CHAPTER XIV.
WHERE THE DEAD SIT.
"They need not starve us," said Menard, trying to speak lightly. "I amhungry."
The others made no reply.
"I will see what chance we have for a supper."
He got up and walked along the path looking for the guards. In a shorttime he returned.
"They will bring us something. The sentiment is not so strong againstus now, I think."
"They change quickly," said Father Claude.
"Yes. It is the Big Throat."
"And yourself, M'sieu," the maid said impulsively. "You have done it,too."
"I cannot tell. We do not know what the council may decide. It may bemorning before they will come to an agreement. The Long Arrow willfight to the last."
"And the other, M'sieu,--the one who attacked you,--he too willfight?"
"He is nothing. When an Iroquois shows himself a coward his influenceis gone forever. It may be even that they will give him a new namebecause of this."
"There are times when a small accident or a careless word will changethe mind of a nation," said Father Claude. "When we left the councilthey were not unfriendly to us. But in an hour it may be that theywill renew the torture. Until their hearts have been touched by theFaith there are but two motives behind the most of their actions,expediency and revenge. But I think we may hope. Brother deLamberville has told of many cases of torture where the right appealhas brought a complete change."
So they talked on, none having anything to say, and yet each dreadingthe silences that came so easily and hung over them so heavily. Theycould see the council-house some distance up the path. Its outlineswere lost in the shadows of the trees, but through the crevices in thebark and logs came thin lines of light, and a glow shone through thelong roof opening upon the smoke that hung in the still air above it.Sometimes they could hear indistinctly the voice of a speaker; but thewords could not be distinguished. At other times there was a low buzzof voices. The children and women who had not been able to get intothe building could be seen moving about outside shutting off a stripof light here and there.
Two braves came with some corn and smoked meat. Menard set it down ona corner of the blanket.
"You will eat, Mademoiselle?"
She shook her head. "I am not hungry. Thank you, M'sieu."
"If I may ask it,--if I may insist,--it is really necessary,Mademoiselle."
She reached out, with a weary little gesture, and took some of thecorn.
"And you too, Father."
They ate in silence, and later went together to the spring for a cooldrink.
"We ought to make an effort to sleep," Menard said; and added, "if wecan. Father, you had better lie down. In a few hours, if there is noword, I will wake you."
"You will not forget, M'sieu? You will not let me sleep too long."
"No." The Captain smiled. "No, Father; you shall take your turn atguard duty."
The priest said good-night, and went to a knoll not far from the door.The maid had settled back against the logs of the hut, and was gazingat the trees. Menard sat in silence for a few moments.
"Mademoiselle," he said at length, "I know that it will be hard foryou to rest until we have heard; but--" he hesitated, but she did nothelp him, and he had to go on,--"I wish you would try."
"It would be of no use, M'sieu."
"I know,--I know. But we have much to keep in mind. It has been veryhard. Any one of us is likely to break. And you have not been so usedto this life as the Father and I."
"I know it," she said, still looking at the elm branches that bentalmost to the ground before them, "but when I lie down, and close myeyes, and let my mind go, it seems as if I could not stand it. It isnot bad now; I can be very cool now. You see, M'sieu?" She turnedtoward him with the trace of a smile. "But when I let go--perhaps youdo not know how it is; the thoughts that come, and the dreams,--when Iam awake and yet not awake,--and the feeling that it is not worthwhile, this struggle, even to what it may bring if we succeed. Itmakes the night a torture, and the dread of another day is even worse.It is better to stay awake; it is better even to break. Anything isbetter."
Menard looked down between his knees at the ground. He did notunderstand what it was that lay behind her words. He started to speak,then stopped. After a little he found himself saying words that cameto his lips with no effort; in fact, he did not seem able to checkthem.
"It is not right that I should be here near you. I gave up that rightto-night. I gave it up yesterday. I have been proud, during theseyears of fighting, that I was a soldier. I had thought, too, that Iwas a man. It was hardly a week ago that I rebuked that poor boy forwhat I have since done myself. I promised Major Provost that I wouldtake you safely to Frontenac. That I have failed is only a littlething. I have said to you--no, you must not stop me. We have gonealready beyond that point. We understand now. I have tried to be toyou more than--than I had a right to be while you were in my care.Danton did not know; Father Claude does not know. You know, because Ihave told you. I have shown you in a hundred ways."
"No," she said, in a choking voice. "It is my fault. I allowed you."
He shook his head.
"That is nothing. It is not what you have done. It is not even whatyou think. It is what I shall think and know all my life,--that I havedone the wrong thing. There are some of us, Mademoiselle, who have nohome, no ties of family, no love, except for the work in which we areslowly building up a good name and a firm place. That is what I was.Do you know what it is that makes up the life of such a man? It is thelittle things, the acts of every day and every week; and they must behonest and loyal, or he will fail. I might have stayed in Paris, Imight even have found a place in Quebec where I could wear a brightuniform, and be close in the Governor's favour. I chose the othercourse. I have given a dozen years to the harder work, only to fallwithin the week from all that I had hoped,--had thought myself to be.And now, as I speak to you, I know that I have lost; that if youshould smile at me, should put your hand in mine, everything that Ihave been working for would be nothing to me. You would be the onlything in the world."
She sat motionless. He did not go on, and yet each moment seemed tobring them closer in understanding. After a little while she saidhuskily:--
"You cared--you cared like that?"
She was not looking toward him, and she could not see him slowly bowhis head; but there was an answer in his silence.
"You cared--when you made the speech--"
"Yes."
She looked at the stalwart, bowed figure. She was beginning tounderstand what he had done, that in his pledge to the chiefs he hadtriumphed over a love greater than she had supposed a man could bearfor a woman.
"A soldier cannot always choose his way," he was saying. "I have neverchosen mine. It was the orders of my superior that brought us here,that brought this suffering to you. If it were not for these orders,the Onondagas would be my friends, and because of that, your friends.It has always been like this; I have built up that others might teardown. I thought for a few hours that something else was to come to me.I should have known better. It was when you took the daisy--" sheraised her hand and touched the withered flower. "I did not reason. Iknew I was breaking my trust, and I did not care. After all, perhapseven that was the best thing. It gave me strength and hope to carry onthe fight. It was you, then,--not New France. Now the dream is over,and again it is New France. It must be that."
"Yes," she said, "it must be."
"I have had wild thoughts. I have meant to ask you to let me hope,once this is over and you safe at Frontenac. I could not believe thatwhat comes so easily to other men is never to come to me. I cannot askthat now."
She looked at him, and a sudden glow came into her eyes.
"Why not?" she whispered, as if frightened.
"Why not," he repeated, for an instant meeting her gaze. Then he roseand stood before her. "Because I have given an oath to bring Captainla Grange to punishment. You heard me. But you did not h
ear what Ipromised to Father Claude. I have sworn that what the Governor mayrefuse to do, I shall do myself. I have set my hand against yourfamily."
"You could not help it, M'sieu,--you could not help it," she said. Butthe light was going out of her eyes. It had been a moment of weaknessfor both of them. She looked up at him, standing erect in the faintlight, and the sight of his square, broad shoulders seemed to give herstrength. He was the strong one; he had always been the strong one.She rose and leaned back against the logs. She found that she couldface him bravely.
"He is your cousin," he had just said in a dry voice.
"Yes, he is my cousin."
Menard was steadily recovering himself.
"We will not give all up. You know that I love you,--I hope that youlove me." He hesitated for an instant, but she gave no sign. "We willkeep the two flowers. We will always think of this day, and yesterday.I have no duty now but to get you safe to Frontenac; until you arethere I must not speak again. As for the rest of it, we can only wait,and trust that some day there may be some light."
She looked at him sadly.
"You do not know? Father Claude has not told you?"
Something in her voice brought him a step nearer.
"You know that Captain la Grange is my cousin?"
"Yes."
"You did not know that I am to be his wife?"
They stood face to face, looking deep into each other's eyes, while along minute dragged by, and the rustling night sounds and the call ofthe crickets came to their ears.
"No," he said, "I did not know. May I keep the flower, Mademoiselle?"
She bowed her head. She could not speak.
"Good-night."
"Good-night."
He walked away. She saw him stop at the knoll where the priest layasleep on a bed of boughs, and stand for a moment gazing down at him.Then he went into the shadows. From the crackling of the twigs sheknew that he was walking about among the trees. She sank to the groundand listened to the crickets. A frog bellowed in the valley; perhapshe had been calling before--she did not know.
She fell asleep, with her cheek resting against a mossy log. She didnot know when Menard came back and stood for a long time looking ather. He did not awaken Father Claude until long after the time forchanging the watch.
When he did, he walked up and down on the path, holding the priest'sarm, and trying to speak. They had rounded the large maple three timesbefore he said:--
"You did not tell me, Father."
"What, my son?"
The Captain stopped, and drawing the priest around, pointed toward themaid as she slept.
"You did not tell me--why we are taking her to Frontenac."
"No. She asked it. We spoke of it only once, that night on the river.She was confused, and she asked me not to speak. She does not knowhim. She has not seen him since she was a child."
Menard said nothing. He was gripping the priest's arm, and gazing atthe sleeping maid.
"It was her father," added Father Claude.
Menard's hand relaxed.
"Good-night, Father." He walked slowly toward the bed on the knoll.And Father Claude called softly after him:--
"Good-night, M'sieu. Good-night."
Menard lay awake. He could see the priest sitting by the door. Hewondered if the maid were sleeping. A late breeze came across thevalley, arousing the leaves and carrying a soft whisper from tree totree, until all the forest voices were joined. Lying on his side hecould see indistinctly the council-house. There were still the lightedcracks; the Long House was still in session. Their decision did notnow seem so vital a matter. The thought of the maid--that he wastaking her to be the wife of another, and that other La Grange--hadtaken the place of all other thoughts.
Later still came the buzz of many voices. Dark forms were moving aboutthe council-house. Menard raised himself to his elbow, and waiteduntil he saw a group approaching on the path, then he joined FatherClaude.
The Big Throat led the little band of chiefs to the hut. They stood,half a score of them, in a semicircle, their blankets drawn close,their faces, so far as could be seen in the dim light, stern andimpassive. Menard and the priest stood erect and waited.
"It has pleased the Great Mountain that his voice should be heard inthe Long House of the Iroquois," said the Big Throat, in a low, calmvoice. "His voice is gentle as the breeze and yet as strong as thewind. The Great Mountain has before promised many things to theIroquois. Some of the promises he has broken, some he has kept. Butthe Onondagas know that there is no man who keeps all his promises.They once thought they knew such a man, but they were mistaken. Whitemen, Indians,--all speak at night with a strong voice, in the morningwith a weak voice. Each draws his words sometimes off the top of hismind, where the truth and the strong words do not lie. The Onondagasare not children. They know the friend from the enemy. And they know,though he may sometimes fail them, that the Great Mountain is theirfriend, their father."
Menard bowed slowly, facing the chief with self-control as firm as hisown.
"They know," the Big Throat continued, "that the Indian has not alwayskept the faith with the white man. And then it is that the GreatMountain has been a kind father. If he thinks it right that ourbrothers, the Senecas, should meet with punishment for breaking thepeace promised to the white man by the Long House, the Onondagas arenot the children to say to their father, 'We care not if our brotherhas done wrong; we will cut off the hand that holds the whip ofpunishment.' The Onondagas are men. They say to the father, 'We carenot who it is that has done wrong. Though he be our next of blood, lethim be punished.' This is the word of the council to the Big Buffalowho speaks with his father's voice."
Well as he knew the Iroquois temperament, Menard could not keep anexpression of admiration from his eyes. He knew what this speechmeant,--that the Big Throat alone saw far into the future, saw that inthe conflict between red and white, the redman must inevitably loseunless he crept close under the arm that was raised to strike him. Itwas no sense of justice that prompted the Big Throat's words; it wasthe vision of one of the shrewdest statesmen, white or red, who hadyet played a part in the struggles for possession of the New World.Greatest of all, only a master could have convinced that hot-bloodedcouncil that peace was the safest course. The chief went on:--
"The Big Buffalo has spoken well to the council. He has told thechiefs that he has not been a traitor to the brothers who have for solong believed that his words were true words. The Big Buffalo is apine tree that took root in the lands of the Onondagas many wintersago. From these lands and these waters, and the sun and winds thatgive life to the corn and the trees of the Onondagas, he drew his sapand his strength. Can we then believe that this pine tree which weplanted and which has grown tall and mighty before our eyes, is not apine tree at all? When a quick-tongued young brave, who has not knownthe young tree as we have, comes to the council and says that this BigBuffalo, this pine tree, is not a pine but an elm with slippery bark,are we to believe him? Are we to drop from our minds what our heartsand eyes have long known, to forget what we have believed? My brothersof the Long House say no. They know that the pine tree is a pine tree.It may be that in the haze of the distance pine and elm look alike toyoung eyes; but what a chief has seen, he has seen; what he has known,he has known. The Big Buffalo speaks the truth to his Onondagabrothers, and with another sun he shall be free to go to his whitebrothers."
"The Big Throat has a faithful heart," said Menard, quietly. "He knowsthat the voice of Onontio is the voice of right and strength."
"The chiefs of the Onondagas and Cayugas will sit quietly before theirhouses with their eyes turned toward the lands beyond the great lake,waiting for the whisper that shall come with the speed of the windsover forests and waters to tell them that the white man has kept hispromise. When the dog who robbed our villages of a hundred bravewarriors has been slain, then shall they know that the Big Buffalo iswhat they have believed him to be, their brother."
"And the maid and the holy Father?"<
br />
"They are free. The chiefs are sorry that a foolish brave has capturedthe white man's squaw."
Menard and Father Claude bowed again, and the chiefs turned and strodeaway. The priest smiled gently after them.
"And now, M'sieu, we may rest quietly."
"Yes. You lie down, Father; it will not be necessary to watch now, andanyway I am not likely to sleep much." He walked back to the bed onthe knoll, leaving the priest to stretch out across the doorway.
The elder bushes and briers crowded close to the little clearingbehind the hut, and Menard, lying on his side with his face close tothe ground, watched the clusters of leaves as they gently rustled. Herolled half over and stared up at the bits of sky that showed throughthe trees. It seemed as if the great world were a new thing, as ifthese trees and bushes and reaches of tufted grass were a part of anew life. Before, they had played their part in his rugged lifewithout asking for recognition; but to-night they came into histhoughts with their sympathy, and he wondered that all this greatworld of summer green and winter white, and of blue and green andlead-coloured water could for so long have influenced him withoutconsciousness on his part. But his life had left little time for suchthoughts; to-night he was unstrung.
Over the noise of the leaves and the trickle of the spring sounded arustle. It was not loud, but it was a new sound, and his eyes soughtthe bushes. The noise came, and stopped; came, and stopped. Evidentlysomeone was creeping slowly toward the hut; but the sound was on thefarther side of him, so that he could reach the maid's side beforewhoever was approaching could cross the clearing.
For a time the noise died altogether. Then, after a space, his eyes,sweeping back and forth along the edge of the brush, rested on abright bit of metal that for an instant caught the light of the sky,probably a weapon or a head ornament. Menard was motionless. Finallyan Indian stepped softly out and stood beside a tree. When he began tomove forward the Captain recognized Tegakwita, and he spoke his name.
The Indian came rapidly over the grass with his finger at his lips.
"Do not speak loud," he whispered. "Do not wake the holy Father."
"Why do you come creeping upon my house at night, like a robber?"
"Tegakwita is sad for his sister. His heart will not let him go amongmen about the village; it will not let his feet walk on the commonpath."
"Why do you come?"
"Tegakwita seeks the Big Buffalo."
"It cannot be for an honest reason. You lay behind the bush. You sawme here and thought me asleep, but you did not approach honestly. Youcrept through the shadows like a Huron."
"Tegakwita's night eyes are not his day eyes. He could not see who thesleeping man was. When he heard the voice, he came quickly."
Menard looked at the musket that rested in the Indian's hand, at thehatchet and knife that hung from his belt.
"You are heavily armed, Tegakwita. Is it for the war-path or the hunt?Do Onondaga warriors carry their weapons from house to house in theirown village?"
The Indian made a little gesture of impatience.
"Tegakwita has no house. His house has been dishonoured. He livesunder the trees, and carries his house with him. All that he has is inhis hand or his belt. The Big Buffalo speaks strangely."
Menard said nothing for a moment. He looked up, with a keen gaze, atthe erect figure of the Indian. Finally he said:--
"Sit down, Tegakwita. Tell me why you came."
"No. Tegakwita cannot rest himself until his sister has reached theHappy Hunting-Ground."
"Very well, do as you like. But waste no more time. What is it?"
"The Big Buffalo has been an Onondaga. He knows the city in the valleywhere the dead sit in their graves. It is there that my sister lies,by an open grave, waiting for the farewell word of him who alone isleft to say farewell to her. Tegakwita's Onondaga brothers will notgather at the grave of a girl who has given up her nation for a whitedog. But he can ask the Big Buffalo, who brought the white dog to ourvillage, to come to the side of the grave."
"Your memory is bad, Tegakwita. It was not I who brought the whitebrave. It was you who brought him, his two hands tied with thongs."
The Indian stood, without replying, looking down at him withbrilliant, staring eyes.
Menard spoke again.
"You want me to go with you. You slip through the bushes like a snake,with your musket and your knife and your hatchet, to ask me to go withyou to the grave of your sister. Do I speak rightly, Tegakwita?"
"The Big Buffalo has understood."
Menard slowly rose and looked into the Indian's eyes.
"I have no weapons, Tegakwita. The chiefs who have set me free havenot yet returned the musket which was taken from me. It is dangerousto go at night through the forest without a weapon. Give me yourhatchet and I will go with you."
Tegakwita's lip curled almost imperceptibly.
"The White Chief is afraid of the night?"
Menard, too, looked scornful. He coolly waited.
"The Big Buffalo cannot face the dead without a hatchet in his hand?"said Tegakwita.
Menard suddenly sprang forward and snatched the hatchet from theIndian's belt. It was a surprise, and the struggle was brief.Tegakwita was thrown a step backward. He hesitated between strugglingfor the hatchet and striking with the musket; before he had fullyrecovered and dropped the musket, Menard had leaped back and stoodfacing him with the hatchet in his right hand.
"Now I will go with you to the city of the dead, Tegakwita."
The Indian's breath was coming quickly, and he stood with clenchedfists, taken aback by the Captain's quickness.
"Come, I am ready. Pick up your musket."
As Tegakwita stooped, Menard glanced toward the hut. The priest layasleep before the door. It was better to get this madman away than toleave him free to prowl about the hut.
The Road to Frontenac Page 14