CHAPTER VIII.
It is scarcely to be wondered at that, amid such events as were dailypassing around her, poor Bibi had begun to despair of ever seeing herhusband again. His avocations had often enough taken him away for amonth or two, but more than a year had now elapsed without her evenhearing of him. Proportionably great was her surprise and joy at hissudden re-appearance, and his happiness was not less real at seeingonce more those he so dearly loved. What with Bibi's eager questions,and the prattle of the little ones, an hour or two had glided awayswiftly enough, when Boulanger suddenly asked what had become ofAmoahmeh.
Bibi shook her head. "She has been living here with us for somemonths," said she, "helping and comforting me as she only could do; butI am afraid that those horrid Indians have got hold of her again. Onlythis morning there was one lurking about here, and I am sure Amoahmehmust have seen him, for she has hardly spoken a word all day, andlooked quite miserable. Just before you came she threw her arms aroundmy neck, and said that very likely I should never see her again; andwhen I began to cry, and begged her to tell me what was the matter, shetried to cheer me by saying that she was only going to 'The Steps'--youknow the place, up there on the Montmorency River. Then, before Icould say another word, she was gone. In my joy at seeing you again Ihad forgotten all about it, that's a fact."
Boulanger's countenance fell, and after musing a while he said, "That'sstrange. Are there any Algonquins about here?"
"Oh, they are on the English side now," answered Bibi. "I heard onlyyesterday that a number of them, under a chief called White Eagle, hadcome into the English camp at Montmorency."
The Canadian started up. "And she has been so good to you whilst Ihave been away!" said he. "Put the little ones to bed, Bibi. I'll goup to the 'Steps' and see if I can find out what she is at."
"I wish you would," said Bibi. "I am quite anxious about her; but comeback as soon as you can."
Boulanger kissed his wife and children, and then, shouldering hisrifle, he quitted the cottage.
There are few spots near Quebec more picturesque than those so-called"Natural Steps" on the Montmorency River. Between almost perpendicularrocks, that look like huge stone towers, or the ruins of ancient walls,the little river foams and rushes along, over and between great flatslabs of stone, which here and there assume the shape of steps asregular as if the hand of man had fashioned them. The summits of thecastellated banks are crowned with trees, and wherever their rockysteepness will allow of it, luxuriant shrubs grow in profusion fromevery crevice, and add another charm to the wild beauty of the scene.
Long had Amoahmeh stood alone on one of those rocky steps, pale andanxious, and evidently expecting some one to meet her there. He cameat last, and White Eagle stood before her.
For a short time neither of them spoke; each seemed under some strangeconstraint. Perhaps the Indian could not shake off the awe with whichhis race regard all those who are, or have been, deprived of the lightof reason. Amoahmeh had risen above such childish superstitions, butshe seemed as though the chief possessed some hold over her which hadpower to subdue even her lofty spirit. She was the first to speak.
"White Eagle has bidden me come here. What would he have of me?"
"Can the daughter of War-thunder ask?" was the reply. "Did she notpromise that if I brought back the young French brave from FortDuquesne the wigwam of the chief of the Algonquins should remain nolonger empty. He is safe in Quebec and among his friends; Amoahmehwill keep her promise."
"To whom did she give that promise? To a great chief who fought underthe flag of France, ay, and one who professed to have forsaken theworship of Manitou for a holier faith. What is White Eagle now that heshould ask her, or even wish her, to keep that promise?"
"He is not a girl that he should kneel at the bidding of a Frenchpriest," retorted the Indian, with evident irritation, "nor a childthat he should let a squaw choose for him what war-path he shall tread.Is Amoahmeh a cheating French trader, who, when he has gotten the redskin's peltries that he bargained for, refuses to pay for them? Shewill keep faith."
"Faith!" replied Amoahmeh, indignantly. "How dares White Eagle evenname the word with the scalps of the friends he swore to fight for tothe death hanging at his belt? Amoahmeh at least will never desertthose she loves."
"Ay," rejoined the chief, passionately, "her white soul only loves thepale faces; she hates the red skin now, and would fain be happy in thewigwam of the young French warrior."
"Why does the great chief talk like a whining child?" said she, at onceregaining her wonted composure. "Amoahmeh does indeed love the Frenchbrave, but it is with a sister's affection for one without whom shenever could have known the way to happiness here and hereafter. Beyondthis he is nought to her. He has a bride already, and it was even forher sake that Amoahmeh gave the hasty, the wicked promise that WhiteEagle wrung from her as the price of his help. She will yet keep it,yes, even though her heart should break, if he still bids her do so;but what she has not promised she will not do at his bidding. She willnot forsake her faith, nor will she rejoice when his warriors come backfrom the war-path with the spoils of slaughtered Frenchmen. Let WhiteEagle choose, but let him beware, lest when the Algonquins again seethe face of the daughter of War-thunder, and hear her voice, they digup again the hatchet that they buried at the false counsel of WhiteEagle, and shout once more the war-cry of 'France and King Louis!'"
"That they shall never do!" exclaimed the Indian fiercely. "Listen!Amoahmeh is free. Let her go her way, but not with the glad heart shehoped for. Manitou has even now given into White Eagle's hand thefather and the kinswoman of the young French brave. Amoahmeh mighthave saved them. Now let her come with me and see them die."
With these words the Indian grasped his tomahawk and sprang up therugged path. As he reached the top of the bank he turned and waved theweapon aloft, as if to beckon after him the amazed and agitated girl.At the same moment Boulanger started up from the underwood, and withone sweep of his clubbed rifle dashed the deadly hatchet from his hand,then with another stroke he laid the savage at his feet.
To pinion the prostrate Indian's arms with his belt was the work of aminute; another sufficed for Boulanger to tear a couple of withes froma bush, and bind him securely by the ankles to the nearest tree.
"So you have gone over to the English, have you?" said he sternly, asthe half-stunned chief began to recover a little. "By rights, Isuppose I ought to have shot you down without mercy; but luckily foryou I have not quite forgotten our last meeting in the woods."
As the Canadian uttered these words the sharp rattle of half a dozenmuskets was heard at a short distance down the river. Then followedshouts, mingled with the terrific war-whoop, at which the dark form ofWhite Eagle seemed to quiver from head to foot. Then all became stillagain.
Boulanger, with his knee on the Indian's chest, had listened to thesounds with breathless anxiety.
"The red skins have had the worst of that," said he at last, as hearose and grasped his rifle; "but there is something going wrong, or weshould have heard more of it. Follow me, Amoahmeh."
Forcing their way through the dense wood for three or four hundredyards along the crest of the bank, they came at length to an openingthrough which they heard the sound of voices, and passing through thegap they were soon looking down upon the scene below.
There on the border of the stream stood a group of Canadian militialeaning on their muskets. Two or three Indians lay dead upon theground, and near them lay also a female figure, by the side of which,with his hands clasped and his head bowed down, stood the Baron deValricour. There was another prostrate figure, that of a spare oldman, to whom two persons seemed to be attending. One of them wasIsidore, the other Boulanger did not recognise--it was the Marquis deBeaujardin.
The story was soon told. That afternoon Jacques Duboscq, who had beencaptured on his return to the "Pompadour" had been considerately senton shore by the commander of the English sloop in order that he m
ightinform the Baron de Valricour of the circumstances under which Madamede Valricour and the marquis had been put on shore at Cape Tourment twodays before. On hastening to the military offices to see if any stepscould be taken on behalf of their relatives, should they have falleninto the hands of the English, the baron and Isidore found that anIndian scout or spy had just come in with the intelligence that someAlgonquins with three French prisoners had been seen that day encampedon the Montmorency River. In less than an hour Isidore and his unclehad set out for the spot, accompanied by a small body of picked men,and, guided by the scouts, they took the Indians completely bysurprise, killing or dispersing them with a single volley. Withinstinctive ferocity, however, one of the savages had struck Madame deValricour dead, whilst another singled out the marquis, as he supposed,and grievously wounded poor Perigord.
Two rude litters were soon made by some of the Canadians, on one ofwhich they laid the body of Madame de Valricour, on the other theyplaced old Perigord, and the party then set out for the lines atMontmorency. They had not gone far before the attention of Amoahmehand the Canadian was attracted by a sound like the scream of an eagle,which was immediately echoed from afar: "Yes, our friend yonder iscalling to his eaglets," said Boulanger, "and they hear him; but we canlaugh at them and him too now."
On the way the marquis kept by the side of his old servant, more thanonce expressing his grief at what had befallen him.
"Nay, monseigneur," replied Perigord, smiling in spite of the pain hewas evidently enduring, "do not mind about me. It was fortunate thatthose stupid savages mistook me for my betters. Besides, have I notseen my dear young master once again?"
Dear old Achille! These were the last words he spoke. When theyreached the lines at Montmorency he was dead. The scheming and haughtybaroness and the humble and faithful servitor had met the same fate.Death does indeed bring us all down to one level, but only in thegrave--not beyond it.
Tailpiece to Chapter VIII]
Headpiece to Chapter IX]
The King's Warrant: A Story of Old and New France Page 22
