Kitabı oku: «The Plowshare and the Sword: A Tale of Old Quebec», sayfa 6

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 lust 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 passes 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 Bloody 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 goddess 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 passed, 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 God'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 butterflies, because, quoth he, God 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 passes all. Call you that God's way? God 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."

"Yet 'twas a soldier's end."

"Tell them not at home," cried Penfold. "Let them not know, if ever we see Thames-side again, how George Flower fell. Ay, like a flower he came up, and as a grass has he been mown down. Many are the wiles of Satan. The arrow that flieth by night, the coward arrow of treachery. 'Tis a foul wind that blows out a good man's life. He was a good man. His old mother, if yet she live, may look upon his past and smile. Such as George has made our England live. The strong oaks of the land. From treachery and sudden death, good Lord deliver us!"

"Amen, captain!"

"Where is friend Hough?" asked the old man sharply, rising and groping like one awakened from sleep.

"I saw him rushing into the forest as a man possessed."

"His zeal consumes him. I fear me while the madness last he will thrust his sword through that witch and so bring us to trouble with the Indians."

"She will escape from him in the forest."

"Bear with me," said Penfold brokenly. "To-night I am old. My leg pains me so that I may hardly rest upon it. What is here? See! Whom have we yonder?"

The man of Kent came striding through, with the hot question: "Hast seen my son?"

As shortly Woodfield answered, and the knight hurried on without a word along the dim trail where the pursued and the pursuers had passed.

"I am but a useless hulk this night," groaned Penfold. "Do you follow and bring me word, while I stay to keep company with our George."

So Woodfield went. It was but a parting for the hour. He withdrew himself from his tough old captain and fellow villager, without a grasp of the hand, with no word of farewell, nor even a kindly look at the rugged features that he loved, never dreaming that he and Simon Penfold would speak again no more.

The knight, more skilled in woodcraft, proceeded faster than the yeoman. The clash of steel reached his ears against the wind, the wild bayings of a dog, and deep French accents mingled with shrill counter-blasts in an English tongue. The shuddering forest became hideous, and the moonbeams came to his eyes red between the branches.

Man La Salle feared not at all, but the fangs and glowing eyes of the hound appalled. Any moment the brute might spring upon his back. He could not hope to escape from hunters who covered the ground with the speed of deer and might not be thrown off the scent. He stopped, breathing furiously, and set his back against a smooth trunk; but when his foes swept up, and he beheld the size and innocence of the sword-bearer, he laughed, even as Goliath laughed when young David came out against him armed with a sling and a few smooth pebbles from the brook.

"By the five wounds of God, 'tis but a child!" he muttered, as his breath returned. "May it never be said that La Salle ran in fear from a baby and a dog."

He smiled with compassion for the white face which became visible when a bar of light crossed it. "I will deal lightly with the child," he said, "but the dog must die, or he shall hunt me through the night."

"Down, Blood!" called the young voice; and the brute crouched like a tiger, sweeping the grass madly with his tail.

"He bears himself like a veteran," muttered La Salle, with a brave man's admiration for courage. "The pity that he is so young!"

"On guard, sir!" shouted Richard, stepping up with the challenge which his father had taught him.

"Back, little one," said the priest in his own tongue. "Put up your sword until you become a man, and return to your fishing-lines, and be young while you may."

The boy could not understand one word of the hated language. Saving his breath, he replied by springing forward, to cross swords with his renowned antagonist as confidently as on the former memorable night he had faced his father. A few passes, a turn or so, a quick lunge over the guard, a rapid bout of skirmishing high upon the breast, and the astonished Frenchman became assured that his youthful opponent was a swordsman almost worthy of his steel.

"By St. Denis!" he muttered, playing his sword from side to side with his inimitable sureness. "What wonder is this! Are these Englishmen soldiers from their cradle? A doughty stripling! He fences like a maître d'armes."

But time was passing, others were upon his track, and, though La Salle was willing to spare, he knew that he was compelled to strike.

He stepped forward, closed with his antagonist, and by a deft turn of his iron wrist caught the boy's sword at the hilt and wrested it from his hand. Then he raised his point and lightly pricked the near shoulder.

"Go in peace, my son," he said in English.

That contemptuous manner, naturally assumed before inferior and superior alike, stung young Richard to the soul. He ran for his sword, while Blood sprang up with a deep challenge, and plunged after La Salle, who again had taken to flight. Richard followed at full speed, his blood boiling to avenge the insult to his knighthood.

"They come," said La Salle resignedly. "He must have the coup de grâce. Now God have mercy upon his infant soul."

He came in his flight to a natural opening, one half in deep shadow, the other lit by the sparkling moon and carpeted by short grass. Columnar trees stood at regular intervals around this garden in the forest. A few night lilies opened their sulphur cups. The place might have been a dancing-ring for elves, and the priest crossed himself when he stopped, looked round, and swiftly wiped his sword.

"The turf like a rich cloth," he murmured. "The trees falling back, the moon soft yet sufficient. An ideal spot for sword-play. But methinks somewhat weird."

The peace of the glade was broken in a moment. Blood dashed out, his fangs bared, and made two fierce bounds over the turf. La Salle fixed his eye upon a white spot in the underpart of the flying body, and at precisely the critical moment stepped aside, catching the hound upon his point and running him through from the centre of the white patch to the stiff hackles of his back. He turned sharply, lest his sword should break, and the dying body passed swiftly from his blade and crashed into the bush.

"When killing is too easy it carries the mask of murder," the priest muttered.

He turned again, for Richard was upon him with a sob of rage, and shouting: "Devil! You shall die for killing my dog, devil that you are!"

Aware that his time was short, La Salle parried the boy's wild lunges and replied by his own calculated attack. In that supreme moment of his life Richard fought, even as his father might have done, with strength, accuracy, and cunning manoeuvre. The swords played together for little longer than a minute, and then came the passe en tierce outside the guard, which put an end to the unequal fight and left a body bleeding upon the grass.

A cry came from the forest, a near reassuring cry:

"Hold him out, Richard. On the defensive. Do not attack. Remember the pass I taught you."

The priest's eyes dimmed. Hastily he arranged the warm body, closed the eyes, straightened the legs and folded the stubborn arms, muttering a prayer the while.

"Heretic though you are, our Lady of Mercy may yet plead for you," he said; but his words were inaudible to his own ears, because of the shout which rang behind his shoulders:

"Hold him off, Richard. I am with you. Keep your eyes upon his point. I am here."

As the bush gave before the avenger of blood, La Salle ran swiftly from that spot. And all the forest seemed to be moaning for the child thus cut down before he was grown, and the winds off Couchicing sobbed above the hemlocks, and the moon sank down as cold as snow, drawing the purple shadow closer to that white face and the straight, stiff limbs.

CHAPTER XII
SPLENDOUR

In one short day the hand of fate had divided the little band of venturers, destroying the physical life of Flower, leading Woodfield into the trackless forest and losing him there, and driving Viner into the unknown country of the south. Viner's course, during its early stages, may first be followed, beside the lakes and across the thickly wooded plains of the land which was later to be known as the northern part of the State of Maine.

No event marked his journey during the first day. On the second he saw in the distance a party of Dutchmen, who also sighted him and gave chase; but the swift young athlete shook off these slow men with ease. Later he perceived the smoke of an Indian encampment, and bent off his course, fearing lest the tribe might be hostile to all of his complexion. By doing so he lost his bearings, and while attempting to regain them wandered at evening into a glorious valley, bright with flowers, and green with high grass undulating gently in soundless waves. Perceiving a line of trees beyond, Geoffrey determined to gain their shelter, and wait for the stars to guide him back to his southerly route.

He came to a shallow stream, a mere brook winding through the valley amid red willow and wild rice and fragrant beds of brown-topped reeds. A flight of swans passed overhead, their necks outstretched, their bodies casting gaunt shadows across the grass. On the near side patches of bush variegated the plain; beyond, the descending sun cast a dazzling haze. The wind was murmuring in the reeds, and the whistlings of aquatic fowl made a plaintive music. The lonely boy relieved his solitude as he walked, by reciting to the tune of the breeze one of the poetic fables he had learnt at school:

"And when he was unable to restrain his secret, he crept among the reeds, and murmured, 'King Midas has the ears of an ass.' But the reeds betrayed him. When the wind passed they bent together and whispered, 'Midas has the ears of an ass – the ears of an ass.'"

Stepping among the sedges, where single stalks shuddered in the cold water, Geoffrey looked for the ripple which would indicate a place of crossing. The reeds inclined their feathery heads towards him, and the malicious whisper seemed to follow, "Geoffrey has the ears of an ass – the ears of an ass." Laughing at the idle fancy, he ran on at the sight of a line of foam some little way down the stream. Drawing off his shoes, he passed across the yellow gravel, the keen water nipping his ankles, the reeds brushing his head. Old Thames had often been as cold, when as a schoolboy he had waded through its weeds hunting the dive-dapper's nest.

Viner hesitated where the Indian trail split. That to the left ran into the sun. He could scarcely see it, so dazzling was the glory. That to the right was bare and cold, but leading, had he known it, direct to the south. At the foot of a long bank the brook poured away its water, and above in the fruit-bushes the wild canaries sang away the hours. The youth took the bow from his shoulder, held it on end, and let it fall. The bow pointed as he wished, as perhaps his fingers had guided it at the moment of release. It fell into the sun.

A breath of fire was in the splendour ahead, an acrid smoke crept down, he heard the crackling of twigs. It seemed to the traveller that the sun was consuming the grove before him. A voice began to sing. Geoffrey tried to persuade himself that some little yellow bird was sitting in the sun-grove warbling its soul out to him. Then an envious night cloud swooped upon the lord of day and rolled him up in its dewy blanket, and immediately a palisade, a grass roof, and a thicket started out like black upon white. But the song went on.

A log-cabin stood right in the centre of the setting sun, a snaky palisade winding around, enclosing also a garden planted with corn and potatoes, where already blade and crinkled leaf pushed from the dark alluvial soil. Trees surrounded the house.

Amid the smoke the side of an iron pot showed at intervals. The singer held her head back, the slightest frown creasing her forehead. She was waiting for the fire to burn clearly, and to encourage it she sang.

Her hair, which hung all about her body, was golden-brown, no one tress the same shade as another, the whole a bewildering mantle of beauty. Its wealth became reckless when one crafty ray of sunlight eluded the cloud and shot across her head.

"Oh, oh!" she sighed, breaking off her bird-like song. "The sun will not let my fire burn, and – this wicked wind!"

The breeze, delighting to flirt with so glorious a creature, veered slyly, and fanned the bitter smoke around her. She danced away coughing, her cheeks scarlet, her red mouth gasping for pure air, her tresses gleaming in their mesh of sunlight. Her movements were as supple as the swaying dance of the pine-branch over her. She tried to laugh while she caught at her breath, and, failing, fell back panting, showing her tiny teeth.

Then the violet eyes moved along the path, and all the pretty laughter went out. A white hand drifted like falling snow, stole a tress of hair, and shining pearls began cruelly to bite the silk.

No maid could have desired a fairer vision.

Geoffrey, tall, slender, and flushed, stood between the trees, his bow in his hands, his Saxon blue eyes meeting the violet glances of timidity with free admiration. The maid of the fire-side beheld his clear complexion, his fair hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, his strong figure; and as she watched for a few moments, which were not measured by time, her bosom began to rise and fall. Had she not prayed for such a vision? She had surely wasted her sweetness long enough upon the unsatisfying things of her daily life in that lone, hard land. There was that in her young blood which rebelled against her convent-like environment, where she had indeed her freedom, but where the tree of knowledge had not been trained to grow.

Viner stepped out and doffed his feathered cap.

"Fair mistress," he said, bending before this beauty of the grove, "give me your pardon for coming on you so suddenly. I am a traveller on my way to the south."

Madeleine Labroquerie answered him only with her eyes.

"Can you tell me how many English miles I am from Plymouth?"

He looked up, and learnt that the sun had not yet left the grove. He saw the cloud of hair waving iridescent. His gaze wandered over the beautiful head, until two eyes like purple iris flowers met his.

"But I am not English."

"Yet you speak in English," he protested.

"Why, yes. In England I was brought up. I love England; but I am French, and a Protestant."

Geoffrey looked into the grove as he spoke on softly, mindful of his duty:

"Tell me, lady, how many days must I travel before I come to the province of Massachusetts?"

Madeleine Labroquerie had not a word to say. This handsome stranger had hardly arrived, and already he suggested departure.

"I must not delay," he faltered.

"My fire!" cried Madeleine, stretching out her hands. "It will not burn. Stranger" – she turned to him with a winsome glance – "will you make my fire burn?"

She hurried to the smoking pile. He was beside her instantly.

"You shall not soil those hands."

"They are already smoked and soiled. And see – a burn!"

Because Geoffrey dared not look Madeleine pouted at his back. Then she kicked the smouldering wood, and exclaimed spitefully, "There!"

"Your fire is too closely packed."

"It is not," she snapped, daring him with her eyes.

"You say it is not," he agreed; but loosening the heap.

"I fear that it was," she sighed. "And the wood is damp."

Geoffrey rebuilt the fire, placing the hot embers to face the wind, and fanned the sticks until they burst into flame.

The daylight went out like a failing lamp, and a red glow flung about them as the fire increased.

"I know that you are weary, sir," said the girl winningly. "Let me lead you into the house and present you to my mother."

Seeing wonder upon the young man's face, she pointed her shapely hand through the smoke.

"Down there my father lies," she explained in a hushed voice. "Deep in the hollow where the beavers bite the bark at night. There the Indians made his grave. French though we are, the Iroquois have been friendly, because my father, who was a skilled physician, used them well. Here my father hid from the world. He found a rest here, and yonder he rests still hidden. I am with my mother and one native servant, who loves us because my father saved his life. And I – I have never known a friend."

"Lady," said Geoffrey suddenly, "I would serve you if I might."

"Rest you here a few days," she said quickly, "and tell my mother what is doing in the world."

"I must down to the coast."

"Did you say Plymouth just now? Learn how ignorant I am. I did not know there was a town of that name in all the New World. I have been to the English Plymouth. There I saw the brave ships in her harbour, and the red and white flags, and the sailors looking over the sea for what might come sailing by, watching thus and hoping all the day. That was a happy time."

"There are yet as good men in Plymouth as ever sailed westward from the Hoe," said the boy with eager pride.

While he spoke the expression on Madeleine's face altered. She drew away, murmuring as she moved, "Here is Madame, my mother." She added hurriedly, and as he thought with fear, "I pray you be gracious to her."

Viner turned, and there in the fire glow walked a little old woman in black, a white cap holding her thin grey hair, her face pale, her eyes sunken, and her colourless lips a tight line. She smiled coldly, and showed no amazement when her daughter presented the traveller.

"You are welcome, sir," she said in English. "We are poor and lonely folk left to perish in the wilderness. My husband was an atheist, a philosopher, and every man's hand was against him. He brought his wife and family to the New World that he might study in peace and learn somewhat of Nature's secrets. Last summer he was taken, babbling of the work of his misspent life, careless of our farewells, heedless of the state in which he left us. Philosophy is of a truth the devil's work, inasmuch as it hardens the heart of man, loses him his God, and wraps its slave in selfishness."

The old woman signed herself slowly; then suddenly pushed beside the traveller and snatched at her daughter's arm.

"Cross yourself, girl! Infidel, cross yourself!" she cried.

"Mother!" Madeleine shrank back, appealing with her lovely eyes.

"Lutheran!" screamed the little woman. "Make the holy sign, and so strive to save your wicked soul from the pit of destruction wherein your father lies."

"My faith is fixed," murmured the girl. "Ah, ah!" she panted.

Madame Labroquerie struck the girl thrice upon her fair cheek, staining the white skin red as a roseleaf.

"Madame, forbear!" Viner stood between them, his blood hot with shame. "This is no sight for a stranger and a man to witness."

The little woman smiled at him and abandoned her daughter, who bent over the fire to hide her crimson face.

"You are English, sir. Your brave countrymen yield to none in their respect for a woman, when she be young and fair to see. Let her be old, they shall call her witch and fling her in the nearest pond. There be young witches, good sir, better able to seduce the soul of man than the old, though they keep neither cat nor toad, nor ride at night across the face of the moon."

Madame Labroquerie made him a low courtesy, and walked noiselessly to the gate of the palisade.

"That so lovely a daughter should be cursed with such a mother!" muttered the youth as he watched her go.

He came to the side of Madeleine, and found her crying.

"My mother has a strange temper. She has suffered much," the girl sighed.

There was a pause, one of those rare intervals when ears are opened to the music of the spheres, and souls may meet.

"You are not happy here," he said.

Her glorious eyes were two blossoms heavy with dew.

"Friend!" She put out one hand, groping for something to hold. "I am miserable."

They stood together, hand in hand.

"She struck you."

There was no answer. Divine pity dropped upon his heart, sweet and dangerous pity out of heaven.

"Stay a little," she whispered. "For the sake of your religion, stay. If for a day only, stay. Stay, for a woman's sake."

It was dark in the grove outside the circle of the fire. He drew at her fingers. He bent his head suddenly and breathed upon them. She placed her other hand – a cold little hand – upon his.

Then the evening breeze flung itself sportingly into the trees, and all the branches sprang before it, and the foliage danced and shouted in a laugh, singing noisily the old secret of the river reeds, singing, "Midas is a king of gold – a king of gold."

So the fire died down into an angry red, and all the birds of the grove were songless. Madame walked alone from the rude house, her small face white against dark clouds, and passed into the clearing. The Indian who worked for the widow and daughter approached with a burden of wood.

"Wind is coming," he said in his own tongue.

"May it blow away heresy and all heretics," muttered the little woman.