"In years to come," said Madeleine, "a city perchance may grow in this solitude, and where we now sit a palace or a cathedral may be built, a king may command, a pastor teach his people, bells may ring for Christmas, and heralds sound their trumpets. But we shall not see that city, my Geoffrey. We shall look below the brick and the stir of people, and we shall see a hill of white gra.s.s with old pines atop, and below streaming rocks and decaying trunks, with beyond a grove all covered in damp gloom and lashed by wind."

"I can see the faces of my friends," he muttered.

The girl turned upon his shoulder and drew his face lower with her cold hand, lifting her own until their eyes met.

"Look there," she entreated. "Tell me what you see."

"Heaven opening." He paused. "I see also my duty to my neighbour."

Madeleine's head drooped. Presently a small voice whispered out of the wind, "I would have you obey that message, lest by offending G.o.d we wreck our happiness."

"I live upon your will."

"You must leave me. You shall not see me shed a tear. But I must have you for this day, and afterwards"--she caught her breath. "Had ever a young soldier so brave a love?"

He kissed her hands, and her cold face, and her hair, which dripped like seaweed.

"No ifs," she implored, when her ears caught his broken words. "The doubter fails. Look upon the deed as done, and G.o.d shall pardon the presumption, because He was once a young man upon earth, and He knows the longing of a brave heart. Already I think of you, not as going forth to duty, but as returning to claim me for your bride."

"I shall succeed," he cried, in a voice which defied the winds.

"Madeleine, you have made me strong. Listen, sweet. I have a home in Virginia, most fair, they say, of England's colonies, and I come to take you there. I have a house in a garden where the sun never sets, and where a river runs gently to the sea between banks of flowers.

There is no hard winter or rough wind there, neither enemy nor noise of battle to terrify your dear heart. There the potato grows, and the white tobacco blooms scent the night, and there the voice of Nature sings of peace. Will come with me, sweet?"

"You have learnt your lesson," she sighed, content.

Misty rain smote them, but they strained at each other and laughed at it. The cold numbed their feet, but their hearts were so warm that they did not heed it. Nature thundered at them, but the roar of menace became a triumphal march, and the shriek of the fiends a benediction.

"This one day you shall spare to me," said Madeleine. "Let us spend it as a day to be remembered. I have a cave down yonder, around which I have trailed the bushes and taught ivy to grow. There we will build a fire and I will be your housewife. Come! let us run along the wind."

He bent to a.s.sist her, and she feigned to be stiff with cold, the lovely traitor, so that she might feel his arms about her. Hand in hand they ran, the rain and wind driven upon their backs, the angry sky lowering upon the two who thus dared to endure the perils of life so happily. But the lovers knew that behind the damp gloom and the storm smiled the kindly sun; and they knew that he would conquer in good time.

So that happy day drew to its end in mist and rain, and the wind died down, and the storm clouds went out of the sky one by one. The moon broke wanly into light and a pale star of hope gazed serenely down.

Nature wearied of her tumult, and old aeolus drove the turbulent north wind back into its cave and set his seal upon the mouth.

Geoffrey and Madeleine stood struggling to part. There was no tear in the violet eyes of brave beauty as she looked up smiling, dwelling always upon the future to sweeten the bitterness of the present. "Love must be tested," she murmured with her radiant philosophy. "Hearts must be tried. Geoffrey, I love you."

"Madeleine, I love you."

She stood alone, swaying weakly, her face as pale as the moon. Then she laughed to drown the beating of her heart, threw out her hands, and ran breathlessly up the hill where the ragged pines merely nodded, and down into the plain towards the grove, crying to the solitude:

"Life is glorious--glorious!"

CHAPTER XVI.

CLAIRVOYANCE.

While Geoffrey Viner was winning the love of Madeleine Labroquerie, and escaping the snare which La Salle had contrived for his capture, history was being made around the river and the heights. The priest's daring venture into the forbidden country acted upon the tribes of the Iroquois confederacy as a spark upon gunpowder; and when it became known from one camp-fire to another that George Flower, and Richard, son of Gitsa, had fallen upon Cayuga territory by the hand of a Frenchman, the native stoicism was changed into madness and the signal for a general uprising went throughout the land. It was the eve of that great a.s.sault upon the French position which lives in oral tradition among those degraded descendants of a once great people who occupy the maritime provinces of to-day.

Previous to that struggle, one phase of which was shown through the portent of the mirage to La Salle while he stood in the haunted grove, many deeds occurred which the chronicler cannot afford to pa.s.s over.

The narrative must therefore be resumed upon the second morning following the dispersion of the venturers, that morning which saw Mary Iden set forth on her mission of vengeance, and Oskelano returning to his fastness in the north to prepare his men for battle.

The sun had fought down the mists, and black craft of the fishermen were already leaping along the river, when Van Vuren abandoned the fortress and climbed the cliff, hoping, as every day he hoped, to find some trace of his missing men. The night had been cold with north wind, and the rock country, was still haunted with wet and flickering shadows. One shadow, so dark and angular as to attract the Dutchman's eyes, lurked under a crag, as a patch of sheltered ice might linger in the midst of a land steaming with sunshine; but when Van Vuren approached, this shadow moved and took upon itself a semblance of humanity, and with the dispelling of the illusion the Dutchman beheld the evil face of Gaudriole.

"Adversity finds hard resting-places, my captain," said the dwarf, as he crawled forth. "Your rock makes a bed rougher than a paving-stone, but methinks a safer. Here a rogue may snore in his sleep without bringing the king's men upon him. I have a message for you, my captain."

"Hast any tidings of my men?" asked the Dutchman eagerly.

The head of the dwarf was on a level with his elbow; his matted hair was wet with mist. His habiliments, partly native, partly civilised, surrounded his crooked body in a ragged suit of motley; and a long knife was driven into his belt.

"He who answers must be paid," answered the hunchback, grinning.

"Perchance you have already been paid," said Van Vuren suspiciously.

"The honourable captain possesses the gift of Divination," sneered Gaudriole. "See you how low yonder warship sits in the water?" he went on, pointing down at the _St. Wenceslas_, which had lately arrived at that coast. "Is it true, as I have heard the settlers say, that she is loaded with gold from the sh.o.r.e of Labrador? 'Tis said that a man may there see the precious metal shining at his feet, and has but to bend to gather sufficient for a knight's ransom."

"I pray you give me the message, good dwarf," said Van Vuren flatteringly.

"The cloak upon my captain's shoulders is of a truth a thing to be desired," Gaudriole went on, fingering the rich stuff with his grimy fingers. "Were it upon my back, 'twould handsomely conceal some very clumsy work of nature. 'Tis the cloth that makes the courtier." He burst into a raucous laugh, as he danced the cold out of his limbs.

"His Excellency the commandant shall loosen that insolent tongue,"

cried Van Vuren hotly.

Gaudriole snapped his fingers in the Dutchman's face as he retorted: "This is not the old world, my brave captain, and there is no restraint upon lying here. Gaudriole is now a citizen of the New World. The Cardinal himself is but a shadow here. Even a mountebank of the gutter may turn traitor in the wilderness. Gaudriole is a man this side o'

the sea. Were we in Paris I might bow to kiss your garments, and call you Holiness an you desired it. Here the jester is as good as the general. Hunt me into yonder forest at your sword-end, bold captain, and bid me play the will o' the wisp. I should but disappear into a thicket ahead, rise up at your back, and this knife and a moss-swamp would settle all your business. Doff your hat to a fool, captain, and give him pipe and tobacco."

Van Vuren clenched his teeth. He would then have given even his cloak to effectually silence that biting tongue. But he was a stranger upon French territory, and he knew that the slender tie of alliance would not stand a strain. He prudently choked down his anger, and satisfied the dwarf's more reasonable demand.

"Never was a better gift sent to man than this same tobacco," said Gaudriole. "See you, captain, how excellent are its qualities. It shall manage the warrior beyond the arts of woman. No man shall use the good smoke in anger, because at the first taste peace settles upon his body and his soul desires to be alone. But 'tis a dangerous drug upon an empty stomach."

"The message," said Van Vuren impatiently.

"Yonder comes in a good burden of fish," resumed Gaudriole, gazing down indifferently to indicate a boat grating across the shingle. "I know the oaf, one Nichet, who at home had not the wit to make a living.

Here he becomes a man with a name. This land is Paradise for those not wanted across sea. Nichet shall presently leave his boat, to find himself a stone to anchor her, and then I shall pa.s.s that way and take of his best fish for my breakfast. The knave profits by the fool's work. Fare you well, brave captain."

"The message, villain," broke in Van Vuren.

"Ah! I grow forgetful. 'Tis said that the Abbe La Salle is to go from here to the land which the Scotch discovered and the valiant French took from them, to that country upon the gulf which we call Acadie. A happy quittance, say I. The abbe is too perilously apt with his long sword. Let them send the fat pig Laroche after him, and this fortress shall grow more peaceful than the streets of Versailles. Let there be trouble, you shall always find a fat priest at the root of it."

"Let La Salle descend into the bottomless pit," cried the Dutchman violently. "And Heaven be praised if he drags you down with him.

Deliver me the message, hunchback."

"Now Nichet moves away to search for a fitting stone," went on Gaudriole. "Had I a message for you, captain? Let me consider. My memory is weak of a morning." He struck out his long arm suddenly.

"Dost see that man signalling from yonder sh.o.r.e?"

Van Vuren turned quickly. "Where?" he exclaimed.