CHAPTER I
THE MASTER
It was late one clear moonlight night in the spring of 17--, when threesilent figures emerged from the woodland darkness and struck across thewide extent of rank grass which yet separated us from the bay.Tuskahoma led the way, a tall grim Choctaw chieftain, my companion onmany a hunt, his streaming plumes fluttering behind him as he strode.I followed, and after me, Le Corbeau Rouge, a runner of the Choctaws.We were returning to Biloxi from a reconnaissance in the Chickasawcountry.
Each straight behind the other, dumb and soundless shadows, we passedalong the way, hardly bruising a leaf or brushing the rustling reedsaside.
"See, there is the light," grunted Tuskahoma, pointing to a glimmerthrough the trees. "Yes, the White Prophet never sleeps," assented LeCorbeau Rouge.
The light which marked our almost ended journey came from a window inone of those low, square log houses, fortress-dwellings, so common inthe provinces.
Here, however, the strong pine palisades were broken down in manyplaces; the iron-studded gate hung unhinged and open, the accumulatedsand at its base showed it had not been closed in many years.
But the decay and neglect everywhere manifest in its defenses extendedno further, for inside the enclosure was a garden carefully tended; atrailing vine clung lovingly to a corner of the wide gallery, and evena few of the bright roses of France lent their sweetness to a place itseemed impossible to associate with a thought of barbaric warfare.
I loved this humble home, for in such a one my mother and I had spentthose last years of sweet good-comradeship before her death--the roses,the rude house, all reminded me of her, of peace, of gentler things.
The character of its lone occupant protected this lowly abode farbetter than the armies of France, the chivalry of Spain, or theChoctaw's ceaseless vigilance could possibly have done. He came thereit was said, some fifteen years before, a Huguenot exile, seemingly aman of education and birth. He built his castle of refuge on a knolloverlooking the sheltered bay, hoping there to find the tolerationdenied him in his native land. The edict of Nantes had been revoked byKing Louis, and thousands of exiled Frenchmen of high and low degreesought new fortunes in newer lands.
Many had reached America, and strove with energetic swords andrapacious wallets to wrest blood and gold and fame from whatsoeversource they might.
This man alone of all those first explorers had shown no disposition tosearch out the hidden treasures of the wilderness, to prey upon thenatives. He became their friend and not their plunderer.
His quiet life, his kindness, his charity, his knowledge of the simplearts of healing, so endeared him to every warring faction that at hishouse the Choctaw and the Chickasaw, the Frenchman, Spaniard and theEnglishman met alike in peace. So the needless fortifications fellinto unrepaired decay.
Many an afternoon I had paddled across the bay and spent a quiet hourwith him, as far from the jars and discord at Biloxi as if we were insome other world.
As, this night, we drew nearer the house we saw no signs of life savethe chinks of light creeping beneath the door. I rapped, and his voicebade me enter.
The master sat at his table in the center of a great room, about whichwere a number of surgical and scientific instruments, all objects ofmistrust to my Indian friends.
These curious weapons of destruction or of witchcraft, for so theIndians regarded them, contributed to make him an object of fear, whichdoubtless did much to strengthen his influence among the tribes.
He was at this time somewhat more than sixty, slender and rather abovethe medium height. With his usual grave courtesy he welcomed us andreadily loaned the small pirogue necessary to carry our party acrossthe bay.
The Indians were restless and the governor waited, so I only thankedour host and turned to go.
He rose, and laying his hand upon my arm detained me. "Wait, Placide;I am glad you returned this way, for I have long wished to speak withyou; especially do I wish it on this night--on this night. Sit down."
Mechanically I obeyed, for I could see there was something of more thanusual import on his mind. The Indians had withdrawn, and the master,pacing uncertainly about the room, paused and regarded me intently, asif he almost regretted his invitation to stay. After several effortshe abruptly began:
"I fear I have not very long to live, and dread to meet death, leavinga solemn duty unperformed. It is of this I would speak."
I listened in silence. He spoke hurriedly as though he doubted hisresolution to tell it all.
"You, and every one in these colonies, know me only as Colonel d'Ortez,the Huguenot refugee. So I have been known by the whites ever since Icame here to escape persecution at home, and to get forever beyond thesound of a name which has become hateful to me--my own.
"The Counts d'Artin have been a proud race in France for centuries, yetI, the last d'Artin, find the name too great a burden to bear with mein shameful silence to my grave. See this," and he took from histhroat a pearl-studded locket, swung by a substantial golden chain,which he opened and handed to me. Inside were the arms of a noblefamily exquisitely blazoned upon a silver shield.
"What is it; what device is there?"
"What is it; what device is there?"]
I knew something of heraldry and read aloud without hesitation thebearings upon the shield, prominent among which were three wolves'heads, chevroned, supported by two black wolves, rampant, the coronetand motto "Praeclare factum."
"Aye," he mused half coherently, "the wolf; 'tis the crest of thed'Artins, quartered with those of many of the most ancient houses ofFrance. So do those arms appear to men. But see."
He took the locket quickly from me and with a swift forceful movementturned the plate in its place, exposing the reverse side.
"What is this? Look!"
I glanced at it and started, looking inquiringly into my old friend'sface. He avoided my eye.
I saw now upon the plate the same arms, the same quarterings, but overall there ran diagonally across the scutcheon a flaming bar of redwhich blazed evilly upon the silver ground. I understood.
"What is it?" he demanded impatiently. I still could find no word toanswer.
"Speak out boy, what is it?"
"The same, but here, overall, is the bendlet sinister." I scarcelydared to look up into his face.
"Aye," he replied, his countenance livid with shame. "It is the barsinister, the badge of dishonor. So do those proud arms appear in thesight of God, and so shall they be seen of men. And for generationseach Lord of Cartillon has added to that crimson stripe the indeliblestain of cowardice."
The master, his features working convulsively with humbled pride, hiseyes never leaving the floor, continued resolutely.
"The story is short. Over a hundred years ago the Count d'Artin wasmurdered in his castle by the son of a peasant woman, his half brother,who assumed the title and seized the estates. This was easy in thosetimes, for the murdered man was a Huguenot, his slayer a Catholic inthe service of Guise, and it was the day after St. Bartholomew's. Thecount had sent his infant son for safety to an old friend, the abbottof a neighboring monastery. This child was brought up in the Catholicfaith, and in him and his descendants resided the true right of theCounts d'Artin. Of this they have always been ignorant. The usurperon his death bed repented, and calling his own son to him, told him thewhole story, exacting a solemn oath that he would find the disinheritedone and restore to him his own. This oath was kept in part. His son,Raoul d'Ortez, found the child, then an officer in the army, but lackedthe courage to declare his own shame, and relinquish the price of hisfather's crime. By that Raoul d'Ortez this locket was made, and thesame vow and the same tradition were handed down to me. I have nochild. God knows I would give up the accursed heritage if I could.
"During all these years a careful record has been kept of the truelineage, which was only broken in my father's time. Here in thispacket are the papers which prove it; I confide them to you upon mydeath. After
I am gone I want you to find the last d'Artin."
He was silent now a long time, then continued in a lower tone: "Mymother was of the reformed religion and I embraced her faith. It seemslike a judgment of God that I, a Huguenot, should lose under King Louiswhat my Catholic ancestor gained under King Charles. Now go, lad."
I could say nothing, but touching his hand in mute sympathy turned awaywithout a word.
I had almost reached the door when he sprang after and again detainedme. His glance searched apprehensively into the shadowy corners of theroom, his voice wavered, the look of a hunted animal crept into hiseyes.
"'Tis said," he whispered, "the restless spirits of my fathers yethaunt our castle in Normandy--oh, merciful God, do you believe it? Ohno, no, after all these troubled years I fain would find a dreamlessslumber in my grave."
I soothed him as I would a frightened child, and left him standing atthe door.