Montlivet Part 40

Oh, I could have knelt to him for shame! My tongue began apology, but my face told a better tale. Cadillac held up his hand.

"Stop. Montlivet, you love the Englishwoman? Why, I thought---- I beg your pardon. I was the fool."

I went stumblingly toward the door before I could face him. Then I turned and held out my hand. "There is no monopoly in fools.

Monsieur, if to love a woman, to love her against her will and your own judgment, to love her hopelessly,--if that is folly, well, I am the worst of fools, the most incurable. I am glad for you to know this.

Will you forget that I was a madman, monsieur?"

CHAPTER XXVI

FROM HOUR TO HOUR

It was well that I slept alone that night, for more than once before day dawned I found myself with my feet on the floor and my free arm searching for a knife. I had flouted at imagination, but now every howling dog became an Indian raising the death cry. I asked Cadillac to double the guard before the woman's quarters, but even then I slept with an ear p.r.i.c.ked for trouble. And I was abroad early.

There are no straight roads in the wilderness; all trails are devious.

So with an Indian's mind. I sat in Longuant's skin-roofed lodge and filled hours with talk of Singing Arrow. The girl was to wed Pierre at noon the next day. The marriage was to be solemnized in the chapel the next afternoon, and the whites were to attend. The affair was perhaps worth some talk, if Longuant and I had been squaws yawning over our basket-work. But we were men with knives, and Fear was whispering at our shoulders.

The sun climbed, and noises and odors of midday came in the tent door.

I plumped out a direct question.

"The tree of friendship that grows for the Ottawas and the French,--are its roots deep, Longuant?"

The old chief looked at me. "What has my brother seen?"

"The Iroquois wolf, my brother. The Iroquois wolf snapping at the roots of this stately tree. What will the Ottawas do, Longuant? Will they drive the wolf away?"

The chief still studied me. "When a tree is healthy," he argued, "a wolf cannot harm it; as well dread the b.u.t.terfly that lights on its leaves or the ant that runs around its trunk. It is only when a tree is unsound at heart that the snapping of a wolf can jar it. And an unsound tree is dangerous. My brother will agree that it is best to cut it down."

I rose. "The wolf can do more than snap; his fangs are poisoned.

Listen, my brother. This tree of friendship is dear to me. I have given labor to preserve it; I have watered it; I have killed the insects and small pests that would have nibbled at its branches. Now that I see its roots threatened, my heart is heavy and the sun looks dim. Can my brother brighten the world for me? Can he tell me that my fears are light as mist?"

Longuant looked at the ground. In repose his face was very sad, as are the faces of most savage leaders.

"I have only two eyes, two ears," he crooned monotonously. "My brother has as many. Let him use them."

"And you will not lift your hatchet to save the tree?"

Longuant raised his eyes. "The hatchet of the Ottawas is always bright. My brethren will hold it in readiness. If the tree looks strong and worth saving, they will raise the hatchet and defend it. If the tree is unsound, they will put the hatchet at its roots."

Well, I had my answer. And, to be just, I could not blame them. The Ottawas were never a commanding people. Their chief was wise to throw his vote with the winning side. But I turned away saddened.

Longuant followed. "There is always a bed in the lodges of the Ottawas for my brother of the red heart. Will he sleep in it?"

I turned. "Would my head be safer if I did, O brother of the wise tongue?"

"My brother has said it."

I took a Flemish knife from my pocket and handed it to him.

"Take it, my brother, for my grat.i.tude. It shall not cut the friendship between us. It shall cut any stranger that would come between your heart and mine. Longuant, I have a wife. She is fair, and stars shine in her eyes. She has loved a daughter of your people.

I cannot hide in your lodge,--a man who carries a sword must use it,--but will you take my wife and keep her? Will you keep her with Singing Arrow for a few days?"

Longuant thought a moment. He looked at the knife as if it were a talisman to teach him how much he could trust me; he tried its edge, put it in his pouch, and made up his mind.

"My brother is keen and true as the blade of the knife. I will tell him a story, a story that the birds sang. The eagle once married. He married one of the family of the hawk. But the hawk found the eagle's nest too high, so she flew lower to a nest near her own kin. Listen.

So long as the hawk stays near the hawk and is not seen with the eagle, the wolf will spare her. But when she comes back to the eagle's nest in the high tree, then let her beware. I have spoken. Now let my brother go on his way and see what his eyes and ears can teach him."

But I went my way with thought busier than eyes. So I must keep away from the woman. I went to my room, found paper and a quill, and wrote to her. It was the first time I had written her name. It seemed foreign to me, almost a sad jest, as it flowed out under my hand.

"I cannot come to you to-day," I wrote; "perhaps not for some days to come. I shall be watching you, guarding you. I think I can a.s.sure you that you are in no danger. For the rest, I must beg of you to wait for me and to trust me. The women of the name you bear have often had the same burden laid on them and have carried it n.o.bly. Yet I know that your courage will match and overreach anything they have shown. I salute you, madame, in homage. I shall come to you the moment that I may."

I subscribed myself her husband. Yet even the Indians gossiped that the eagle's nest was empty. Well, I had work on hand.

So I found Cadillac. I told him in five minutes what it had taken me five hours to learn.

"We must give our strength now to winning the Hurons," I said. "I will work with them this afternoon. If we can get through this one night safely I think we can carry the council."

Cadillac shrugged, but sped me on my way. "Be careful of to-night. Be careful of to-night," he repeated monotonously. His eyes were growing bloodshot from anxiety and loss of sleep.

The afternoon slipped away from me like running water, yet I wasted no word or look. I dropped my old custom of letting my tongue win the way for my ears, and I dealt out blunt questions like a man at a forge. At one point I was foiled. I could not discover whether Starling--whom personally I had not seen--was in communication with the Hurons.

The sun set, the sky purpled, and the moon rose. It rose white and beautiful, and it shone on a peaceful settlement. I went to my room and found a Huron squatting on my threshold. He gave me a handful of maize.

"Our chief, whom you call the Baron, sends this to you," he said. "He bids you eat the corn, and swallow with it the suspicion that you feel.

You have sat all day with other chiefs, but your brother the Baron has not seen you. His lodge cries out with emptiness. He bids you come to him now."

I thought a moment. "Go in front of me," I told the Huron.

I whistled as I went. A sheep that goes to the shambles of its own accord deserves to be butchered, and I was walking into ambush. But still I whistled. I whistled the same tune again and again, and I did it with great lung power. My progress was noisy.

And so we went through the Huron camp. The lodges of the Baron's followers were ma.s.sed to one side, and as I whistled and swaggered my way past their great bark parallelograms, I saw preparations for war.

The braves carried quivers, and were elaborately painted. Fires were burning, though the night was warm, and women nearly naked, and swinging kettles of red-hot coals, danced heavily around the blaze.

They leered at me when they heard my whistle, but they made no attempt to hide from me. Evidently I was not important; I was not to be allowed to go back to the French camp alive, so I could do no harm. I whistled the louder.

I reached the Baron's lodge, and looked within. Two fires blazed in the centre, and some fifty Indians sat in council. I would not enter.

The smoke and fire were in my eyes, but I recognized several of the younger chiefs, and called them by name.

"Come out here to me," I commanded. "I will show you something."

There was a grunting demur, and no one rose. I whistled again and stopped to laugh. The laugh p.r.i.c.ked their curiosity, and the chiefs straggled out. They stood in an uncertain group and looked at me. It was dark; the moon was still low, and the shadows black and sprawling.

The open doors of the lodges sent out as much smoke as fireshine.

I let them look for a moment, then I took the handful of maize and threw it in their faces. "Listen!" I cried. "Chiefs, you are traitors. You eat the bread of the French, yet you would betray them.

You plan an uprising to-night. Well, you will find us ready. I whistled as I came to you. That was a signal. You think you can overpower us. Try it. Seize me, if you like. If you do, I shall give one more whistle, and my troops--the loyal Indians--will go to work.

You can see them gathering. Look."

I waved my hand at the murk around us. My words were brave but my flesh was cold. I had told them to look, but what would they see?