Menotah Part 45

'Never!' Then she compressed her lips fiercely.

He clenched his fists and made a menacing movement. 'Come away from that door!'

'You shall not pa.s.s.'

Then she locked the door and drew forth the key.

'It will have to be over your body. The choice is yours.'

She raised a denouncing finger, and met him with the single word, 'Traitor!'

He was cool again now. 'Too late for that,' he began, but her pa.s.sion was fully aroused.

'See! Those men are waiting outside for a signal. They have come to arrest you. I shall see you hung at Regina, if the people do not kill you here.'

Her concluding words were almost drowned in a crash of thunder. A lurid picture of the bloodthirsty lynchers, with a prospect of horrible death by burning, flashed across his mental vision. Weakness returned, and he trembled.

'There are footsteps. There is someone coming up to the window.'

He would have rushed there, but dared not. Escape by the door was his only chance.

'Dare to lay a finger on me, traitor. I am a free woman now. Your perfidy has divorced me from you.'

'The key!' he cried in hoa.r.s.e tones many times.

'There is the open window. Leave the house that way. The soldiers are waiting to receive you.'

The sweat broke on his forehead. 'I give you another chance. Stand aside, and let me pa.s.s.'

She drew herself up proudly. 'No man shall ever say of Marie Lariviere that she feared a traitor to her country.'

This return to her maiden name showed him how completely isolated he was from all human sympathy.

He swore fiercely, then sprang forward at her. But the little patriot was ready; she doubled her fingers and struck him across the eyes.

_'Perfide!'_

The bold action aroused his entire fury. He seized her by the waist and flung her brutally to the floor. Bravely she clutched the key within her two hands. He bent over, and furiously struggled to wrest it from her grasp. But it is no easy task--even with far greater strength--to open the fist which is closed in a grim determination. She panted and sobbed, yet fought n.o.bly; he swore and threatened, but could not succeed.

It was terrible. The sweat flowed from his face. Any second he might find himself surrounded by soldiers and his last hope gone. The demon within triumphed. He struck the girl twice upon the side of the head.

She sank upon the floor, while the fingers yielded limply. Feverishly he clutched the key, again seeing the world of liberty opening and spreading before him.

He reached the door. With shaking hands he endeavoured to force the key into its place.

Suddenly a new flood of terror pa.s.sed into his being and robbed the hands of strength. They were unmistakable sounds in the room. Someone had entered. As he started round, a low voice gave utterance to the pitiless words,--

'It is no good.'

Standing in the centre of the floor was a woman, barefooted, bareheaded, with hair streaming wildly over her shoulders, with hungry set look on her colourless face.

CHAPTER VIII

RETRIBUTION

It was Menotah.

Calmly she looked again upon her betrayer, the man who had won her heart, he who had lightly stolen her happiness. No shadow of doubt crossed her brow, nor was there; any sign of swerving from the path of duty in her pa.s.sionless face. She had completed a dreadful journey to avenge, as her religion directed. Now that the moment had arrived, she would not be the one to display lack of resolution.

And again he looked upon her, his former and present lawful wife. Even then, with vision obscured, with eyes failing by heat and his fervent fear, he marvelled at the complete change which time and his perfidy had worked. There was something familiar in that figure, in the stern features, in the cold voice as it delivered its mortal message. Could this hard-featured woman have owned at any time some connection with the laughing girl he had taken to himself in the lone forests of the Saskatchewan? Yet, if so, where were the eyes that always danced with joy, where was the colour that had played like chequered sunshine across her cheeks? What sickness had robbed her step of buoyancy, what hand had deprived her of all the numerous graces that had contributed towards making her so adorable a thing of life?

Even in that moment of selfish terror he could realise that Menotah had vanished with all her youth and beauty; that, from the ashes of her dead heart had sprung another being, bearing her name, though lacking all her womanly qualities. This figure had but one object in view. The words of the careless, beautiful Menotah of the summer forest rang forth with the thunder, and flashed within the lightning in letters of fire, _'If anyone should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the cause of vengeance. I should never turn back!'_

Yet, outside everything remained quiet, save for the tumult of the elements. There were no visible signs of other enemies. This woman, though terrible perhaps to gaze upon, was devoid of strength. As he had no feeling apart from his personal safety, he began to breathe again.

But she divined his thoughts. Deliberately she drew from the folds of her cloak a small knife, then, with the indifference of a butcher about to slaughter, examined the point. The brightness of the metal was dulled at the edge by a brown stain.

Stealthily she came round the room and crept near the door. He was fascinated by her eyes, and fell back as she approached. Then she spoke in a dull voice, 'There is poison on the knife point.'

Then he understood the deadly nature of that brown stain. She slipped into his late position near the door, still watching him with eyes that never twitched or closed.

Soon Marie recovered partially and dragged herself to a sitting posture.

With large, wondering eyes she stared upon the intruder.

'I am changed since the time you last saw me,' said Menotah, in pa.s.sionless tones. 'Why am I another woman, while you remain the same man?' She paused, as though waiting for reply. When none came she continued, 'I will tell you.'

But she did not, for with the thought came other recollections--the aged Antoine and his last weak words; her dying father and the oath she had sworn over him, using words which might not be lightly set aside.

Already had she failed in the appointed course of action. She was threatening, where she should be pleading. Still, before the final act, she would trifle with this man, as he had played with her. She would put his courage to the test. But first she turned to Marie, and said in her _patois_ French,--

'Do you love this man?'

The girl was half dazed, but she directed her gaze towards the pitiless face. Then Menotah, attracted possibly by sympathy for one who was to suffer her pangs, drew nearer and looked closely at her features. Then she said, 'You are his wife?'

The other moistened her dry lips. 'I was,' she muttered.

'He deserted me for you.' She hung on every syllable. 'When he said he loved me, you were at his heart; when he caressed me, he thought of you; when he spoke tenderly, he forgot it was not you he was addressing.'

An angry flush of shame crossed Marie's brow. 'He never cared for me--the traitor. And I hate him.'

Menotah turned. 'So; she who was your wife before your own people has nothing for you but hatred.' Then she picked up the key, which Lamont had dropped in his sudden fright. 'It is time,' she said quietly, then unlocked the door and threw it wide open. She cast aside the cloak, while the knife glittered as she stretched forth her arm. 'You may pa.s.s if you wish.'

He was stupefied at this new move, and wondered at her meaning. Beyond he could see the lamp light flickering in the hall, and further, half hidden in shadow, the dim outline of the outer door. In that direction lay liberty. How simple it was! A quick bound forward, two or three steps, and life would be his again.

But then the cold voice struck on his ears again,--