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The old man's brow contracted, and a livid pallor covered his face.

"You are very young, sir," he said, "to have the right to bring such accusations against an old man whose actions, life, and even name are unknown to you."

"That is true, sir," the Count answered, nobly. "Pardon any insult my words may have conveyed."

"Why should I be angry with you?" he continued, in a sad voice; "a child born yesterday, whose eyes opened amid songs and fêtes, whose life, which counts but a few days, has been spent gently and calmly in the peace and prosperity of that beloved France which I weep for every day."

"Who are you, sir?" he asked.

"Who I am?" the old man said, bitterly. "I am one of those crushed Titans who sat in the Convention of 1793."

The Count fell back a pace, letting fall the hand he had taken.

"Oh!" he said.

The exile looked at him searchingly.

"Enough of this," he said, raising his head and assuming a firm and resolute tone; "you are in our hands, sir, any resistance will be useless; so listen to our propositions."

The Count shrugged his shoulders.

"You throw off the mask," he said, "and I prefer that; but allow me one remark before listening to you."

"What is it?"

"I am of noble birth, as you are aware, and hence we are old enemies; on whatever ground we may meet, we can only stand face to face, never side by side."

"They are ever the same," the other muttered; "this haughty race may be broken, but not bent."

The Count bowed, and folded his arms on his breast.

"I am waiting," he said.

"Time presses," the exile continued; "any discussion between us would be superfluous, as we cannot agree."

"At least, that is clear," the Count remarked, with a smile; "now for the rest."

"It is this: in two days, all the Indian nations will rise as one man to crush the American tyranny."

"What do I care for that? Have I come so far to dabble in politics?"

The exile repressed a movement of anger.

"Unfortunately, your will is not free; you are here to obey our conditions, and not to impose your own: you must accept or die."

"Oh, oh, always your old means, as it seems, but I will be patient: come, what is it you expect from me?"

"We demand," he went on, laying a stress on every word, "that you should take the command of all the warriors, and direct the expedition in person."

"Why I, rather than anyone else?"

"Because you alone can play the part we give you."

"Nonsense – you are mad."

"You must be so, if, since your stay among the Indians, you have not seen that you would have been killed long ago, had we not been careful to spread reports about you, which gained you general respect, in spite of your rashness and blind confidence in yourself."

"Eh, then, this has been prepared a long time?"

"For centuries."

"Hang it!" the Count went on, still sarcastically, "what have I to do in all this?"

"Oh, sir, not much," the White Buffalo answered, with a sneer; "and anyone else would have suited us just as well; unfortunately for you, you have an extraordinary likeness to the man who can alone march at our head; and as this man died long ago, it is not probable that he will come from his grave expressly to guide us to battle; hence you must take his place."

"Very well; and would there be any indiscretion in asking you the name of the man to whom I bear so wonderful a likeness?"

"Not the slightest," the old man replied, coldly; "the more so, because you have doubtlessly already heard his name; it is Motecuhzoma."

The Count burst into a laugh.

"Come!" he said, "it is a capital joke; but I find it a little too long. Now, a word in my turn."

"Speak."

"Whatever you may do, whatever means you may employ, I will never consent to serve you in any way. Now, as I am your guest, placed under the guarantee of your honour, I request you to let me pass."

"That resolution is decided."

"Yes."

"You will not change it."

"Whatever happens."

"We shall see that," the old man remarked, coldly.

The Count looked at him contemptuously.

"Make way there," he said, resolutely.

The two Chiefs shrugged their shoulders.

"We are savages," Natah Otann said, gibingly.

"Make way!" the Count repeated, as he cocked his rifle.

Natah Otann whistled; in an instant, some fifteen Indians rushed from the wood, and fell on the white men, who, however, though surprised, endured the shock bravely. Standing instinctively back to back, with shoulder supported against shoulder, they suddenly formed a tremendous triangle, before which the Redskins were constrained to halt.

"Oh, oh," Bright-eye said, "I fancy we are going to have some fun."

"Yes," Ivon muttered, crossing himself piously; "but we shall be killed."

"Probably," the Canadian said.

"Fall back!" the Count ordered.

The three men then began to retire slowly toward the wood, the only shelter that offered, without separating, and still pointing their rifles at the Indians. The Redskins are brave, even rash; that question cannot be disguised or doubted; but with them courage is calculated; they never fight save to gain an object, and are not fond of risking their lives unprofitably. They hesitated.

"I fancy we did well to reload our arms," the Count said, ironically, but with perfect calmness.

"By Jove!" Bright-eye said, with a grin.

"No matter, I am very frightened," Ivon groaned his eyes sparkling and his lips quivering.

"Eha, sons of blood!" Natah Otann shouted, as he cocked his gun. "Do three Palefaces frighten you? Forward! Forward!"

The Indians uttered their war yell, and rushed on the hunters. The other Indians, warned of what was happening by the shouts of their comrades, ran up hurriedly to take part in the fight.

CHAPTER XXI
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

We must leave our three valiant champions for a few moments in their present critical position, to speak of one of the important persons of this story, whom we have neglected too long.

Immediately after the departure of the Indians, John Black, with that American activity equalled in no other country, set to work, beginning his clearing. The peril he had incurred, and which he had only escaped by a miracle incomprehensible to him, had caused him to make very earnest reflections. He understood that in the isolated spot where he was, he could not expect assistance from anyone; that he must alone confront the danger that would doubtlessly menace him; and that, consequently, he must, before all else, think about defending the settlement against a coup de main, Major Melville had heard, through his engagés and trappers, of the colonist; but the latter was perfectly ignorant that he was only ten miles from Fort Mackenzie. His resolution once formed, John Black carried it out immediately.

To those people who have not seen American clearings, the processes employed by the squatters, and the skill with which they cut down the largest trees in a few moments, would appear as prodigies. Black considered that he had not a moment to lose, and, aided by his son and servants, set to work. The temporary camp, as we have seen, was situated on a rather high mound, which commanded the plain for a long distance. It was here that the colonist determined to build his house. He began by planting all round the platform of the hill a row of enormous stakes, twelve feet high, and fastened together by large bolts. This first enceinte finished, he dug behind it a trench about eight feet wide and fifteen deep, throwing up the earth on the edge, so as to form a second line of defence. Then, in the interior of this improvised fortress, which, if defended by a resolute garrison, was impregnable, unless cannon were brought up to form a breach – for the abrupt slope of the hill rendered any assault impossible – he laid the foundation of his family's future abode. The temporary arrangements he had made allowed him to continue his further labours less hastily; through his prodigious activity, he could defy the attacks of all the prowlers on the prairie.

His wife and daughter had actively helped him, for they understood, better than the rest of the family, the utility of these defensive works. The poor ladies, little used to the rude toil they had been engaged in, needed rest. Black had not spared himself more than the rest. He understood the justice of his wife and daughter's entreaties, and as he had nothing to fear for the present, he generously granted a whole day's rest to the little colony.

The events that marked the squatter's arrival in the province had left a profound impression on the hearts of Mrs. Black and her daughter. Diana, especially, had maintained a recollection of the Count, which time, far from weakening, rendered only the more vivid. The Count's chivalrous character, the noble way in which he had acted, and – let us speak the truth – his physical qualities, all combined to render him dear to the young girl, whose life had hitherto passed away calmly, nothing happening to cast a cloud over her heart. Many times since the young man's departure she stopped in her work, raised her head, looked anxiously around her, and then resumed her toil, while stifling a sigh.

Mothers are quick-sighted, especially those who, like Mrs. Black, really love their daughters. What her husband and son did not suspect, then, she guessed merely by looking for a few minutes at the poor girl's pale face, her eyes surrounded by a dark ring, her pensive look, and inattention.

Diana was in love.

Mrs. Black looked around her. No one could be the object of that love. So far back as she could remember, she called to mind no one her daughter had appeared to distinguish before their departure from the clearing, where she had passed her youth. Besides, when the little party set out in search of a fresh home, Diana seemed joyful, she prattled gaily as a bird, and appeared to trouble herself about none of those she left behind.

After these reflections, the mother sighed in her turn; for, if she had divined her daughter's love, she had been unable to discover the man who was the object of that love. Mrs. Black resolved to cross-question her daughter as soon as she happened to be alone with her; till then she feigned to be in perfect ignorance. The day of rest granted by John Black to his family would probably offer her the favourable opportunity she awaited so impatiently. Hence she joyfully received the news which her husband gave her in the evening after prayers, which, according to the custom of the family, were said in common before going to bed.

The next morning, at sunrise, according to their daily habit, the two ladies prepared the breakfast, while the servants led the cattle down to the river.

"Wife," the squatter said, at breakfast, "William and I intend, as work is suspended for today, to mount our horses, and go and visit the neighbourhood, which we have not seen yet."

"Do not go too far, my friend, and be well armed; you know that in the desert dangerous meetings are not rare."

"Yes; so be at ease. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear for the present, I will be prudent. Would you not feel inclined to accompany us, as well as Diana, and take a look at your new domain?"

The girl's eyes glistened with joy at this proposition; she opened her lips to reply; but her mother laid her hand on her mouth, and spoke instead of her.

"You must excuse us, my dear," she said, with a certain degree of vivacity, "but women, as you know, have always something to do. Diana and I will put everything in order during your absence, which our busy labours of the last few days have prevented us doing."

"As you please, wife."

"Besides," she continued, with a smile; "as we shall probably remain a long time here – "

"I fancy so," the squatter interrupted.

"Well, I shall not lack opportunity of visiting our domains, as you call them, another day."

"Excellently argued, ma'am, and I am quite of your opinion; William and I will therefore take our ride alone; I would ask you not to feel alarmed if we do not come home till rather late."

"No; but on condition that you return before night."

"Agreed."

They spoke of something else; still, towards the end of the meal, Sam, without suspecting it, brought the conversation back nearly to the same subject.

"I am certain, James," he said to his comrade, "that the young man was not a Canadian, as you fancy, but a Frenchman."

"Who are you talking about?" the squatter asked.

"The gentleman who accompanied the Redskins, and made them give us back our cattle."

"Yes, without counting the other obligations we are under to him, for if I am now the owner of a clearing, it was through him."

"He is a worthy gentleman," Mrs. Black said, with a purpose.

"Yes, yes," Diana murmured, in an indistinct voice.

"He is a Frenchman," Black asserted. "There cannot be a doubt of that: those Canadian scoundrels are incapable of acting in the way he did to us."

Like all the North Americans, Black heartily detested the Canadians; why he did so, he could not have said, but this hatred was innate in his heart.

"Bah!" William said, "what matter his country, he has a fine heart, and is a true gentleman. For my part, father, I know a certain William Black, who is ready to die for him."

"By heaven!" the squatter exclaimed, as he struck the table with his fist, "you would be only doing your duty, and discharging a sacred debt: I would give anything to see him again, and prove to him that I am not ungrateful."

"Well spoken, father," William said joyously; "honest men are too rare in the world for us not to cling to those we know; if we should meet again, I will show him what sort of man I am."

During this rapid interchange of words, Diana said nothing; she listened, with outstretched neck, beaming face, and a smile on her lips, happy to hear a man thus spoken of, whom she unconsciously loved since she first saw him. Mrs. Black thought it prudent to turn the conversation.

"There is another person to whom we owe great obligations; for if Heaven had not sent her at the right moment to our help, we should have been pitilessly massacred by the Indians; have you already forgotten that person?"

"God forbid!" the squatter exclaimed, quickly, "the poor creature did me too great a service for me to forget her."

"But who on earth can she be?" William said.

"I should be much puzzled to say; I believe even that the Indians and trappers, who cross the prairies, could give us no information about her."

"She only appeared and disappeared," James observed.

"Yes, but her passage, so rapid as it was, left deep traces," Mrs. Black said.

"Her mere presence was enough to terrify the Indians. That woman I shall always regard as a good genius, whatever opinion may be expressed about her in my presence."

"We owe it to her that we did not suffer atrocious torture."

"May God bless the worthy creature!" the squatter exclaimed; "if ever she have need of us, she can come in all certainty; I and all I possess are at her disposal."

The meal was over, and they rose from the table. Sam had saddled two horses. John Black and his son took their pistols, bowie knives, and rifles, mounted their horses, and after promising once again not to be late, they cautiously descended the winding path leading into the plain.

Diana and her mother then began putting things to rights, as had been arranged. When Mrs. Black had watched the couple out of sight on the prairie, and assured herself that the two servants were engaged outside in mending some harness, she took her needlework, and requested her daughter to come and sit by her side. Diana obeyed with a certain inward apprehension, for never had her mother behaved to her so mysteriously. For a few minutes the two ladies worked silently opposite each other. At length Mrs. Black stopped her needle, and looked at her daughter; the latter continued her sewing, without appearing to notice this intermission.

"Diana," she asked her, "have you nothing to say to me?"

"I, mother?" the young girl said, raising her head with amazement.

"Yes, you, my child."

"Pardon me, mother," she went on, with a certain tremor in her voice, "but I do not understand you."

Mrs. Black sighed.

"Yes," she murmured, "and so it ever must be; a moment arrives when young girls have unconsciously a secret from their mothers."

The poor lady wiped away a tear; Diana rose quickly, and throwing her arms tenderly round her mother —

"A secret? I, a secret from you, mother? Oh, how could you suppose such a thing?"

"Child!" Mrs. Black replied, with a smile of ineffable kindness, "a mother's eye cannot be deceived;" and putting her finger on her daughter's palpitating heart, she said, "your secret is there."

Diana blushed, and drew back, confused.

"Alas!" the good lady continued, "I do not address reproaches to you, poor dear and well-beloved child. You unconsciously submit to the laws of nature; I too, at your age, was as you are at this moment, and when my mother asked my secret, like you, I replied that I had none, for I was myself ignorant of that secret."

The girl hid her face, all bathed in tears, in her mother's breast. The latter gently moved the flowing locks of light hair which covered her daughter's brow, and giving her a kiss, said, with that accent which mothers alone possess —

"Come, my dear Diana, dry your tears, do not trouble yourself so; only tell me your feelings during the last few days."

"Alas! my kind mother," the girl replied, smiling through her tears, "I understand nothing myself, and suffer without knowing why; I am restless, languid; everything disgusts and wearies me, and yet I fancy there has been no change in my life."

"You are mistaken, child," Mrs. Black answered, gravely, "your heart has spoken without your knowledge; thus, instead of the careless, laughing girl you were, you have become a woman, you have thought, your forehead has turned pale, and you suffer."

"Alas!" Diana murmured.

"Come, how long have you been so sad?"

"I know not, mother."

"Think again."

"I fancy it is – ."

Mrs. Black, understanding her daughter's hesitation, finished the sentence for her.

"Since the day after our arrival here, is it not?"

Diana raised to her mother her large blue eyes, in which profound amazement could be read.

"It is true," she murmured.

"Your sorrow began at the moment when the strangers, who so nobly aided us, took their leave?"

"Yes," the girl said, in a low voice, with downcast eyes and blushing forehead.

Mrs. Black continued smilingly her interesting interrogatory.

"On seeing them depart, your heart was contracted, your cheeks turned pale, you shuddered involuntarily, and, if I had not held you – I who watched you carefully, poor darling – you would have fallen. Is not all this true?"

"It is true, mother," the girl said, with a more assured voice.

"Good; and the man from whom you regret being separated – he who causes your present sorrow and suffering, is – ?"

"Mother!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into her arms, and hiding her shamed face in her bosom.

"It is – ?" she continued.

"Edward!" the girl said, in an inarticulate voice, and melting into tears.

Mrs. Black directed on her daughter a glance of supreme pity, embraced her ardently several times, and said, in a soft voice, —

"You see that you had a secret, my child, since you love him."

"Alas!" she murmured, naively, "I do not know it, mother."

The good lady nodded her head with satisfaction, led her daughter back to her chair, and herself sitting down, said to her, —

"And now that we have had a thorough explanation, and there is no longer a secret between us, suppose we have a little talk, Diana."

"I am quite willing, mother."

"Listen to me, then; my age and experience, leaving out of sight the position in which I stand to you, authorize me in giving you advice. Will you hear it?"

"Oh, mother! you know I respect and love you."

"I know it, dear child; I know too, as I have never left you since your birth, and have incessantly watched over you, how generous your mind is, how noble your heart, and how capable of self-devotion. I must cause you great pain, poor girl; but it is better to attend to the green wound, than allow time to render the evil incurable."

"Alas!"

"This raging love, which has unconsciously entered your heart, cannot be very great; it is rather the awakening of the mind to those gentle feelings and noble instincts, which embellish existence and characterize the woman, than a passion; your love is only in reality a momentary exaltation of the brain's feverish imagination; like all young girls, you aspire to the unknown, you seek an ideal, the reality of which does not exist for you; but you do not love. Nay, more, you cannot love; the feeling you experience at the moment is entirely in the head, and the heart goes for nothing."

"Mother!" the young girl interrupted.

"Dear Diana," she continued, taking her hand, and pressing it, "let me make you suffer a little now, to spare you at a later date the horrible pangs which would produce the despair of your whole existence. The man you fancy you love you will probably never see again; he is ignorant of your attachment, and does not share it. I am speaking cold and implacable reason; it is logical, and spares us much grief, while passion is never so, and always produces pain; but supposing for a moment that this young man loved you, you could never be his."

"But if he love me, mother," she said, timidly.

"Poor babe!" the mother continued, with an accent of sublime pity. "Do you know even whether he be free? Who has told you that he is not married? But I will allow it for a moment: this young man is noble; he belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in Europe; his fortune is immense. Do you believe that he will ever consent to abandon all the social advantages his position guarantees him? – that he will bow his family pride to give his hand to the daughter of a poor American squatter?"

"It is true," she murmured, letting her head fall in her hands.

"And even if he did so, though it is impossible, would you consent to follow him, and leave in the desert a father and mother, who have only you, and who would die of despair ere your departure? Come, Diana, answer, would you consent?"

"Oh, never, never, mother!" she exclaimed, madly "Oh, I love you most of all!"

"Good, my darling; that is how I wished to see you. I am happy that my words have found the road to your heart. This man is kind; he has done us immense service; we owe him gratitude, but nothing more."

"Yes, yes, mother," she murmured, with a sob.

"You must only see in him a friend, a brother," she continued, firmly.

"I will try, mother."

"You promise it me?"

The girl hesitated for a moment. Suddenly she raised her head, and said, bravely, —

"I thank you, mother. I swear to you not to forget him, that would be impossible, but so thoroughly to conceal my love, that, with the exception of yourself, no one shall suspect it."

"Come to my arms, my child; you understand your duty; you are noble and good."

At this moment James entered.

"Mistress," he said, "the master is coming back, but there are several persons with him."

"Wipe your eyes, and follow me, dear; let us go and see what has happened."

And, stooping down to her daughter's ear, she whispered, —

"When we are alone, we will speak of him."

"Yes, mother," Diana said, almost joyfully, "Oh, how good you are, and how I love you."

They went out, and looked in the direction of the plain. At a considerable distance from the fort, they noticed a party of four or five persons, at the head of whom were John Black and his son William.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Black said, anxiously.

"We shall soon know, mother; calm yourself; they seem to be riding too gently for us to feel any alarm."