CHAPTER XXXV.
SWORDCRAFT.
The path taken by La Salle ascended and brought him finally to thecrest of a hill. Here a wood of storm-beaten pines stood motionless inthe white calm of the long winter sleep. Between the dimly lightedtrees spread a narrow scar of black earth, which had been protectedfrom snow by the funereal boughs above. The spot was as silent and assad as a burying-place. It seemed to the priest that the balsamicpines might have been planted to neutralise any noxious odoursemanating from the ground. He shivered at the thought, turned toretrace his steps and find an outlet which might lead him to the shore;but straightway a restraint fell upon his feet, and a thrill racedthrough his body, when he perceived that the place whereon he walkedwas haunted ground.
Before him stood a figure, white-faced and worn, clad in raggedgarments, a man to all outward seeming no more sentient than the pines,for he moved not at all, nor did he speak, nor make a sign. As thoughrooted and frozen, he stood across the way, showing life and feelingonly in his eyes.
"By all the saints!" the priest muttered. "'Tis but a half-starvedEnglishman."
Then he shouted his ready challenge to the silent man, who passedimmediately with swift movements to the strip of bare ground, and,halting within touch of his enemy, addressed him sternly in the Gallictongue:
"That you may learn, Sir Priest, with whom you have to deal, know thatbefore you stands Sir Thomas Iden, a squire of England and a knight ofKent, a man moreover who has sworn to fight you fairly to the death.Remember you that night on which you put to death a boy in the forestbeside Couchicing? That boy was my son, my only child. Sir Priest,you and I have crossed swords before this day. I was then a better manthan now; but, with the help of my God and the spirit of my child, Ishall lay out your body in this lonely spot for the winds to howl upon,and leave your eyes open for the crows to peck at. I pray you answeronly with your sword."
Hot words came to La Salle's tongue, but he did not utter them. Hefound himself daunted by the horror of the place and the unyieldingattitude of the knight. As he brought up his renowned right arm, itshivered and the hand was cold. But so soon as their blades met, hisfighting spirit arose and conquered the superstitious fear, and afierce light shone again in his eyes, and the knowledge was borne backupon him that he was in truth the finest swordsman in the New World,and with that he shouted out, "Have at you, heretic dog!" and attackedwith all his might.
Not a bird moved through the air, not an insect lived upon that hilltop, not an animal passed that way. The two men had the gloomy wood tothemselves. Not even a breath of wind passed to wave the pines, orscatter into motion last autumn's rusted leaves, which spotted with redthe sable rent in the great white sheet which Nature had drawn acrossthe ground. The rhythm of the swords rang monotonously, as the twoweird figures drifted to and fro, from side to side of the dusky bluff,struggling the one against the other, with life as the winner's prize.Before the abbe spread his splendid career of power as a prince of theChurch. He had but to emerge triumphant from this last taking of thesword to assume the dignity of his new office and realise the ambitionof his heart. While the avenger saw neither priest, nor governor, norfencer of renown, but merely a fellow-being who had extinguished thelight of his young son's life.
So the momentous minutes passed. When the sound of quick and furiousbreathing began to pulsate around the hill, Mary Iden ascended from thehollow, after playing her part in the avenging of her son's death, andwatched with bosom heaving rapidly every movement of her husband, surein her faith that he was the strongest man alive. Yet she aided himwith her counsel; and when the passion of the fight had entered alsointo her she cast contempt and hatred upon La Salle, and mocked hisskill, though he was on that day the finer swordsman of the pair.
"Wait not, husband," she cried warningly. "He is more spent than you."
Sir Thomas heard and rushed out. La Salle, standing sideways, parriedthe thrust with a slight motion of his iron wrist, and, rounding, tookup the attack, which ended in a feint and a lunge over the heart. Hissword glanced under the knight's arm and the point struck a fir and wasalmost held.
"Perdition!" he muttered. "I must use greater caution."
For a few seconds the blades were dazzling as they darted together withthe malignity and swiftness of serpents; then La Salle feigned tostumble, lowering his point as though he had lost his grip, an oldtrick he had often employed successfully, and as the knight leapedforward to take his opening, the priest recovered and sent the bladeinto his opponent's side. Life had never appeared to him so good as atthat moment, but before his laugh had died the Englishman leanedforward, grasping the sword and holding it firmly in his side, lungedout, and ran the priest through the chest, after La Salle had saved hislife by throwing up his arm and deflecting the point from his heart.
They fell apart, gulping the keen air for a taste of new life. Thewatcher advanced, her brown face ghastly, but her husband put out hishand and motioned her back.
"Away, Mary. There is life in me yet."
Unwillingly she retired, and a flush of pride crossed her face when herhusband staggered across the snow, his eyes still clear and fierce. LaSalle, no whit less dauntless, came up also and stood swaying like oneof the trees behind.
"You are brave, Englishman, and a worthy foe," he gasped. "We haveshed each other's blood. Let us now cry hold and part."
"There can be no truce between you and me," came the deep reply. "Thisfight is to the death."
"Life has its pleasures," urged La Salle.
"Of such you deprived my son."
"Your blood be upon your own head!"
Again their swords clashed. No signs of weakening yet upon eitherdrawn face. The balance swayed neither to the one side nor to theother.
Again the watcher started out, appealing to her husband. It would bean easy matter to attack La Salle from the rear; to trip his foot witha stick; to blind him by a handful of snow. But the knight would nothear her; and even threatened when she made as though she would disobey.
The priest listened for the tramp of feet and the call of voices. Hewould then have called the meanest settler in Acadie his brother.Shoutings came to him from the bay, the roar of the ship's gun, and thesplitting of the ice. He groaned and cursed the folly which had drivenhim into this snare.
Courage revived when he scored by a clever stroke; but again histriumph was short-lived. The knight answered by driving his point hardinto the open side. Darkness dropped upon their eyes. They reeledlike drunken men, fighting the air, feeling for each other, fallingbody to body, and pushing apart with a convulsive shudder.
"Where are you?" gasped the abbe.
"Here," moaned the Englishman, striking towards the voice.
"It is enough," said La Salle, the voice gurgling in his throat."Flesh and blood can endure no more. Put up your sword."
"Only in your heart."
They held at each other with one hand while fighting with the other. Awound on one side was answered by a wound on the other. It appeared asthough neither had another drop of blood to shed, not a muscle leftunspent, nor a breath to come. The chill of the winter was in the soulof each, and it was also the chill of death. They crawled at eachother like torn beasts, upon hands and knees.
"You are spent," pulsated La Salle.
"My sword has gone through you twice."
"Husband, bid me strike him," implored the watcher. "He is scarce ableto lift his arm."
"Back, woman," panted the dying man.
Once more they stood upon their feet, and again their points wereraised, but now against bodies which had lost all consciousness, savethe ruling passion of ambition in the one and vengeance in the other.
"Down!" snarled the abbe, knowing not it was the last word which histongue should utter; and, closing with his enemy, threw his remaininglife into one lunge.
The sword left his hand for ever. By a glimmer of light through thered darkness he saw the body of the knight stret
ched black along thatghastly carpet; he saw the woman running forth with a great cry toraise it by the shoulders. Then night fell upon the victor as hestumbled on among the trees, with a small sane voice of consciousnesssinging in his departing soul: "You have fought your last fight. Youshall win the red hat yet."
So he was found by his defeated soldiers, feeling his way from pine topine, leaving in his wake two dotted lines more ruby-red than thecardinal's soutane. They bound up his wounds as best they could, and,raising him upon their shoulders, bore the dead weight of unconsciousmatter into Acadie.
At noon the ship came to the landing-stage. During the excitementwhich accompanied and followed her arrival even the governor becameforgotten. A cadaverous priest was the first to step ashore, castingaround him glances of intolerable pride. Others were quick to follow,and soon it became noised abroad that Roussilac was to be recalled andthat Pope Urbano had need of La Salle the priest. Even such momentousmatters were put aside by the settlers in their anxiety to hear tidingsof home and friends.
In the meantime the pale-faced priest had set forth for the governor'sabode, muttering imprecations upon the bitter country in which it hadbecome his evil lot to settle.
"His Excellency?" he inquired shortly at the door; and the seneschal,awed by his morose manner, merely made a reverence and pointed as hesaid: "He lies within, Holiness."
More he would have said, but the nuncio passed on quickly and enteredthe room, holding forth a missive tied with scarlet thread, calling ina jealous voice:
"Your Excellency! A letter from Rome. A call for your return."
La Salle was lying along the bed. The messenger came nearer.
"Awake, your Excellency! His Holiness Pope Urbano sends to you----"
There the strange priest stopped at beholding a broken crucifix beneaththe sleeper's right hand; and a sneering smile curved his lips, and heshrugged his thin shoulders, as he callously observed:
"Methinks his Holiness has sent in vain."