speed for lack of breath: "I shall slay the Frenchman. I shall slay him, friends."

Penfold sank upon a bed of moss and panted into his hands. Woodfield stood near, his breath coming in white steam, his breast rising and falling.

"It is G.o.d's way, neighbour," he said gently.

The old leader's voice came in a sobbing whisper:

"Through the device of the devil, smitten down foully.... A man of few words, a good soul, with a smile for all. I knew him as a boy at home, a gentle boy, who would never join in stoning birds in the hedgerow or in killing b.u.t.terflies, because, quoth he, G.o.d made them to give us song and happiness. And yet none quicker than he at ball or quintain, none braver at quarterstaff. Twice won he the silver arrow in Holborn Fields, and at home would lead his mother to church a' Sundays, and a'

week-day drive the horses out to field. A sober lad as ever sang with the lark beside our Thames.... An arrow in the back, an arrow shot by an Indian witch. It pa.s.ses all. Call you that G.o.d's way? G.o.d wills a man to die in fair fight, with his death in front. And this! Oh, George! To fall like a beast hunted for the pot."