The Sun Of Quebec Part 37

The tone of command was strong in his voice, and Robert, obeying it, stepped close to the bed. The old man raised his head a little, and looked at him long with hawk's eyes. Robert felt that intent gaze cutting into him, but he did not move. Then the Seigneur Louis Henri Anatole de Chatillard laughed scornfully and said to Father Drouillard:

"Why do you deceive me, Father? Why do you tell me that is one, Robert Lennox, a youth of the Bostonnais, who stands before me, when my own eyes tell me that it is the Chevalier Raymond Louis de St. Luc, come as befits a soldier of France to say farewell to an old man before he dies."

Robert felt an extraordinary thrill of emotion. M. de Chatillard, seeing with the eyes of the past, had taken him for the Chevalier. But why?

"It is not the Chevalier de St. Luc," said Father Drouillard, gently.

"It is the lad, Robert Lennox, from the Province of New York."

"But it is St. Luc!" insisted the old man. "The face is the same, the eyes are the same! Should I not know? I have known the Chevalier, and his father and grandfather before him."

The priest signed to Robert, and he withdrew into the shadow of the room. Then Father Drouillard whispered into M. de Chatillard's ear, one of the servants gave him medicine from a gla.s.s, and presently he sank into quiet, seeming to be conscious no longer of the presence of the strangers. Willet, Robert and the others withdrew softly. Robert was still influenced by strong emotion. Did he look like St. Luc? And why?

What was the tie between them? The question that had agitated him so often stirred him anew.

"Very old men, when they come to their last hours, have many illusions,"

said Willet.

"It may be so," said Robert, "but it was strange that he should take me for St. Luc."

Willet was silent. Robert saw that as usual the hunter did not wish to make any explanations, but he felt once more that the time for the solution of his problem was not far away. He could afford to wait.

"The Seigneur cannot live to know whether Quebec will fall," said Tayoga.

"No," said Willet, "and it's just as well. His time runs out. His mind at the last will be filled with the old days when Frontenac held the town against the New Englanders."

The rangers were disposed well about the house, and they also watched the landing. Tandakora and his men might come in canoes, stealing along in the shadow of the high cliffs, or they might creep through the fields and forest. Zeb Crane, who could see in the dark like an owl and who had already proved his great qualities as a scout and ranger, watched at the river, and Willet with Robert and Tayoga was on the land side. But they learned there was another chateau landing less than a quarter of a mile lower down, and Tandakora, coming on the river, might use that, and yet make his immediate approach by land.

Willet stood by a grape arbor with Robert and the Onondaga, and watched with eye and ear.

"Tandakora is sure to come," said the hunter. "It's just such a night as he loves. Little would he care whether he found English or French in the house; if not the English whom he expects, then the French, and dead men have nothing to say, nor dead women either. It may be, Tayoga, that you will have your chance to-night to settle your score with him."

"I do not think so, Great Bear," replied the Onondaga. "The night is so dark that I cannot see Tododaho on his star, but no whisper from him reaches me. I think that when the time comes for the Ojibway and me to see which shall continue to live, Tododaho or the spirits in the air will give warning."

Robert shivered a little. Tayoga's tone was cool and matter of fact, but his comrades knew that he was in deadly earnest. At the appointed time he and Tandakora would fight their quarrel out, fight it to the death.

In the last a.n.a.lysis Tayoga was an Indian, strong in Indian customs and beliefs.

"Tandakora will come about an hour before midnight," said the Onondaga, "because it will be very dark then and there will yet be plenty of time for his work. He will expect to find everybody asleep, save perhaps an English sentinel whom he can easily tomahawk in the darkness. He does not know that the old Seigneur lies dying, and that they watch by his bed."

"In that case," said the hunter with his absolute belief in all that Tayoga said, "we can settle ourselves for quite a wait."

They relapsed into silence and Robert began to look at the light that shone from the bedroom of M. de Chatillard, the only light in the house now visible. He was an old, old man between ninety and a hundred, and Willett was right in saying that he might well pa.s.s on before the fate of Quebec was decided. Robert was sure that it was going to fall, and M.

de Chatillard at the end of a long, long life would be spared a great blow. But what a life! What events had been crowded into his three generations of living! He could remember Le Grand Monarque, The Sun King and the buildings of Versailles. He was approaching middle age when Blenheim was fought. He could remember mighty battles, great changes, and the opening of new worlds, and like Virgil's hero, he had been a great part of them. That was a life to live, and, if Quebec were going to fall, it was well that M. de Chatillard with his more than ninety years should cease to live, before the sun of France set in North America. Yes, Willet was right.

A long time pa.s.sed and Tayoga, lying down with his ear to the earth, was listening. It was so dark now that hearing, not sight, must tell when Tandakora came.

"I go into the forest," whispered the Onondaga, "but I return soon."

"Don't take any needless risks," said Willet.

Tayoga slipped into the dusk, fading from sight like a wraith, but in five minutes he came back.

"Tandakora is at hand," he whispered. "He lies with his warriors in the belt of pine woods. They are watching the light in the Seigneur's window, but presently they will steal upon the house."

"And find us on watch," said Willet, an exultant tone appearing in his voice. "To the landing, Robert, and tell Zeb they're here on our side."

The lank lad returned with Robert, though he left part of his men at that point to guard against surprise, and the bulk of the force, under Willet, crowded behind the grape arbor awaiting the onslaught of Tandakora who, they knew, would come in caution and silence.

Another period that seemed to Robert interminable, though it was not more than half an hour, pa.s.sed, and then he saw dimly a gigantic figure, made yet greater by the dusk. He knew that it was Tandakora and his hand slid to the trigger and hammer of his rifle. But he knew also that he would not fire. It was no part of their plan to give an alarm so early.

The Ojibway vanished and then he thought he caught the gleam of a uniform. So, a Frenchman, probably an officer, was with the warriors!

"They have scouted about the house somewhat," whispered Tayoga, "and they think the soldiers are inside."

"In that case," Willet whispered back, "they'll break down the front door and rush in for slaughter."

"So they will. It is likely that they are looking now for a big log."

Soon a long, dark shape emerged from the dark, a shape that looked like one of the vast primeval saurians. It was a dozen warriors carrying the trunk of a small tree, and all molded into one by the dusk. They gathered headway, as they advanced, and it was a powerful door that could withstand their blow. One of the ambushed rangers moved a little, and, in doing so, made a noise. Quick as a flash the warriors dropped the log, and another farther back fired at the noise.

"Give it to 'em, lads!" cried Willet.

A score of rifles flashed and the warriors replied instantly, but they were caught at a disadvantage. They had come there for rapine and murder, expecting an easy victory, and while Tandakora rallied them they were no match for the rangers, led by such men as Willet and his lieutenants. The battle, fierce and sanguinary, though it was, lasted a bare five minutes and then the Ojibway and those of his band who survived took to flight. Robert caught a glimpse among the fleeing men of one whom he knew to be the spy, Garay. Stirred by a fierce impulse he fired at him, but missed in the dusk, and then Garay vanished with the others. Robert, however, did not believe that he had been recognized by the spy and he was glad of it. He preferred that Garay should consider him dead, and then he would be free of danger from that source.

The firing was succeeded by a few minutes of intense silence and then the great door of the Chateau de Chatillard opened again. Once more Father Drouillard stood on the step, holding a lamp in his hand.

"It is over, Father," said Willet. "We've driven off part of 'em and the others lie here."

"I heard the noise of the battle from within," said Father Drouillard calmly, "and for the first time in my life I prayed that the Bostonnais might win."

"If you don't mind, Father, bring the lamp, and let us see the fallen.

There must be at least fifteen here."

Father Drouillard, holding the light high, walked out upon the lawn with steady step.

"Here is a Montagnais," said Willet, "and this a St. Regis, and this a St. Francis, and this a Huron, and this an Ojibway from the far west!

Ah, and here is a Frenchman, an officer, too, and he isn't quite dead!

Hold the lamp a little closer, will you, Father?"

The priest threw the rays of the lamp upon the figure.

"Jumonville!" exclaimed Robert.

It was in truth Francois de Jumonville, shot through the body and dying, slain in a raid for the sake of robbery and murder. When he saw the faces of white men looking down at him, he raised himself feebly on one elbow and said:

"It is you again, Willet, and you, too, Lennox and Tayoga. Always across my path, but for the last time, because I'm going on a long journey, longer than any I ever undertook before."

Father Drouillard fell on his knees and said a prayer for the dying man.

Robert looked down pityingly. He realized then that he hated n.o.body.

Life was much too busy an affair for the cherishing of hate and the plotting of revenge. Jumonville had done him as much injury as he could, but he was sorry for him, and had he been able to stay the ebbing of his life, he would have done so. As the good priest finished his prayer the head of Francois de Jumonville fell back. He was dead.

"We will take his body into the house," said Father Drouillard, "prepare it for the grave and give him Christian burial. I cannot forget that he was an officer of France."