The Hidden Children

  CHAPTER VII

  LOIS

  When I came to the log house by the Spring Waiontha, lantern in handand my packet tucked beneath my arm, it was twilight, and the starlessskies threatened rain. Road and field and forest were foggy and silent;and I thought of the first time I had ever set eyes on Lois, in thelate afternoon stillness which heralded a coming storm.

  I had with me, as I say, a camp lantern which enabled me to make my waythrough the thicket to the Spring Waiontha. Not finding her there, Iretraced my steps and crossed the charred and dreary clearing to thehouse of logs.

  No light burned within; doubtless this widow woman was far too poor toafford a light of any sort. But my lantern still glimmered, and I wentup to the splintered door and rapped.

  Lois opened it, her knitting gathered in her hand, and stood aside forme to enter.

  At first, so dusky was the room that I perceived no other occupantbeside ourselves. Then Lois said: "Mrs. Rannock, Mr. Loskiel, of whom Ispoke at supper, is to be made known to you."

  Then first I saw a slight and ghostly figure rise, take shape in theshadows, and move slowly into my lantern's feeble beams----a frail andpallid woman, who made her reverence as though dazed, and uttered not aword.

  Lois whispered in my ear:

  "She scarcely seems to know she is alive, since Cherry Valley. A Toryslew her little sister with a hatchet; then her husband fell; and then,before her eyes, a blue-eyed Indian pinned her baby to its cradle witha bayonet."

  I crossed the room to where she stood, offering my hand; and she laidher thin and work-worn fingers listlessly in mine.

  "Madam," I said gently, "there are today two thousand widows such asyou betwixt Oriska and Schenectady. And, to our cause, each one of youis worth a regiment of men, your sorrows sacred to us all,strengthening our vows, steeling us to a fierce endeavour. No innocentdeath in this long war has been in vain; no mother's agony. Yet, onlyGod can comfort such as you."

  She shook her head slowly.

  "No God can comfort me," she said, in a voice so lifeless that itsounded flat as the words that sleepers utter, dreaming of trouble.

  "Shall we be seated outside on the door-sill?" whispered Lois. "Theonly seat within is on the settle, where she sits."

  "Is this the only room?"

  "Yes--save for the mouse-loft, where I sleep on last year's corn-husks.Shall we sit outside? We can speak very low. She will not heed us."

  Pity for all this stark and naked wretchedness left me silent; then, asthe lantern's rays fell on this young girl's rags, I remembered mypacket.

  "Yes, we will sit outside. But first, I bring you a little gift----"

  She looked up quickly and drew back a step, "Oh, but such a littlegift, Lois--a nothing--a mere jest of mine which we shall enjoy betweenus. Take it as I offer it, lightly, and without constraint."

  Reluctantly she permitted me to lay the packet in her arms, displeasurestill darkening her brow. Then I set my lantern on the puncheon floorand stepped outside, closing the hatchet-battered door behind me.

  How long I paced the foggy strip of clearing I do not know. The misthad thickened to rain when I heard the door creak; and, turning in mytracks, caught the lantern's sparkle on the threshold, and the dullgleam of her Oneida finery.

  I picked up the lantern and held it high above us.

  Smiling and bashful she stood there in her clinging skirt andwampum-broidered vest, her slender, rounded limbs moulded into softknee-moccasins of fawn-skin, and the Virgin's Girdle knotted across herthighs in silver-tasselled seawan.

  And, "Lord!" said I, surprised by the lovely revelation. "What amiracle are you in your forest masquerade!"

  "Am I truly fine to please you, Euan?"

  I said, disturbed, but striving to speak lightly:

  "Little Oneida goddess in your bridal dress, the Seven Dancers arelaughing at me from your eyes; and the Day-Sun and the Night-Sun hangfrom your sacred girdle, making it flash like silvery showers ofseawan. Salute, O Watcher at the Gates of Dawn! Onwa oyah! Na-i! A-i!Lois!" And I drew my light war-hatchet from its sheath and raised itsparkling, in salute.

  She laughed a little, blushed a little, and bent her dainty head toview her finery once more, examining it gravely to the last red quillsewed to the beaded toe-point.

  Then, still serious, she lifted her grey eyes to me:

  "I seem to find no words to thank you, Euan. But my heartis--very--full----" She hesitated, then stretched forth her hand to me,smiling; and as I touched it ceremoniously with finger-tip and lip:

  "Ai-me!" she exclaimed, withdrawing under shelter. "It is raining,Euan! Your rifle-shirt is wet already, and you are like to take achill! Come under shelter instantly!"

  "Fancy a man of Morgan's with a chill!" I said, but nevertheless obeyedher, set the lantern on the puncheon floor, brushed the fine drops fromthrums and hatchet-sheath, rubbed the bright-edged little axe withbuck-skinned elbow, and wiped my heavy knife from hilt to blade.

  As I looked up, busy with my side-arms, I caught her eye. We smiled ateach other; then, as though a common instinct stirred us to caution, weturned and looked silently toward the settle in the corner, where thewidow sat brooding alone.

  "May we speak freely here, Lois?" I whispered.

  She cast a cautious glance at the shadowy figure, then, lowering hervoice and leaning nearer:

  "I scarcely know whether she truly heeds and hears. She maynot--yet--she may. And I do not care to share my confidences withanyone--save you. I promised to tell you something about myself.... Imean to, some day."

  "Then you will not tell me now?"

  "How can I, Euan?"

  We stood silent, thinking. Presently my eyes fell on the rough ladderleading to the loft above. She followed my gaze, hesitated, shot a keenand almost hostile glance at me, softened and coloured, then stoleacross the room to the ladder's foot.

  I lifted the lantern, followed her, and mounted, lighting the way forher along low-hanging eaves among the rustling husks. She dropped thetrap-door silently, above the ladder, took the lantern from my hand,set it on the floor, and seated herself beside it on the husks, hercheeks still brightly flushed.

  "Is this then your intimate abode?" I asked, half-smiling.

  "Could I desire a snugger one?" she answered gaily. "Here is bothwarmth and shelter; and a clean bed of husks; and if I am lonely, therebe friendly little mice to bear me company o' nights. And here my miceand I lie close and listen to the owls."

  "And you were reared in comfort!" I said with sudden bitterness.

  She looked up quickly, then, shrugging her shoulders:

  "There is still some comfort for those who can remember their brief dayof ease--none for those who never knew it. I have had days of comfort."

  "What age are you, Lois?"

  "Twenty, I think."

  "Scarce that!" I insisted.

  "Do I not seem so?" she asked, smiling.

  "Eighteen at most--save for the--sadness--in your eyes that now andthen surprises me--if it be sadness that I read there."

  "Perhaps it is the wisdom I have learned--a knowledge that meanssadness, Euan. Do my eyes betray it, then, so plainly?"

  "Sometimes," I said, A faint sound from below arrested our attention.

  Lois whispered:

  "It is Mrs. Rannock weeping. She often weeps like that at night. And sowould I, Euan, had I beheld the horrors which this poor thing was bornto look upon--God comfort her! Have you never heard how thedestructives slew her husband, her baby, and her little sister eightyears old? The baby lay in its cradle smiling up at its murderers. Eventhe cruel Senecas turned aside, forbearing to harm it. But one ofWalter Butler's painted Tories spies it and bawls out: 'This also willgrow to be a rebel!' And with that he speared the little smilingcreature on his bayonet, tossed it, and caught it--Oh, Euan--Euan!"Shuddering, she flung her arm across her face as though to shut out thevision.

  "That villainy," said I, "was done by Newberry or Chrysler, if Iremember. And Newberry we caught a
nd hung before we went toWestchester. I saw him hang with that wretched Lieutenant Hare. God!how we cheered by regiments marching back to camp!"

  Through the intense stillness I could still hear the woman sobbing inthe dark below.

  "Lois--little Lois," I whispered, touching her trembling arm with ahand quite as unsteady.

  She dropped her arm from her face, looking up at me with eyes widenedstill in horror.

  I said: "Do you then wonder that the thought of you, roaming thesewoods alone, is become a living dread to me, so that I think of nothingelse?"

  She smiled wanly, and sat thinking for a while, her pale face pressedbetween her hands. Presently she looked up.

  "Are we so truly friends then, Euan? At the Spring Waiontha it almostseemed as though it could come true."

  "You know it has come true."

  "Do I?"

  "Do you not know it, little Lois?"

  "I seem to know it, somehow.... Tell me, Euan, does a true anddeathless friendship with a man--with you--mean that I am to strip myheart of every secret, hiding nothing from you?"

  "Dare you do it, Lois?" I said laughingly, yet thrilled with thecandour of her words.

  "I could not let you think me better than I am. That would be stealingfriendship from you. But if you give it when you really know me--thatwill be dear and wonderful----" She drew a swift breath and smiled.

  Surprised, then touched, I met the winning honesty of her gaze insilence.

  "Unless you truly know me--unless you know to whom you give yourfriendship--you can not give it rightly. Can you, Euan? You must learnall that I am and have been, Is not this necessary?"

  "I--I ask you nothing," I stammered. "All that I know of you iswonderful enough----" Suddenly the danger of the moment opened outbefore me, checking my very thoughts.

  She laid both hands against her temple, pressing them there till hercheeks cooled. So she pondered for a while, her gaze remote. Then,looking fearlessly at me:

  "Euan, I am of that sad company of children born without name. I havelately dared to guess who was my father. Presently I will tell you whohe was." Her grey and troubled eyes gazed into space now, dreamily. "Hedied long since. But my mother is living. And I believe she lives nearCatharines-town to-day!"

  "What! Why do you think so?" I exclaimed, astounded.

  "Is not the Vale Yndaia there, near Catharines-town?"

  "Yes. But why----"

  "Then listen, Euan. Every year upon a certain day--the twelfth ofMay--no matter where I chance to be, always outside my door I find twolittle beaded moccasins. I have had them thirteen times in thirteenyears. And every year--save the last two--the moccasins have been madea little larger, as though to fit my growing years. Now, for the lasttwo years, they have remained the same in size, fitting me perfectly.And--I never yet have worn them more than to fit them on and take themoff."

  "Why?" I asked vaguely.

  "I save them for my journey."

  "What journey?"

  "The long trail through the Long House--straight through it, Euan, tothe Western Door. That is the trail I dream of."

  "Who leaves these strange moccasins at your threshold every year?"

  "I do not know."

  "From where do you suppose they come?" I asked, amazed.

  "From Catharines-town."

  "Do you believe your mother sends them?"

  "Oh, Euan, I know it now! Until two years ago I did not understand. Butnow I know it!"

  "Why are you so certain Lois? Is any written message sent with them?"

  "Always within one of each pair of moccasins is sewed a strip of silverbirch. Always the message written is the same; and this is what isalways written:

  "Swift moccasins for little feet as swift against the day that the longtrail is safe. Then, in the Vale Yndaia, little Lois, seek her who boreyou, saved you, lost you, but who love you always.

  "Pray every day for him who died in the Regiment de la Reine.

  "Pray too for her who waits for you, in far Yndaia."

  "What a strange message!" I exclaimed.

  "I must heed it," she said under her breath. "The trail is open, and myhour is come."

  "But, Lois, that trail means death!"

  "Your army makes it safe at last. And now the time is come when I mustfollow it."

  "Is that why you have followed us?"

  "Yes, that is why. Until that night in the storm at Poundridge-town Ihad never learned where the Vale Yndaia lay. Month after month Ihaunted camps, asking for information concerning Yndaia and theRegiment de la Reine. But of Yndaia I learned nothing, until theSagamore informed me that Yndaia lay near Catharines-town. And,learning you were of the army, and that the army was bound thither, Ifollowed you."

  "Why did you not tell me this at Poundridge? You should have campedwith us," I said.

  "Because of my fear of men--except red men. And I had already quiteenough of your Lieutenant Boyd."

  I looked at her seriously; and she comprehended the unasked questionsthat were troubling me.

  "Shall I tell you more? Shall I tell you how I have learned my dread ofmen--how it has been with me since my foster parents found me lying attheir door strapped to a painted cradle-board?"

  "You!"

  "Aye; that was my shameful beginning, so they told me afterward--longafterward. For I supposed they were my parents--till two years ago. Nowshall I tell you all, Euan? And risk losing a friendship you might havegiven in your ignorance of me?"

  Quick, hot, unconsidered words flew to my lips--so sweet and fearlesswere her eyes. But I only muttered:

  "Tell me all."

  "From the beginning, then--to scour my heart out for you! So, first andearliest my consciousness awoke to the sound of drums. I am sure ofthis because when I hear them it seems as though they were the firstsounds that I ever heard.... And once, lately, they were like to be thelast.... And next I can remember playing with a painted mask of wood,and how the paint tasted, and its odour.... Then, nothing more can Iremember until I was a little child with--him I thought to be myfather. I may not name him. You will understand presently why I do not."

  She looked down, pulling idly at the thrums along her beaded leggins.

  "I told you I was near your age--twenty. But I do not really know howold I am, I guess that I am twenty--thereabouts."

  "You look sixteen; not more--except the haunting sorrow----"

  "I can remember full that length of time.... I must be twenty, Euan.When I was perhaps seven years old--or thereabout--I went toschool--first in Schenectady to a Mistress Lydon; where were a dozenchildren near my age. And pretty Mistress Lydon taught us A--B--C andmanners--and nothing else that I remember now. Then for a long while Iwas at home--which meant a hundred different lodgings--for we were evermoving on from place to place, where his employment led him, from onehouse to another, staying at one tavern only while his task remainedunfinished, then to the road again, north, south, west, or east,wherever his fancy sped before to beckon him.... He was a strange man,Euan."

  "Your foster father?"

  "Aye. And my foster mother, too, was a strange woman."

  "Were they not kind to you?"

  "Y-es, after their own fashion. They both were vastly different toother folk. I was fed and clothed when anyone remembered to do it, Andwhen they had been fortunate, they sent me to the nearest school to berid of me, I think. I have attended many schools, Euan--in Germantown,in Philadelphia, in Boston, in New York. I stayed not long in school atNew York because there our affairs went badly. And no one invited us inthat city--as often we were asked to stay as guests while the worklasted--not very welcome guests, yet tolerated."

  "What was your foster father's business?"

  "He painted portraits.... I do not know how well he painted. But hecared for nothing else, except his wife. When he spoke at all it was toher of Raphael, and of Titian, and particularly of our Benjamin West,who had his first three colours of the Indians, they say."

  "I have heard so, too."

>   She nodded absently, fingering her leggin-fringe; then, with a sudden,indrawn breath:

  "We were no more than roving gypsies, you see, living from hand tomouth, and moving on, always moving from town to town, remaining in oneplace while there were portraits to paint--or tavern-signs, orwagons--anything to keep us clothed and fed. Then there came a day inAlbany when matters mended over night, and the Patroon most kindlycommanded portraits of himself and family. It started our briefprosperity.

  "Other and thrifty Dutchmen now began to bargain for their portraits.We took an old house on Pearl Street, and I was sent to school at Mrs.Pardee's Academy for young ladies as a day pupil, returning home atevening. About that time my foster mother became ill. I remember thatshe lay on a couch all day, watching her husband paint. He and his artwere all she cared for. Me she seldom seemed to see--scarcely noticedwhen she saw me--almost never spake to me, and there were days andweeks, when I saw nobody in that silent house, and sat at meatalone--when, indeed, anyone remembered I was a hungry, growing child,and made provision for me.

  "Schoolmates, at first, asked me to their homes. I would not go becauseI could not ask them to my home in turn. And so grew up to womanhoodalone, and shy, and silent among my fellows; alone at home among theshadows of that old Dutch house; ever alone. Always a haunted twilightseemed to veil the living world from me, save when I walked abroadalong the river, thinking, thinking.

  "Yet, in one sense I was not alone, Euan, for I was fanciful; androamed accompanied by those bright visions that unawakened soulsconjure for company; companioned by all creatures of the mind, fromsaint to devil. Ai-me! For there were moments when I would havewelcomed devils, so that they rid me of my solitude, at hell's ownprice!"

  She drew a long, light breath, smiled at me; then:

  "My foster mother died. And when she died the end also began for him. Iwas taken from my school. So dreadfully was he broken that for monthshe lay abed never speaking, scarcely eating. And all day long duringthose dreary months I sat alone in that hushed house of death.

  "Debt came first; then sheriffs; then suddenly came this war upon us.But nothing aroused him from his lethargy; and all day long he broodedthere in silence, day after day, until our creditors would endure nolonger, and the bailiff menaced him. Confused and frightened, Iimplored him to leave the city--jails seeming to me far more terriblethan death--and at last persuaded him to the old life once more.

  "So, to avoid a debtor's prison, we took the open road again. But warwas ravishing the land; there was no work for him to do. We starvedslowly southward, day by day, shivered and starved from town to townacross the counter.

  "Near to a camp of Continental troops there was a farm house. They tookme there as maid-at-all-work, out of charity, I think. My fatherwandered over to the camp, and there, God alone knows why, enlisted--Ishall not tell you in what regiment. But it was Continental Line--agaunt, fierce, powder-blackened company, disciplined with iron. Andpresently a dreadful thing befell us. For one morning before sunrise,as I stood scouring the milk-pans by the flare of a tallow-dip, came tome a yawning sergeant of this same regiment to tell me that, as myfoster father was to be shot at sunrise, therefore, he desired to seeme. And I remember how he yawned and yawned, this lank and bonysergeant, showing within his mouth his yellow fangs!

  "Oh, Euan! When I arrived, my foster father--who I then supposed was myown father--lay in a tent a condemned deserter, seeming not even tocare, or to comprehend his dreadful plight. All the defence he evermade, they say was that he had tired of dirty camps and foolish drums,and wished to paint again. Euan, it was terrible. He did notunderstand. He was a visionary--a man of endless silences, dreamy ofeye, gentle and vague of mind--no soldier, nor fitted to understand amilitary life at all.

  "I remember the smoky lantern burning red within the tent, and the vastshadows it cast; and how he stood there, looking tranquilly at nothingwhile I, frightened, sobbed on his breast. 'Lois,' he said, smiling,'there is a bright company aloft, and watching me. Raphael and Titianare of them. And West will come some day.' And, 'God!' he murmured,wonderingly, 'What fellowship will be there! What knowledge to beacquired a half hour hence--and leave this petty sphere to its ownvexed and petty wrangling, its kings and congresses, and its foolishnoise of drums.'

  "For a while he paid me no attention, save in an absent-minded way topat my arm and say, 'There, there, child! There's nothing to it--no,not anything to weep for. In less than half an hour my wife and I willbe together, listening while Raphael speaks--or Christ, perhaps, orLeonardo.'

  "Twice the brigade chaplain came to the tent, but seeing me retired.The third time he appeared my foster father said: 'He's come to talk tome of Christ and Raphael. It is pleasant to hear his kind assurancethat the journey to them is a swift one, done in the twinkling of aneye.... So--I will say good-bye. Now go, my child.'

  "Locked in my desperate embrace, his wandering gaze came back and metmy terror-stricken eyes. And after another moment a slow colour cameinto his wasted face. 'Lois,' he said, 'before I go to join thatmatchless company, I think you ought to know that which will cause youto grieve less for me.... And so I tell you that I am not yourfather.... We found you at our door in Caughnwagha, strapped to aSeneca cradle-board. Nor had you any name. We did not seek you, but,having you so, bowed to God's will and suffered you to remain with us.We strove to do our duty by you----' His vague gaze wandered toward thetent door where the armed guard stood, terrible and grim and ragged.Then he unloosened my suddenly limp arms about him, muttering tohimself of something he'd forgotten; and, rummaging in his pocketsfound it presently--a packet laced in deerskin. 'This,' he said, 'isall we ever knew of you. It should be yours. Good-bye.'

  "I strove to speak, but he no longer heard me, and asked the guardimpatiently why the Chaplain tarried. And so I crept forth into thedark of dawn, more dead than living. And presently the rising sunblinded my tear-drowned eyes, where I was kneeling in a field under atall tree.... I heard the dead-march rolling from the drums, and sawthem passing, black against the sunrise.... Then, filing slowly as theseconds dragged, a thousand years passed in processional during thenext half hour--ending in a far rattle of musketry and a light smokeblowing east across the fields----"

  She passed her fingers across her brow, clearing it of the clingingcurls.

  "They played a noisy march--afterward. I saw the ragged ranks wheel andmanoeuvre, stepping out Briskly to the jolly drums and fifes.... Istood by the grave while the detail filled it cheerily.... Then I wentback to the farm house, through the morning dew and sunshine.

  "When I had opened my packet and had understood its contents, I made ofmy clothes a bundle and took the highway to ask of all the world wherelay the road to the vale Yndaia, and where might be found the Regimentde la Reine. Wherever was a camp of soldiers, there I loitered, askingthe same question, day after day, month after month. I asked ofIndians--our Hudson guides, and the brigaded White Plains Indians. Noneseemed to know--or if they did they made no answer. And the soldiersdid not know, and only laughed, taking me for some camp wanton----"

  Again she passed her slender hand slowly across her eyes, shaking herhead.

  "That I am not wholly bad amazes me at times.... I wonder if you knowhow hunger tampers with the will? I mean more than mere hunger; I meanthat dreadful craving never completely satisfied--so that the ceaselessfamine gnaws and gnaws while the sick mind still sickens, brooding overwhat the body seems to need of meat and drink and warmth--day afterday, night after night, endless and terrible." She flushed, butcontinued calmly: "I had nigh sold myself to some young officer--somegay and heedless boy--a dozen times that winter--for a bit ofbread--and so I might lie warm.... The army starved at Valley Forge....God knows where and how I lived and famished through all that bitterblackness.... An artillery horse had trodden on my hip where I layhuddled in a cow-barn under the straw close to the horses, for the sakeof warmth. I hobbled for a month.... And so ill was I become in mind aswell as body that had any man been kind--God knows what h
ad happened!And once I even crept abroad meaning to take what offered. Do you deemme vile, Euan?"

  "No--no--" I could not utter another word.

  She sighed, gazing at space.

  "And the cold! Well--this is July, and I must try to put it from mymind. But at times it seems to be still in my bones--deep bitten to thevery marrow. Ai-me! I have seen two years of centuries. Their scarsremain."

  She rocked slightly forward and backward where she sat, her fingersinterlaced, twisting and clenching with her memories.

  "Ai-me! Hunger and cold and men! Hunger and--men. But it was solitudethat nigh undid me. That was the worst of all--the endless silence."

  The rain now swept the roof of bark above us, gust after gust swishingacross the eaves. Beyond the outer circle of the lantern light a mousemoved, venturing no nearer.

  "Lois?"

  She lifted her head. "All that is ended now. Strive to forget."

  She made no response.

  "Ended," I said firmly. "And this is how it ends. I have with mysolicitor, Mr. Simon Hake, of Albany, two thousand pounds hardsterling. How I first came by it I do not know. But Guy Johnson placedit there for me, saying that it was mine by right. Now, today, I havewritten to Mr. Hake a letter. In this letter I have commanded some fewtrifles to be bought for you, such as all women naturally require."

  "Euan!" she exclaimed sharply.

  "I will not listen!" said I excitedly. "Do you listen now to me, for Imean to have my way with you--say what you may----"

  "I know--I know--but you have done too much already----"

  "I have done nothing! Listen! I have bespoken trifles of novalue--nothing more--stockings, and shifts, and stays, andpowder-puffs, and other articles----"

  "I will not suffer this!" she said, an angry colour in her cheeks.

  "You suffer now--for lack even of handkerchiefs! I must insist----"

  "Euan! My shifts and stays and stockings are none of your affair!" sheanswered hotly.

  "I make them mine!"

  "No--nor is it your privilege to offer them!"

  "My--what?"

  "Privilege!" she said haughtily, flushing clear to her curly hair; andleft me checked. She added: "What you offer is impertinence--howeverkindly meant. No friendship warrants it, and I refuse."

  I know not what it was--perhaps my hurt and burning silence under thesudden lash of her rebuff--but presently I felt her hand steal overmine and tighten. And looked up, scowling, to see her eyes brimmingwith tears and merriment.

  "How much of me must you have, Euan? Even my privacy and pride? Youhave given me friendship; you have clothed me to your fancy. You havehad scant payment in exchange--only a poor girl's gratitude. What haveI left to offer in return if you bestow more gifts? Give me no more--sothat you take from me no more than--gratitude."

  "Comrades neither give nor take, Lois. What they possess belongs toboth in common."

  "I know--it is so said--but--you have had of me for all your bountyonly my thanks--and----" she smiled tremulously, "----a wild rose-bud.And you have given so much--so much--and I am far too poor torender----"

  "What have I asked of you!" I said impatiently.

  "Nothing. And so I am the more inclined to give--I know not what."

  "Shall I tell you what to offer me? Then offer me the privilege ofgiving. It is the rarest gift within your power."

  She sat looking at me while the soft colour waned and deepened in hercheeks.

  "I--give," she said in a voice scarce audible.

  "Then," said I, very happily, "I am free to tell you that I havecommanded for your comfort a host of pretty things, and a big box ofwood and brass, with a stout hide outside, to keep your clothing in!The lady of Captain Cresson, of the levies, has a noble one. Yours isits mate. And into yours will fit your gowns and shoon, patches andpowder, and the hundred articles which every woman needs by day andnight. Also I've named you to Mr. Hake, so that, first writing for meupon a slip of paper that I may send it to him--then writing yourrequest to him, you may make draughts for what you need upon our money,which now lies with him. Do you understand me, Lois? You will needmoney when the army leaves."

  Her head moved slightly, acquiescent.

  "So far so good, then. Now, when this army moves into the wilderness,and when I go, and you remain, you will have clothing that befits you;you will have means to properly maintain you; and I shall send you bybatteau to Mr. Hake, who will find lodging suitable for you--and beyour friend, and recommend you to his friends not only for my sake,but, when he sets his eyes on you, for your own sake." I smiled, andadded:

  "Hiero! Little rosy-throated pigeon of the woods! Loskiel has spoken!"

  Now, as I ended, this same and silly wild-thing fell silently a-crying;and never had I dreamed that any maid could be so full o' tears, whenby all rights she should have sat dimpling there, happy and gay, andeager as I.

  Out o' countenance again, and vexed in my mind, I sat silent,fidgetting, made strange and cold and awkward by her tears. The warmflush of self-approval chilled in my heart; and by and by a vagueresentment grew there.

  "Euan?" she ventured, lifting her wet eyes.

  "What?" said I ungraciously.

  "H--have you a hanker? Else I use my scandalous skirt again----"

  And the next instant we both were laughing there, she still in tears, Iwith blithe heart to see her now surrender at discretion, with her greyeyes smiling at me through a starry mist of tears, and the sweet mouthtremulous with her low-voiced thanks.

  "Ai-me!" she said. "What manner of boy is this, to hector me and havehis will? And now he sits there laughing, and convinced that when thearmy marches I shall wear his finery and do his bidding. And so Ishall--if I remain behind."

  "Lois! You can not go to Catharines-town! That's flat!"

  "I've wandered hungry and ragged for two years, asking the way. Do yousuppose I have endured in vain? Do you suppose I shall give up now?"

  "Lois!" I said seriously, "if it is true that the Senecas hold anywhite captives, their liberation is at hand. But that business concernsthe army. And I promise you that if your mother be truly there amongthose unhappy prisoners she shall be brought back safely from the ValeYndaia. I will tell Major Parr of this; he shall inform the General.Have no fear or doubt, dear maid. If she is there, and human power cansave her, then is she saved already, by God's grace."

  She said in a quiet voice:

  "I must go with you. And that is why--or partly why--I asked you heretonight. Find me some way to go to Catharines-town. For I must go!"

  "Why not inquire of me the road to hell?" I asked impatiently. She saidbetween her teeth:

  "Oh, any man might show me that. And guide me, too. Many have offered,Euan."

  "What!"

  "I ask your pardon. Two years of camps blunts any woman's speech."

  "Lois," said I uneasily, "why do you wish to go to Catharines-town,when an armed force is going?"

  She sat considering, then, in a low, firm voice:

  "To tell you why, is why I asked you here.... And first I must show youwhat my packet held.... Shall I show you, Euan?"

  "Surely, little comrade."

  She drew the packet from her bosom, unlaced the thong, unrolled thedeer-hide covering.

  "Here is a roll of bark," she said. "This I have never had interpreted.Can you read it for me, Euan?"

  And there in the lantern light I read it, while she looked down over myshoulder.

  "KADON!

  "Aesa-yat-yen-enghdon, Lois! "Etho! [And here was painted a white dog lying dead, its tongue hanging out sideways.] "Hen-skerigh-watonte. "Jatthon-ten-yonk, Lois! "Jin-isaya-dawen-ken-wed-e-wayen. [Here was drawn in outline the foot and claws of a forest lynx.] "Niyi-eskah-haghs, na-yegh-nyasa-kenra-dake, niya-wennonh!" [Then a white symbol.]

  For a long time I gazed at the writing in shocked silence. Then I askedher if she suspected what was written there in the Canienga dialect.

  "I never have had it read. Indians refuse, shake t
heir heads, and lookaskance at me, and tell me nothing; interpreters laugh at me, sayingthere is no meaning in the lines. Is there, Euan?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "You can interpret?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you?"

  I was silent, pondering the fearful meaning which had been renderedplainer and more hideous by the painted symbols.

  "It has to do with the magic of the Seneca priesthood," I muttered."Here is a foul screed--and yet a message, too, to you."

  Then, with an effort I found courage to read, as it was written:

  "I speak! Thou, Lois, mightest have been destroyed! Thus! (Here thewhite dog.) But I will frustrate their purpose. Keep listening to me,Lois. That which has befallen you we place it here (or, 'we draw ithere'--i. e., the severed foot and claws of a lynx). Being born white(literally, 'being born having a white neck'), this happened." And theghastly sign of Leshi ended it.

  "But what does it all signify?" she asked, bewildered.

  And even as she spoke, out of the dull and menacing horror of thesymbols, into my mind, leaped terrible comprehension.

  I said coolly: "It must have been Amochol--and his Erie sorcerers! Howcame you in Catharines-town?"

  "I? In Catharines-town!" she faltered. "Was I, then, ever there?"

  I pointed at the drawing of the dead white dog.

  "Somebody saved you from that hellish sacrifice. I tell you it is plainenough to read. The rite is practiced only by the red sorcerers of theSenecas.... Look! It was because your 'neck' was 'white'! Look again!Here is the symbol of the Cat-People--the Eries--the acolytes ofAmochol--here! This spread lynx-pad with every separate claw extended!Yet, it is drawn severed--in symbol of your escape. Lois! Lois! It isplain enough. I follow it all--almost all--nearly--but not quite----"

  I hesitated, studying the bark intently, pausing to look at her with anew and keenly searching question in my gaze.

  "You have not shown me all," I said.

  "All that is written in the Iroquois tongue. But there were otherthings in the packet with this bark letter." She opened it again uponher lap.

  "Here is a soldier's belt-buckle," she said, offering it to me for myinspection.

  It was made of silver and there were still traces of French gilt uponthe device.

  "Regiment de la Reine," I read. "What regiment is that, Lois? I'm sureI've heard of it somewhere. Oh! Now I remember. It was a verycelebrated French regiment--cut all to pieces at Lake George by SirWilliam Johnson in '55. This is an officer's belt-buckle."

  "Was the regiment, then, totally destroyed?"

  "Utterly. In France they made the regiment again with new men and newofficers, and call it still by the same celebrated name."

  "You say Sir William Johnson's men cut it to pieces--the Regiment de laReine?" she asked.

  "His Indians, British and Provincials, left nothing of it after thatbloody day."

  She sat thoughtful for a while, then, bestirring herself, drew from thedeerhide packet a miniature on ivory, cracked across, and held togetheronly by the narrow oval frame of gold.

  There was no need to look twice. This man, whoever he might be, wasthis girl's father; and nobody who had ever seen her and this miniaturecould ever doubt it.

  She did not speak, nor did I, conscious that her eyes had never left myface and must have read my startled mind with perfect ease.

  Presently I turned the portrait over. There was a lock of hair thereunder the glass--bright, curly hair exactly like her own. And at firstI saw nothing else. Then, as the glass-backed locket glanced in thelantern-light, I saw that on the glass something had been inscribedwith a diamond. This is what I read, written across the glass:

  "Jean Coeur a son coeur cheri."

  I looked up at her.

  "Jean Coeur," I repeated. "That is no name for a man----" Suddenly Iremembered, years ago--years and years since--hearing Guy Johnsoncursing some such man. Then in an instant all came back to me; and sheseemed to divine it, for her small hand clutched my arm and her eyeswere widening as I turned to meet them.

  "Lois," I said unsteadily, "there was a man called Jean Coeur, deputyto the adventurer, Joncaire. Joncaire was the great captain who all butsaved this Western Continent to France. Captain Joncaire was feared,detested, but respected by Sir William Johnson because he held allCanada and the Hurons and Algonquins in the hollow of his hand, and hadeven gained part of the Long House--the Senecas. His clever deputy wascalled Jean Coeur. Never did two men know the Indians as these two did."

  I thought a moment, then: "Somewhere I heard that Captain Joncaire hada daughter. But she married another man--one Louis de Contrecoeur----"I hesitated, glanced again at the name scratched on the glass over thelock of hair, and shook my head.

  "Jean Coeur--Louis de Contrecoeur. The names scarce hangtogether--yet----"

  "Look at this!" she whispered in a low, tense voice, and laid a bit ofprinting in my hand.

  It was a stained and engraved sheet of paper--a fly-leaf detached froma book of Voltaire. And above the scroll-encompassed title was writtenin faded ink: "Le Capitaine Vicomte Louis Jean de Contrecoeur duRegiment de la Reine." And under that, in a woman's fine handwriting:"Mon coeur, malgre; mon coeur, se rendre a Contrecoeur, dit Jean Coeur;coeur contre coeur."

  "That," she said, "is the same writing that the birch bark bears, sewedin my moccasins."

  "Then," I said excitedly, "your mother was born Mademoiselle Joncaire,and you are Lois de Contrecoeur!"

  She sat with eyes lowered, fingering the stained and faded page. Aftera moment she said:

  "I wrote to France--to the Headquarters of the Regiment de laReine--asking about my--father."

  "You had an answer?"

  "Aye, the answer came.... Merely a word or two.... The Vicomte LouisJean de Contrecoeur fell at Lake George in '55----" She lifted herclear eyes to mine. "And died--unmarried."

  A chill passed through me, then the reaction came, taking me by thethroat, setting my veins afire.

  "Then--by God!" I stammered. "If de Contrecoeur died unmarried, hischild shall not!"

  "Euan! I do not credit what they wrote. If my father married hereperhaps they had not heard."

  "Lois! Dearest of maids--whichever is the truth I wish to marry you!"

  But she stopped her ears with both palms, giving me a frightened look;and checked, but burning still, I stared at her.

  "Is that then all you are?" she asked. "A wisp of tow to catch thefirst spark that flies? A brand ever smouldering, which the firstbreath o' woman stirs to flame?"

  "Never have I loved before----"

  "Love! Euan, are you mad?"

  We both were breathing fast and brokenly.

  "What is it then, if it be not love!" I asked angrily.

  "What is it?" she repeated slowly. Yet I seemed to feel in her veryvoice a faint, cool current of contempt. "Why, it is what always urgesmen to speak, I fancy--their natural fire--their easily provokedemotions.... I had believed you different."

  "Did you not desire my friendship?" I asked in hot chagrin.

  "Not if it be of this kind, Euan."

  "You would not have me love you?"

  "Love!" And the fine edge of her contempt cut clean. "Love!" sherepeated coolly. "And we scarcely know each other; have never passed aday together; have never broken bread; know nothing, nothing of eachother's minds and finer qualities; have awakened nothing in each otheryet except emotions. Friendships have their deeps and shallows, but aredeathless only while they endure. Love hath no shallows, Euan, andendures often when friendship dies.... I speak, having no knowledge.But I believe it. And, believing nobly of true love--in ignorance ofit, but still in awe--and having been assailed by clamours of ashameful passion calling itself love--and having builded in my heartand mind a very lofty altar for the truth, how can I feel otherwisethan sorry that you spoke--hotly, unthinkingly, as you did to me?"

  I was silent.

  She rose, lifted the lantern, laid open the trap-door.

  "Come," she w
hispered, beckoning.

  I followed her as she descended, took the lantern from her hand,glanced at the shadowy heap, asleep perhaps, on the corner settle, thenwalked to the door and opened it. A thousand, thousand stars weresparkling overhead.

  On the sill she whispered:

  "When will you come again?"

  "Do you want me?" I said sullenly.

  She made no answer for a moment; suddenly she caught my hand andpressed it, crushing it between both of hers; and turning I saw heralmost helpless with her laughter.

  "Oh, what an infant have I found in this tall gentleman of Morgan'scorps!" said she. "A boy one moment and a man the next--silly and wisein the same breath--headlong, headstrong, tender, and generous, pettyand childish, grave and kind--the sacred and wondrous being, in pointof fact, known to the world as man! And now he asks, with solemn mienand sadly ruffled and reproachful dignity whether a poor, friendless,homeless, nameless girl desires his company again!"

  She dropped my hand, caught at her skirt's edge, and made me a mockingreverence.

  "Dear sir," she said, "I pray you come again to visit me tomorrow,while I am mending regimental shirts at tuppence each----"

  "Lois!" I said sadly. "How can you use me so!"

  She began to laugh again.

  "Oh, Euan, I can not endure it if you're solemn and sorry foryourself----"

  "That is too much!" I exclaimed, furious, and marched out, boiling,under the high stars. And every star o' them, I think, was laughing atthe sorriest ass who ever fell in love.

  Nevertheless, that night I wrote her name in my letter to Mr. Hake; andthe ink on it was scarce sanded when an Oneida runner had it and wasdriving his canoe down the Mohawk River at a speed that promised to winfor him the bonus in hard money which I had promised for a swiftjourney and a swift return.

  And far into the July morning I talked with the Sagamore of Amochol andof Catharines-town; and he listened while he sat tirelessly polishinghis scalping-knife and hatchet.