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                           THE SUN OF QUEBEC

                       A STORY OF A GREAT CRISIS


                                   BY

                          JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

                               AUTHOR OF
           "LORDS OF THE WILD," "THE GREAT SIOUX TRAIL," ETC.


                     APPLETON-CENTURY-CROFTS, INC.
                                NEW YORK


                          COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


     _All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not
     be reproduced in any form without permission of the
     publishers._


                Copyright, 1947, by Sallie B. Altsheler

                Printed in the United States of America




FOREWORD


"The Sun of Quebec" is the sixth and closing volume of the French and
Indian War Series of which the predecessors have been "The Hunters of
the Hills," "The Shadow of the North," "The Rulers of the Lakes," "The
Masters of the Peaks," and "The Lords of the Wild." The important
characters in the earlier books reappear, and the mystery in the life of
Robert Lennox, the central figure in all the romances, is solved.




CHARACTERS IN THE FRENCH AND INDIAN WAR SERIES


ROBERT LENNOX                    A lad of unknown origin

TAYOGA                           A young Onondaga warrior

DAVID WILLET                     A hunter

RAYMOND LOUIS DE ST. LUC         A brilliant French officer

AGUSTE DE COURCELLES             A French officer

FRANÇOIS DE JUMONVILLE           A French officer

LOUIS DE GALISONNIÈRE            A young French officer

JEAN DE MÉZY                     A corrupt Frenchman

ARMAND GLANDELET                 A young Frenchman

PIERRE BOUCHER                   A bully and bravo

PHILIBERT DROUILLARD             A French priest

THE MARQUIS DUQUESNE             Governor-General of Canada

MARQUIS DE VAUDREUIL             Governor-General of Canada

FRANÇOIS BIGOT                   Intendant of Canada

MARQUIS DE MONTCALM              French commander-in-chief

DE LEVIS                         A French general

BOURLAMAQUE                      A French general

BOUGAINVILLE                     A French general

ARMAND DUBOIS                    A follower of St. Luc

M. DE CHATILLARD                 An old French Seigneur

CHARLES LANGLADE                 A French partisan

THE DOVE                         The Indian wife of Langlade

TANDAKORA                        An Ojibway chief

DAGANOWEDA                       A young Mohawk chief

HENDRICK                         An old Mohawk chief

BRADDOCK                         A British general

ABERCROMBIE                      A British general

WOLFE                            A British general

COL. WILLIAM JOHNSON             Anglo-American leader

MOLLY BRANT                      Col. Wm. Johnson's Indian wife

JOSEPH BRANT                     Young brother of Molly Brant, afterward
                                 the great Mohawk chief, Thayendanegea

ROBERT DINWIDDIE                 Lieutenant-Governor of Virginia

WILLIAM SHIRLEY                  Governor of Massachusetts

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN                Famous American patriot

JAMES COLDEN                     A young Philadelphia captain

WILLIAM WILTON                   A young Philadelphia lieutenant

HUGH CARSON                      A young Philadelphia lieutenant

JACOBUS HUYSMAN                  An Albany burgher

CATERINA                         Jacobus Huysman's cook

ALEXANDER MCLEAN                 An Albany schoolmaster

BENJAMIN HARDY                   A New York merchant

JOHNATHAN PILLSBURY              Clerk to Benjamin Hardy

ADRIAN VAN ZOON                  A New York merchant

THE SLAVER                       A nameless rover

ACHILLE GARAY                    A French spy

ALFRED GROSVENOR                 A young English officer

JAMES CABELL                     A young Virginian

WALTER STUART                    A young Virginian

BLACK RIFLE                      A famous "Indian fighter"

ELIHU STRONG                     A Massachusetts colonel

ALAN HERVEY                      A New York financier

STUART WHITE                     Captain of the British sloop, _Hawk_

JOHN LATHAM                      Lieutenant of the British sloop, _Hawk_

EDWARD CHARTERIS                 A young officer of the Royal Americans

ZEBEDEE CRANE                    A young scout and forest runner

ROBERT ROGERS                    Famous Captain of American Rangers




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                  PAGE

   I  OLD FRIENDS                           1

  II  THE CHEST OF DRAWERS                 22

 III  THE PURSUIT OF GARAY                 46

  IV  OUT TO SEA                           66

   V  MUSIC IN THE MOONLIGHT               85

  VI  THE ISLAND                          104

 VII  THE PIRATE'S WARNING                123

VIII  MAKING THE BEST OF IT               142

  IX  THE VOICE IN THE AIR                158

   X  THE SLOOP OF WAR                    176

  XI  BACK TO THE WORLD                   193

 XII  THE WILDERNESS AGAIN                217

XIII  THE REUNION                         238

 XIV  BEFORE QUEBEC                       263

  XV  THE LONE CHÂTEAU                    284

 XVI  THE RECKONING                       303




THE SUN OF QUEBEC




CHAPTER I

OLD FRIENDS


Mynheer Jacobus Huysman walked to the window and looked out at the neat
red brick houses, the grass, now turning yellow, and the leaves, more
brown than green. He was troubled, in truth his heart lay very heavy
within him. He was thinking over the terrible news that had come so
swiftly, as evil report has a way of doing. But he had cause for
satisfaction, too, and recalling it, he turned to gaze once more upon
the two lads who, escaping so many perils, had arrived at the shelter of
his home.

Robert and Tayoga were thin and worn, their clothing was soiled and
torn, but youth was youth and they were forgetting dangers past in a
splendid dinner that the fat Caterina was serving for them while Mynheer
Jacobus, her master, stood by and saw the good deed well done.

The dining room, large and furnished solidly, was wonderful in its
neatness and comfort. The heavy mahogany of table, sideboard and chairs
was polished and gleaming. No trace of dirt was allowed to linger
anywhere. When the door to the adjoining kitchen opened, as Caterina
passed through, pleasant odors floated in, inciting the two to fresh
efforts at the trencher. It was all as it had been when they were young
boys living there, attending the school of Alexander McLean and
traveling by painful steps along the road to knowledge. In its snugness,
its security and the luxury it offered it was a wonderful contrast to
the dark forest, where death lurked in every bush. Robert drew a long
sigh of content and poured himself another cup of coffee.

"And you escaped from the French after the great battle?" said Mynheer
Jacobus, asking the same question over and over again.

"Yes, sir," replied Robert, "and it was not a difficult thing to do at
all. The victory of the French was so remarkable, and I think so
unexpected, that they were paying little attention to me. I just walked
out of their camp, and the only man I met was the Chevalier de St. Luc,
who did not seem at all interested in stopping me--a curious fact, but a
fact all the same."

"A great leader and a fine man iss the Chevalier de St. Luc," said Mr.
Huysman.

"He's both, as I've had many chances to learn, and I intend to know more
about him some day."

"It may be that you will know even more than you think."

Robert looked sharply at the burgher, and he was about to ask questions,
but he reflected that Mynheer Jacobus, if he were able to answer, would
be evasive like all the others and so he checked the words at his lips.

"I suppose that time will disclose everything," he contented himself
with saying. "Meanwhile, I want to tell you, sir, that Tayoga and I
appreciate to the full your hospitality. It is noble, it always was
noble, as we've had ample occasion to discover."

The full red face of Mynheer Jacobus bloomed into a smile. The corners
of his mouth turned up, and his eyes twinkled.

"I must have had a premonition that you two were coming," he said, "and
so I stocked the larder. I remembered of old your appetites, a hunger
that could be satisfied only with great effort, and then could come back
again an hour later, as fresh and keen as ever. You are strong and
healthy boys, for which you should be grateful."

"We are," said Robert, with great emphasis.

"And you do not know whether Montcalm iss advancing with his army?"

"We don't, sir, but is Albany alarmed?"

"It iss! It iss alarmed very greatly. It wass not dreamed by any of us
that our army could be defeated, that magnificent army which I saw go
away to what I thought was certain victory. Ah, how could it have
happened? How could it have happened, Robert?"

"We simply threw away our chances, sir. I saw it all. We underrated the
French. If we had brought up our big guns it would have been easy. There
was no lack of courage on the part of our men. I don't believe that
people of British blood ever showed greater bravery, and that means
bravery equal to anybody's."

Mynheer Jacobus Huysman sighed heavily.

"What a waste! What a waste!" he said. "Now the army hass retreated and
the whole border iss uncovered. The tomahawk and scalping knife are at
work. Tales of slaughter come in efery day, and it iss said that
Montcalm iss advancing on Albany itself."

"I don't believe, sir, that he will come," said Robert. "The French
numbers are much fewer than is generally supposed, and I can't think he
will dare to attack Albany."

"It does not seem reasonable, but there iss great alarm. Many people are
leaving on the packets for New York. Who would have thought it? Who
could have thought it! But I mean to stay, and if Montcalm comes I will
help fight in the defense."

"I knew you wouldn't leave, sir. But despite our defeat we've a powerful
army yet, and England and the Colonies will not sit down and just weep."

"What you say iss so, Robert, my boy. I am not of English blood, but
when things look worst iss the time when England shows best, and the
people here are of the same breed. I do not despair. What did you say
had become of Willet?"

"Shortly before we reached Albany he turned aside to see Sir William
Johnson. We had, too, with us, a young Englishman named Grosvenor, a
fine fellow, but he went at once to the English camp here to report for
duty. He was in the battle at Ticonderoga and he also will testify that
our army, although beaten, could have brought up its artillery and have
fought again in a day or two. It would have gained the victory, too."

"I suppose so! I suppose so! But it did not fight again, and what might
have been did not happen. It means a longer war in this country and a
longer war all over the world. It spreads! It iss a great war, extending
to most of the civilized lands, the greatest war of modern times and
many think it will be the last war, but I know not. The character of
mankind does not change. What do you two boys mean to do?"

"We have not decided yet," replied Robert, speaking for both. "We'll go
back to the war, of course, which means that we'll travel once more
toward the north, but we'll have to rest a few days."

"And this house iss for you to rest in--a few days or many days, as you
please, though I hope it will be many. Caterina shall cook for you four,
five meals a day, if you wish, and much at every meal. I do not forget
how when you were little you raided the fruit trees, and the berry
bushes and the vines. Well, the fruit will soon be ripe again und I will
turn my back the other way. I will make that fat Caterina do the same,
and you and Tayoga can imagine that you are little boys once more."

"I know you mean that, Mynheer Jacobus, and we thank you from the bottom
of our hearts," said Robert, as the moisture came into his eyes.

"Here comes Master Alexander McLean," said Mr. Huysman, who had turned
back to the window. "He must have heard of your arrival and he wishes to
see if your perils in the woods have made you forget your ancient
history."

In a minute or two Master McLean, tall, thin, reddish of hair, and
severe of gaze entered, his frosty blue eyes lighting up as he shook
hands with the boys, though his manner remained austere.

"I heard that you had arrived after the great defeat at Ticonderoga," he
said, "and you are fortunate to have escaped with your lives. I rejoice
at it, but those who go into the woods in such times must expect great
perils. It is of course well for all our young men to offer their lives
now for their country, but I thought I saw in you at least, Robert
Lennox, the germ of a great scholar, and it would be a pity for you to
lose your life in some forest skirmish."

"I thank you for the compliment," said Robert, "but as I was telling
Mynheer Jacobus I mean to go back into the woods."

"I doubt it not. The young of this generation are wise in their own
conceit. It was hard enough to control Tayoga and you several years ago,
and I cannot expect to do it now. Doubtless all the knowledge that I
have been at such pains to instill into you will be lost in the
excitement of trail and camp."

"I hope not, sir, though it's true that we've had some very stirring
times. When one is in imminent danger of his life he cannot think much
of his Latin, his Greek and his ancient history."

The severe features of Master Alexander McLean wrinkled into a frown.

"I do not know about that," he said. "Alexander the Great slept with his
Homer under his pillow, and doubtless he also carried the book with him
on his Asiatic campaigns, refreshing and strengthening his mind from
time to time with dips into its inspiring pages. There is no crisis in
which it is pardonable for you to forget your learning, though I fear me
much that you have done so. What was the date, Robert, of the fall of
Constantinople?"

"Mahomet the Second entered it, sir, in the year 1453 A. D."

"Very good. I begin to have more confidence in you. And why is Homer
considered a much greater poet than Virgil?"

"More masculine, more powerful, sir, and far more original. In fact the
Romans in their literature, as in nearly all other arts, were merely
imitators of the Greeks."

The face of Master McLean relaxed into a smile.

"Excellent! Excellent!" he exclaimed. "You have done better than you
claimed for yourself, but modesty is an attribute that becomes the
young, and now I tell you again, Robert, that I am most glad you and
Tayoga have come safely out of the forest. I wish to inform you also
that Master Benjamin Hardy and his chief clerk, Jonathan Pillsbury, have
arrived from New York on the fast packet, _River Queen_, and even now
they are depositing their baggage at the George Inn, where they are
expecting to stay."

Master Jacobus who had been silent while the schoolmaster talked, awoke
suddenly to life.

"At the George Inn!" he exclaimed. "It iss a good inn, good enough for
anybody, but when friends of mine come to Albany they stay with me or I
take offense. Bide here, my friends, and I will go for them. Alexander,
sit with the lads and partake of refreshment while I am gone."

He hastened from the room and Master McLean, upon being urged, joined
Robert and Tayoga at the table, where he showed that he too was a good
man at the board, thinness being no bar to appetite and capacity. As he
ate he asked the boys many questions, and they, knowing well his kindly
heart under his crusty manner, answered them all readily and freely.
Elderly and bookish though he was, his heart throbbed at the tale of the
great perils through which they had gone, and his face darkened when
Robert told anew the story of Ticonderoga.

"It is our greatest defeat so far," he said, "and I hope our misfortunes
came to a climax there. We must have repayment for it. We must aim at
the heart of the French power, and that is Quebec. Instead of fighting
on the defense, Britain and her colonies must strike down Canada."

"So it seems to me too, sir," said Robert. "We're permitting the Marquis
de Montcalm to make the fighting, to choose the fields of battle, and as
long as we do that we have to dance to his music. But, sir, that's only
my opinion. I would not presume to give it in the presence of my
superiors."

"You've had much experience despite your youth and you're entitled to
your thoughts. But I hear heavy steps. 'Tis odds that it's Jacobus with
his friends."

The door was opened and Mr. Huysman with many words of welcome ushered
in his guests, who being simple and strong men brought their own baggage
from the inn. Robert rose at once and faced Benjamin Hardy in whose eyes
shone an undoubted gladness. The merchant did not look a day older than
when Robert had last seen him in New York, and he was as robust and
hearty as ever. Jonathan Pillsbury, tall, thin and dressed with
meticulous care, also permitted himself a smile.

"Robert, my lad!" exclaimed Benjamin Hardy, dropping his baggage and
holding out two sinewy hands. "'Tis a delight to find you and Tayoga
here. I knew not what had become of you two, and I feared the worst, the
times being so perilous. Upon my word, we've quite a reunion!"

Robert returned his powerful and friendly grasp. He was more than glad
to see him for several reasons; for his own sake, because he liked him
exceedingly, and because he was sure Master Benjamin held in his keeping
those secrets of his own life which he was yet to learn.

"Sir," he said, "'tis not my house, though I've lived in it, and I know
that Mr. Huysman has already given you a most thorough welcome, so I add
that it's a delight to me to see you again. 'Twas a pleasant and most
memorable visit that Tayoga and I had at your home in New York."

"And eventful enough, too. You came very near going to the Guineas on a
slave trip. That was the kind of hospitality I offered you."

"No fault of yours, sir. I shall never forget the welcome you gave us in
New York. It warms my heart now to think of it."

"I see you've not lost your gift of speech. Words continue to well from
your lips, and they're good words, too. But I talk overmuch myself. Here
is Jonathan waiting to speak to you. I told him I was coming to Albany.
'Upon what affair?' he asked. ''Tis secret,' I replied. 'Meaning you do
not want to tell me of its nature,' he said. 'Yes,' I replied. Then he
said, 'Whatever its gist, you'll need my presence and advice. I'm going
with you.' And here he is. Doubtless he is right."

Jonathan Pillsbury clasped Robert's hand as warmly as he ever clasped
anybody's and permitted himself a second smile, which was his limit, and
only extraordinary occasions could elicit two.

"Our conversation has been repeated with accuracy," he said. "I do not
yet know why I have come to Albany, but I feel sure it is well that I
have come."

Mr. Huysman hustled about, his great red face glowing while fat Caterina
brought in more to eat. He insisted that the new guests sit at the table
and eat tremendously. It was a time when hospitality meant repeated
offerings of food, which in America was the most abundant of all things,
and Mr. Hardy and Mr. Pillsbury easily allowed themselves to be
persuaded.

"And now, Robert, you must tell me something more about Dave," said the
merchant as they rose from the table.

Young Lennox promptly narrated their adventures among the peaks and
about the lakes while the older men listened with breathless attention.
Nor did the story of the great hunter suffer in Robert's telling. He had
an immense admiration for Willet and he spoke of his deeds with such
vivid words and with so much imagery and embroidery that they seemed to
be enacted again there in that quiet room before the men who listened.

"Ah, that is Dave! True as steel. As honest and brave as they ever make
'em," said Master Benjamin Hardy, when he had finished. "A man! a real
man if ever one walked this earth!"

"And don't forget Tayoga here," said Robert. "The greatest trailer ever
born. He saved us more than once by his ability to read the faintest
sign the earth might yield."

"When Dagaeoga begins to talk he never knows how to stop," said Tayoga;
"I but did the things all the warriors of my nation are taught to do. I
would be unworthy to call myself a member of the clan of the Bear, of
the nation Onondaga, of the great League of the Hodenosaunee, if I could
not follow a trail. Peace, Dagaeoga!"

Robert joined in the laugh, and then the men began to talk about the
prospects of an attack upon Albany by the French and Indians, though all
of them inclined to Robert's view that Montcalm would not try it.

"As you were a prisoner among them you ought to know something about
their force, Robert," said Mr. Hardy.

"I had opportunities to observe," replied the lad, "and from what I saw,
and from what I have since heard concerning our numbers I judge that we
were at least four to one, perhaps more. But we threw away all our
advantage when we came with bare breasts against their wooden wall and
sharpened boughs."

"It is a painful thing to talk about and to think about, but Britain
never gives up. She marches over her mistakes and failures to triumph,
and we are bone of her bone. And you saw St. Luc!"

"Often, sir. In the battle and in the preparations for it he was the
right arm of the Marquis de Montcalm. He is a master of forest war."

"He is all that, Robert, my lad. A strange, a most brilliant man, he is
one of our most formidable enemies."

"But a gallant one, sir. He did nothing to prevent my escape. I feel
that at Ticonderoga as well as elsewhere I am greatly in his debt."

"Undoubtedly he favors you. It does not surprise me."

Intense curiosity leaped up in Robert's heart once more. What was he to
St. Luc! What was St. Luc to him! All these elderly men seemed to hold a
secret that was hidden from him, and yet it concerned him most. His lips
twitched and he was about to ask a question, but he reflected that, as
always before, it would not be answered, it would be evaded, and he
restrained his eager spirit. He knew that all the men liked him, that
they had his good at heart, and that when the time came to speak they
would speak. The words that had risen to his lips were unspoken.

Robert felt that his elders wanted to talk, that something they would
rather not tell to the lads was in their minds, and meanwhile the
brilliant sunshine and free air outside were calling to him and the
Onondaga.

"I think," he said, addressing them all collectively, "that Tayoga and I
should go to see Lieutenant Grosvenor. He was our comrade in the
forest, and he has been somewhat overcome by his great hardships."

"The idea would not be bad," said Master Benjamin Hardy. "Youth to
youth, and, while you are gone, we old fellows will talk of days long
ago as old fellows are wont to do."

And so they did want him and Tayoga to go! He had divined their wishes
aright. He was quite sure, too, that when he and the Onondaga were away
the past would be very little in their minds. These active men in the
very prime of their powers were concerned most about the present and the
future. Well, whatever it was he was sure they would discuss it with
wisdom and foresight.

"Come, Tayoga," he said. "Outdoors is calling to us."

"And be sure that you return in time for supper," said Master Jacobus.
"This house is to be your home as long as you are in Albany. I should be
offended mortally if you went elsewhere."

"No danger of that," said Robert. "Tayoga and I know a good home when we
find it. And we know friends, too, when we see them."

It was a bit of sentiment, but he felt it very deeply and he saw that
all of the men looked pleased. As he and Tayoga went out he noticed that
they drew their chairs about the dining-room table that Caterina had
cleared, and before the door closed upon the two lads they were already
talking in low and earnest tones.

"They have affairs of importance which are not for us," he said, when he
and the Onondaga were outside.

"It is so," said Tayoga. "The white people have their chiefs and sachems
like the nations of the Hodenosaunee, and their ranks are filled by age.
The young warriors are for the trail, the hunt, and the war path, and
not for the council. It is right that it should be thus. I do not wish
to be a chief or a sachem before my time. I am glad, Dagaeoga, to enjoy
youth, and let our elders do the hard thinking for us."

"So am I," said Robert joyfully as he filled his lungs with draught
after draught of the fresh air. "No seat at the council for me! Not for
twenty years yet! Give me freedom and action! Let others do the planning
and take the responsibility!"

He felt a great elation. His sanguine temperament had made a complete
rebound from the depression following Ticonderoga. Although he did not
know it the result was partly physical--good food and abundant rest, but
he did not seek to analyze the cause, the condition was sufficient. The
color in his cheeks deepened and his eyes glowed.

"Dagaeoga is feeling very, very good," said Tayoga.

"I am," replied Robert with emphasis. "I never felt better. I'm
forgetting Ticonderoga; instead, I'm beholding our army at Quebec, and
I'm seeing our flag wave over all Canada."

"Dagaeoga sees what he wants to see."

"It's not a bad plan. Then the lions die in your path."

"It is so. Dagaeoga speaks a great truth. We will now see how Red Coat
feels."

A portion of the army that had retreated from Ticonderoga was camped on
the flats near the town, and Robert and Tayoga walked swiftly toward the
tents. It was a much more silent force, British and American, than that
which had gone forth not so very long ago to what seemed certain
victory. Officers and men were angry. They felt that they had been
beaten when there was no reason why they should have been defeated.
Obeying orders, they had retreated in sullen silence, when they had felt
sure they could have gone on, fought a new battle, and have crushed
Montcalm. Now they waited impatiently for another call to advance on
Canada, and win back their lost laurels. Both lads felt the tension.

"They are like the wounded bear," said Tayoga. "They feel very sore, and
they wish for revenge."

They learned that Grosvenor was in his tent and soon found him there
lying upon his blankets. Some of the ruddy color was gone from his
cheeks, and he looked worn and thin. But he sat up, and welcomed Robert
and Tayoga joyously.

"It's foolish of me to break down like this," he said, "but after we got
back to civilization something seemed to cave in. I hope you chaps won't
overlook the fact that I'm not as much used to the forest as you are,
and bear in mind that I did my best."

"Red Coat's best was very good," said Tayoga in his grave, precise
manner. "Few who have been in the forest as little as he could have done
as much and have borne as much."

"Do you really think so, Tayoga? You're not merely flattering me?"

"Our wisest sachem would tell you so, Red Coat."

"Thanks, my friend. You make me feel better. I was lucky enough to go
through the great battle with little hurt. It was a most ghastly
slaughter, and I still dream of it. I stood up all right until we got
back to Albany, and then I collapsed. But to-morrow I'll be on my feet
again. Your friends, Colden, Wilton and Carson are all here. They showed
great courage and they have some slight wounds, but not enough to
trouble 'em."

Robert found the Philadelphians a little later, and they all went back
to Grosvenor's tent, where they were joined in a half hour by the
Virginians, Walter Stuart and James Cabell, who had been with them in
Braddock's defeat and whom Robert had known at Williamsburg. It was a
tight squeeze for them all in the tent, but there was another and joyous
reunion. Youth responded to youth and hope was high.

"Stuart and I did not arrive in time for Ticonderoga," said Cabell, "but
we mean to be in the next great battle."

"So we do!" exclaimed Cabell. "The Old Dominion had a taste of defeat at
Fort Duquesne and you've had the like here. Now we'll all wait and see
how victory agrees with us."

"Some of us have been in at both defeats," said Grosvenor rather sadly.

But the presence of so many friends and the cheerful talk made him feel
so much better that he averred his ability to go anywhere and do
anything at once.

"You've leave of absence if you wish it?" asked Cabell.

"For several days more," replied Grosvenor.

"Then let's all go into the town. I haven't had a good look at Albany
yet. I want to see if it's as fine a place as Williamsburg."

"It's larger," said Robert.

"But size is not everything. That's where you northern people make your
mistake."

"But you'll admit that Philadelphia's a fine city, won't you?" said
Colden, "and you know it's the largest in the colonies."

"But it's comparatively near to Virginia," said Cabell briskly, "and our
influence works wonders."

"We've our own conceit in Philadelphia," said Wilton, "but conceit and
Virginia are just the same words, though they may have a different
sound."

"Come on to the George Inn," said Grosvenor, "and you can argue it out
there. Old England likes to see this healthy rivalry among her children.
She doesn't mind your being bumptious."

"We're bumptious, because we're like our parent," said Cabell. "It's a
matter of inheritance."

"Let the George Inn settle it. Come on, lads."

Grosvenor was feeling better and better. He was adaptable and this was a
sprightly group, full of kindred spirits. The Virginians were as English
as he was, and the others nearly as much so. He had acquitted himself
well in the New World, in fields with which he was unfamiliar, and these
lads were friends. Danger and hardships faded quite away into a
forgotten past. He was strong and well once more.

"You shall all be my guests at the George Inn!" he exclaimed. "We shall
have refreshment and talk, plenty of both."

"As we Virginians are the oldest people in the colonies, it's the right
of Stuart and myself to be the hosts," said Cabell.

"Aye, so 'tis," said Stuart.

"As we're from Philadelphia, the greatest and finest city in the
country, it's the right of Wilton, Carson and myself," said Colden.

But Grosvenor was firm. He had given the invitation first, he said, and
nobody could take the privilege from him. So the others yielded
gracefully, and in high good humor the eight, saying much and humming
little songs, walked across the fields from the camp and into the town.
Robert noticed the bustling life of Albany with approval. The forest
made its appeal to him, and the city made another and different but
quite as strong appeal. The old Fort Orange of the Dutch was crowded
now, not only with troops but with all the forms of industry that
follow in the train of an army. The thrifty Dutch, despite their
apprehension over the coming of the French, were busy buying, selling,
and between battles much money was made.

The George Inn, a low building but long and substantial was down by the
river. The great doors stood wide open and much life flowed in and out,
showing that it too profited by war. The eight found seats at a table on
a sanded floor, and contented themselves with lemonade, which they drank
slowly, while they talked and looked.

It was a motley and strange throng; American, English, Dutch, German,
Indian, Swedish. A half dozen languages were heard in the great room,
forerunner of the many elements that were to enter in the composition of
the American nation. And the crowd was already cosmopolitan. Difference
of race attracted no attention. Men took no notice of Tayoga because he
was an Indian, unless to admire his tall, straight figure and proud
carriage. Albany had known the Iroquois a century and a half.

Robert's spirits, like Grovenor's, mounted. Here he was with many
friends of his own age and kindred mind. Everything took on the color of
rose. All of them were talking, but his own gift of speech was the
finest. He clothed narrative with metaphor and illustration until it
became so vivid that the others were glad to fall silent and listen to
him, though Robert himself was unconscious of the fact. They made him
relate once more his story of the battle as he saw it from inside the
French lines at Ticonderoga, and, just as he came to the end of the
tale, he caught a glimpse of a tall man entering the tavern.

"Tell us what you saw from the other side," he said to Grosvenor, and
they compelled the reluctant Englishman to talk. Then Robert turned his
eyes toward the tall man who was now sitting at a small table in the
corner and drinking from a long glass. Something familiar in his walk
had caught his attention as he came in, and, under cover of Grosvenor's
talk, he wished to observe him again without being noticed even by his
own comrades.

The stranger was sitting with the side of his face to Robert, and his
features were not well disclosed. His dress was that of a seafaring man,
rough but rather good in texture, and a belt held a long dirk in a
scabbard which was usual at that time. The hand that raised the long
glass to his lips was large, red and powerful. Robert felt that his
first belief was correct. He had seen him before somewhere, though he
could not yet recall where, but when he turned his head presently he
knew. They had met under such circumstances that neither was ever likely
to forget time or place.

He was amazed that the stranger had come so boldly into Albany, but
second thought told him that there was no proof against him, it was
merely Robert's word against his. Among people absorbed in a great war
his own story would seem wildly improbable and the stranger's would have
all the savor of truth. But he knew that he could not be mistaken. He
saw now the spare face, clean shaven, and the hard eyes, set close
together, that he remembered so well.

Robert did not know what to do. He listened for a little while to
Grosvenor's narrative but his attention wandered back to the seafaring
man. Then he decided.

"Will you fellows talk on and excuse me for a few minutes?" he said.

"What is it, Lennox?" asked Colden.

"I see an acquaintance on the other side of the room. I wish to speak to
him."

"That being the case, we'll let you go, but we'll miss you. Hurry back."

"I'll stay only a few minutes. It's an old friend and I must have a
little talk with him."

He walked with light steps across the room which was crowded, humming
with many voices, the air heavy with smoke. The man was still at the
small table, and, opposite him, was an empty chair in which Robert sat
deliberately, putting his elbows on the table, and staring into the hard
blue eyes.

"I'm Peter Smith," he said. "You remember me?"

There was a flicker of surprise in the Captain's face, but nothing more.

"Oh, yes, Peter," he said. "I know you, but I was not looking for you
just at this moment."

"But I'm here."

"Perhaps you're coming back to your duty, is that it? Well, I'm glad.
I've another ship now, and though you're a runaway seaman I can afford
to let bygones be bygones."

"I hope your vessel has changed her trade. I don't think I'd care to
sail again on a slaver."

"Always a particular sort of chap you were, Peter. It's asking a lot for
me to change the business of my ship to suit you."

"But not too much."

The conversation was carried on in an ordinary tone. Neither raised his
voice a particle. Nobody took any notice. His own comrades, engrossed in
lively talk, seemed to have forgotten Robert for the moment, and he felt
that he was master of the situation. Certainly the slaver would be more
uncomfortable than he.

"I was wondering," he said, "how long you mean to stay in Albany."

"It's a pleasant town," said the man, "as I have cause to know since
I've been here before. I may remain quite a while. Still, I shall decide
wholly according to my taste."

"But there is a certain element of danger."

"Oh, the war! I don't think the French even if they come to Albany will
have a chance to take me."

"I didn't have the war in mind. There are other risks of which I think
that I, Peter Smith, who sailed with you once before ought to warn you."

"It's good of you, Peter, to think so much of my safety, but I don't
believe I've any cause for fear. I've always been able to take care of
myself."

The last words were said with a little snap, and Robert knew they were
meant as a defiance, but he appeared not to notice.

"Ah, well you've shown that you know how to look out for number one," he
said. "I'm only Peter Smith, a humble seaman, but I've the same faculty.
I bid you good-day."

"Good-day, Peter. I hope there's no ill feeling between us, and that
each will have whatever he deserves!"

Cool! wonderfully cool, Robert thought, but he replied merely: "I trust
so, too, and in that case it is easy to surmise what one of us would
get."

He sauntered back to his comrades, and, lest he attract their attention,
he did not look toward the slaver again for a minute or two. When he
glanced in that direction he saw the man walking toward the door, not in
any hurried manner, but as if he had all the time in the world, and need
fear nobody. Cool! wonderfully cool, Robert thought a second time.

The slaver went out, and Robert thought he caught a glimpse of a man
meeting him, a second man in whose figure also there was something
familiar. They were gone in an instant, and he was tempted to spring up
and follow them, because the figure of which he had seen but a little at
the door reminded him nevertheless of Achille Garay, the spy.




CHAPTER II

THE CHEST OF DRAWERS


It was but a fleeting glimpse that Robert had of the second man, but he
believed that it was Garay. He not only looked like the spy, but he was
convinced that it was really he. After the first moment or two he did
not doubt his identity, and making an excuse that he wanted a little
fresh air and would return in an instant he walked quickly to the door.
He caught another and fugitive glimpse of two men, one tall and the
other short, walking away together, and he could not doubt that they
were the slaver and the spy.

Had he been alone Robert would have followed them, though he was quite
certain that Garay must have had some place of sure refuge, else he
would not have ventured into Albany. Even with that recourse his act was
uncommonly bold. If the slaver was daring, the spy was yet more so.
There was nothing against the slaver that they could prove, but the spy
put his neck in the noose.

Robert whistled softly to himself, and he was very thoughtful. Willet,
Tayoga and he had been so completely victorious over Garay in the forest
that perhaps he had underrated him. Maybe he was a man to be feared. His
daring appearance in Albany must be fortified by supreme cunning, and
his alliance with the slaver implied a plan. Robert believed that the
plan, or a part of it at least, was directed against himself. Well, what
if it was? He could meet it, and he was not afraid. He had overcome
other perils, and he had friends, as true and steadfast as were ever
held to any man by hooks of steel. His heart beat high, he was in a
glow, his whole soul leaped forward to meet prospective danger.

He went back into the inn and took his seat with the others. Now it was
Stuart who was talking, telling them of life in the great Southern
colony and of its delights, of the big houses, of the fields of tobacco,
of the horse races, of the long visits to neighbors, and how all who
were anybody were related, making Virginia one huge family.

"Now Cabell and I," he said, "belong to the same clan. My mother and his
father are third cousins, which makes us fourth cousins, or fifth is it?
But whether fourth or fifth, we're cousins just the same. All the people
of our blood are supposed to stand together, and do stand together. Oh,
it has its delights! It makes us sufficient unto ourselves! The old
Dominion is a world in itself, complete in all its parts."

"But you have to come to Philadelphia to see a great city and get a
taste of metropolitan life," said Colden.

Then a discussion, friendly but warm arose as to the respective merits
of the Virginia and Pennsylvania provinces, and when it was at its
height and the attention of all the others was absorbed in it, Tayoga
leaned over and whispered to Robert:

"What did you see at the door, Dagaeoga?"

Robert was startled. So, the Onondago was watching, after all. He might
have known that nothing would escape his attention.

"I saw Garay, the spy," he replied in the same tone.

"And the man at the little table was the captain of the slave ship on
which you were taken?"

"The same."

"It bodes ill, Dagaeoga. You must watch."

"I will, Tayoga."

The crowd in the great room of the George Inn increased and the young
group remained, eager to watch it. It was a reflex of the life in the
colonies, at the seat of conflict, and throbbing with all the emotions
of a great war that enveloped nearly the whole civilized world. A burly
fellow, dressed as a teamster, finally made his voice heard above the
others.

"I tell you men," he said, "that we must give up Albany! Our army has
been cut to pieces! Montcalm is advancing with twenty thousand French
regulars, and swarms of Indians! They control all of Lake George as well
as Champlain! Hundreds of settlers have already fallen before the
tomahawk, and houses are burning along the whole border! I have it from
them that have seen the fires."

There was a sudden hush in the crowd, followed by an alarmed murmur. The
man's emphasis and his startling statements made an impression.

"Go on, Dobbs! Tell us about it!" said one.

"What do you know?" asked another.

He stood up, a great tall man with a red face.

"My cousin has been in the north," he said, "and he's seen rangers, some
that have just escaped from the Indians, barely saving their hair. He
heard from them that the King of France has sent a big army to Canada,
and that another just as big is on the way. It won't be a week before
you see the French flag from the hills of Albany, and wise men are
already packing ready to go to New York."

There was another alarmed hush.

"This fellow must be stopped," said Colden. "He'll start a panic."

"Dagaeoga has the gift of words," whispered a voice in Robert's ear,
"and now is the time to use it."

Nothing more was needed. Robert was on fire in an instant, and, standing
upon his chair, asked for attention.

"Your pardon a moment, Mr. Dobbs," he said, "if I interrupt you."

"Why it's only a boy!" a man exclaimed.

"A boy, it's true," said Robert, who now felt himself the center of all
eyes, and who, as usual, responded with all his faculties to such an
opportunity, "but I was present at the Battle of Ticonderoga, and
perhaps I've a chance to correct a few errors into which our friend, Mr.
Dobbs, has fallen."

"What are those errors?" asked the man in a surly tone, not relishing
his loss of the stage.

"I'll come to them promptly," said Robert in his mellowest tones.
"They're just trifles, Mr. Dobbs, but still trifles should be corrected.
I stood with the French army in the battle, and I know something about
its numbers, which are about one-sixth of what Mr. Dobbs claims them to
be."

"What were you doing with the French?"

"I happened to be a prisoner, Mr. Dobbs. I escaped a day or two later.
But here are with me young officers of ours who were in the attack.
Several of them felt the sting of French bullets on that day, so when
they tell you what happened they know what they're talking about. Their
reports don't come from their cousins, but are the product of their own
eyes and ears. Peace, Mr. Dobbs! I've the floor, or rather the chair,
and I must tell the facts. We were defeated at Ticonderoga, it's true,
but we were not cut to pieces. Our generals failed to bring up our
artillery. They underrated the French. They went with rifles, muskets
and bayonets alone against breastworks, defended by a valiant foe, for
the French are valiant, and they paid the price. But our army is in
existence and it's as brave as ever. Albany is in no danger. Don't be
alarmed."

"You're but a boy. You don't know," growled Dobbs.

"Peace, Mr. Dobbs! Give us peace. A boy who has seen may know better
than a man who has not seen. I tell you once again, friends, that the
Marquis de Montcalm will not appear before Albany. It's a long way from
Ticonderoga to this city, too long a road for the French army to travel.
Wise men are not packing for flight to New York. Wise men are staying
right here."

"Hear! Hear!" exclaimed the Virginians and Philadelphians and Grosvenor,
and "Hear! Hear!" was repeated from the crowd. Dobbs' red face grew
redder, but now he was silent.

"My friends," continued Robert in his golden persuasive tones, "you're
not afraid, you're all brave men, but you must guard against panic.
Experience tells you that rumor is irresponsible, that, as it spreads,
it grows. We're going to learn from our defeat. The French are as near
to Albany as they'll ever come. The war is not going to move southward.
Its progress instead will be toward Quebec. Remember that panic is
always a bad counselor; but that courage is ever a good one. Things are
never as bad as they look."

"Hear! Hear!" exclaimed his young comrades again, and the echoes from
the crowd were more numerous than before. The teamster began to draw
back and presently slipped out of the door. Then Robert sat down amid
great applause, blushing somewhat because he had been carried away by
his feelings and apologizing to the others for making himself
conspicuous.

"Nothing to apologize for," exclaimed Cabell. "'Twas well done, a good
speech at the right time. You've the gift of oratory, Lennox. You should
come to Virginia to live, after we've defeated the French. Our province
is devoted to oratory. You've the gift of golden speech, and the people
will follow you."

"I'm afraid I've made an enemy of that man, Dobbs," said Robert, "and I
had enemies enough already."

His mind went back to the slaver and Garay, and he was troubled.

"We've had our little triumph here, thanks to Lennox," said Colden, "and
it seems to me now that we've about exhausted the possibilities of the
George. Besides, the air is getting thick. Let's go outside."

Grosvenor paid the score and they departed, a cheer following them. Here
were young officers who had fought well, and the men in the George were
willing to show respect.

"I think I'd better return to camp now," said Grosvenor.

"We'll go with you," said Colden, speaking for the Pennsylvanians.

"Stuart and I are detached for the present," said Cabell. "We secured a
transfer from our command in Virginia, and we're hoping for commissions
in the Royal Americans, and more active service, since the whole tide of
war seems to have shifted to the north rather than the west."

"The Royal Americans are fine men," said Robert. "Though raised in the
colonies, they rank with the British regulars. I had a good friend in
one of the regiments, Edward Charteris, of New York, but he was taken at
Ticonderoga. I saw the French bring him in a prisoner. I suppose they're
holding him in Quebec now."

"Then we'll rescue him when we take Quebec," said Stuart valiantly.

The friends separated with promises to meet again soon and to see much
of one another while they were in Albany, Grosvenor and the
Pennsylvanians continuing to the camp, Cabell and Stuart turning back to
the George for quarters, and Robert and Tayoga going toward the house of
Mynheer Jacobus Huysman. But before they reached it young Lennox
suggested that they turn toward the river.

"It is well to do so," said the Onondaga. "I think that Dagaeoga wishes
to look there for a ship."

"That's in my mind, Tayoga, and yet I wouldn't know the vessel I'm
looking for if I saw her."

"She will be commanded by the man whom we saw in the inn, the one with
whom Dagaeoga talked."

"I've no doubt of it, Tayoga. Nothing escapes your notice."

"What are eyes for if not to see! And it is a time for all to watch;
especially, it is a time for Dagaeoga to watch with his eyes, his ears
and all his senses."

"I've that feeling myself."

"Something is plotting against you. The slaver did not meet the spy for
nothing."

"Why should men bother about one as insignificant as I am, when the
world is plunged into a great war?"

"It is because Dagaeoga is in the way of somebody. He is very much in
the way or so much trouble and risk would not be taken to remove him."

"I wonder what it is Tayoga. I know that Mr. Hardy and Mr. Huysman and
doubtless others hold the key to this lock, but I feel quite sure they
are not going to put it in my hand just at present."

"No, they will not, but it must be for very good reasons. No one ever
had better friends than Dagaeoga has in them. If they do not choose to
tell him anything it will be wise for him not to ask questions."

"That's just the way I feel about it, and so I'm going to ask no
questions."

A hulking figure barred their way, a red face glowed at them, and a
rough voice demanded satisfaction.

"You fellow with the slick tongue, you had 'em laughing at me in the
tavern," said Dobbs, the teamster. "You just the same as told 'em I was
a liar when I said the French were coming."

The man was full of unreasoning anger, and he handled the butt end of a
heavy whip. Yet Robert felt quite cool. His pistol was in his belt, and
Tayoga was at his elbow.

"You are mistaken, my good Mr. Dobbs," he said gaily. "I would never
tell a man he was a liar, particularly one to whom I had not been
introduced. I try to be choice in my language. I was trained to be so by
Mr. Alexander McLean, a most competent schoolmaster of this city, and I
merely tried to disseminate a thought in the minds of the numerous
audience gathered in the George Inn. My thought was unlike your thought,
and so I was compelled to use words that did not resemble the words used
by you. I was not responsible for the results flowing from them."

"I don't know what you mean," growled Dobbs. "You string a lot of big
words together, and I think you're laughing at me again."

"Impossible, Mr. Dobbs. I could not be so impolite. My risibilities may
be agitated to a certain extent, but laugh in the face of a stranger,
never! Now will you kindly let us pass? The street here is narrow and we
do not wish to crowd."

Dobbs did not move and his manner became more threatening than ever, the
loaded whip swaying in his hand. Robert's light and frolicsome humor did
not depart. He felt himself wholly master of the situation.

"Now, good Mr. Dobbs, kind Mr. Dobbs, I ask you once more to move," he
said in his most wheedling manner. "The day is too bright and pleasant
to be disturbed by angry feelings. My own temper is always even. Nothing
disturbs me. I was never known to give way to wrath, but my friend whom
you see by my side is a great Onondaga chieftain. His disposition is
haughty and fierce. He belongs to a race that can never bear the
slightest suspicion of an insult. It is almost certain death to speak to
him in an angry or threatening manner. Friends as we have been for
years, I am always very careful how I address him."

The teamster's face fell and he stepped back. The heavy whip ceased to
move in a menacing manner in his hand.

"Prudence is always a good thing," continued Robert. "When a great
Indian chieftain is a friend to a man, any insult to that man is a
double insult to the chieftain. It is usually avenged with the utmost
promptitude, and place is no bar. An angry glance even may invite a
fatal blow."

Dobbs stepped to one side, and Robert and Tayoga walked haughtily on.
The Onondaga laughed low, but with intense amusement.

"Verily it is well to have the gift of words," he said, "when with their
use one, leaving weapons undrawn, can turn an enemy aside."

"I could not enter into a street fight with such a man, Tayoga, and
diplomacy was needed. You'll pardon my use of you as a menace?"

"I'm at Dagaeoga's service."

"That being the case we'll now continue the search for our slaver."

They hunted carefully along the shores of the Hudson. Albany was a busy
river port at all times, but it was now busier than ever, the pressure
of war driving new traffic upon it from every side. Many boats were
bringing supplies from further south, and others were being loaded with
the goods of timid people, ready to flee from Montcalm and the French.
Albany caught new trade both coming and going. The thrifty burghers
profited by it and rejoiced.

"We've nothing to go on," said Robert, "and perhaps we couldn't tell the
slaver's ship if we were looking squarely at it. Still, it seems to me
it ought to be a small craft, slim and low, built for speed and with a
sneaky look."

"Then we will seek such a vessel," said Tayoga.

Nothing answered the description. The river people were quite willing to
talk and, the two falling into conversation with them, as if by chance,
were able to account for every craft of any size. There was no strange
ship that could be on any mysterious errand.

"It is in my mind, Dagaeoga," said Tayoga, "that this lies deeper than
we had thought. The slaver would not have shown himself and he would not
have talked with you so freely if he had not known that he would leave a
hidden trail."

"It looks that way to me, Tayoga," said Robert, "and I think Garay must
be in some kind of disguise. He would not venture so boldly among us if
he did not have a way of concealing himself."

"It is in my mind, too, that we have underestimated the spy. He has
perhaps more courage and resolution than we thought, or these qualities
may have come to him recently. The trade of a spy is very useful to
Montcalm just now. After his victory at Ticonderoga he will be anxious
to know what we are doing here at Albany, and it will be the duty of
Garay to learn. Besides, we put a great humiliation upon him that time
we took his letter from him in the forest, and he is burning for
vengeance upon us. It is not in the nature of Dagaeoga to wish revenge,
but he must not blind himself on that account to the fact that others
cherish it."

"It was the fortune of war. We have our disasters and our enemies have
theirs."

"Yet we must beware of Garay. I know it, Dagaeoga."

"At any rate we can't find out anything about him and the slaver along
the river, and that being the case I suggest that we go on to the house
of Mynheer Jacobus, where we're pretty sure of a welcome."

Their greetings at the burgher's home were as warm as anybody could
wish. Master McLean had left, and the rest were talking casually in the
large front room, but the keen eyes of the Onondaga read the signs
infallibly. This was a trail that could not be hidden from him.

"Other men have been here," he said a little later to Robert, when they
were alone in the room. "There has been a council."

"How do you know, Tayoga?"

"How do I know, Dagaeoga? Because I have eyes and I use them. It is
printed all over the room in letters of the largest type and in words of
one syllable. The floor is of polished wood, Dagaeoga, and there is a
great table in the center of the chamber. The chairs have been moved
back, but eight men sat around it. I can count the faint traces made by
the chairs in the polish of the floor. They were heavy men--most of the
men of Albany are heavy, and now and then they moved restlessly, as they
talked. That was why they ground the chair legs against the polish,
leaving there little traces which will be gone in another hour, but
which are enough while they last to tell their tale.

"They moved so, now and then because their talk was of great importance.
They smoked also that they might think better over what they were
saying. A child could tell that, because smoke yet lingers in the room,
although Caterina has opened the windows to let it out. Some of it is
left low down in the corners, and under the chairs now against the wall.
A little of the ash from their pipes has fallen on the table, showing
that although Caterina has opened the windows she has not yet had time
to clean the room. You and I know, Dagaeoga, that she would never miss
any ash on the table. Master McLean smoked much, perhaps more than any
of the others. He uses the strongest Virginia tobacco that he can
obtain, and I know its odor of old. I smell it everywhere in the room. I
also know the odor of the tobacco that Mynheer Jacobus uses, and it is
strongest here by the mantel, showing that in the course of the council
he frequently got up and stood here. Ah, there is ash on the mantel
itself! He tapped it now and then with his pipe to enforce what he was
saying. Mynheer Jacobus was much stirred, or he would not have risen to
his feet to make speeches to the others."

"Can you locate Master Hardy also?"

"I think I can, Dagaeoga."

He ran around the room like a hound on the scent, and, at last, he
stopped before a large massive locked chest of drawers that stood in the
corner, a heavy mahogany piece that looked as if it had been imported
from France or Italy.

"Master Jacobus came here," said the Onondaga. "I smell his tobacco. Ah,
and Master Hardy came, too! I now smell his tobacco also. I remember
that when we were in New York he smoked a peculiar, bitter West India
compound which doubtless is brought to him regularly in his ships--men
nearly always have a favorite tobacco and will take every trouble to get
it. I recognize the odor perfectly. There are traces of the ash of both
tobaccos on the chest of drawers, and Master Huysman and Master Hardy
came here, because there are papers in this piece of furniture which
Master Huysman wished to show to Master Hardy. They are in the third
drawer from the top, because there is a little dust on the others, but
none on the third. It fell off when it was opened, and was then shut
again strongly after they were through."

Robert gazed with intense curiosity at the third drawer. The papers in
it might concern himself--he believed Tayoga implicitly--but it was not
for him to pry into the affairs of two such good friends. If they wished
to keep their secret a while longer, then they had good reasons for
doing so.

"Did the others come to the chest of drawers also, and look at the
papers?" he asked.

The Onondaga knelt down and examined the polished floor.

"I do not think so," he replied at length. "It is wholly likely that
Master Jacobus and Master Hardy came to the chest of drawers after the
others had gone, and that the papers had no bearing on the matters they
talked over in the council. Yes, it is so! It is bound to be so! The
odor of their two tobaccos is stronger than any of the other odors in
the room, showing that they were in here much longer than the others. It
may be that the papers in the third drawer relate to Dagaeoga."

"I had that thought myself, Tayoga."

"Does Dagaeoga wish me to go further with it?"

"No, Tayoga. What those men desire to hide from us must remain hidden."

"I am glad Dagaeoga has answered that way, because if he had not I
should have refused to go on, and yet I knew that was the way in which
he would answer."

They went to another room in which they found Mr. Huysman, Mr. Hardy and
the clerk, and Robert told of his meeting with the slaver. The face of
Benjamin Hardy darkened.

"Tayoga is right," he said. "That man's presence here bodes ill for you,
Robert."

"I'm not afraid. Besides I've too many friends," said Robert quietly.

"Both your statements are true, but you must be careful just the same,"
interjected Master Jacobus. "Nevertheless, we'll not be apprehensive.
Master McLean iss coming back for supper, and we're going to make it a
great affair, a real reunion for all of us. Caterina, helped by two
stout colored women, has been cooking all the afternoon, and I hope that
you two boys have had enough exercise and excitement to whet your
appetites. How iss it?"

"We have, sir!" they replied together, and with emphasis.

"And now to your old room. You'll find there in a closet clothes for
both of you, Tayoga's of his own kind, that Caterina has preserved
carefully, and at six o'clock come in to supper, which to-day iss to be
our chief meal. I would not have Benjamin Hardy to come all the way from
New York and say that I failed to set for him as good a meal as he would
set for me if I were his guest in his city. Not only my hospitality but
the hospitality of Albany iss at stake."

"I know, sir, that your reputation will not suffer," said Robert with
great confidence.

He and Tayoga in their room found their clothes preserved in camphor and
quickly made the change. Then they stood by the window, looking out on
the pleasant domain, in which they had spent so many happy hours. Both
felt a glow.

"Master Jacobus Huysman is a good man," said Robert.

"A wise, fat chief," said the Onondaga. "A kind heart and a strong head.
He is worthy to rule. If he belonged to the league of the Hodenosaunee
we would put him in a high place."

"Though he holds no office, I think he sits in a high place here. It is
likely that the men who were around the table to-day came to him for
counsel."

"It seems a good guess to me, Dagaeoga. Perhaps they take measures to
meet the threat of Montcalm."

"They're our elders, and we'll let them do the thinking on that point
just now. Somehow, I feel light of heart, Tayoga, and I want to enjoy
myself."

"Even though the slaver and the spy are here, and we all believe that
they threaten you?"

"Even so. My heart is light, nevertheless. My mind tells me that I ought
to be apprehensive and sad, but my heart has taken control and I am
hopeful and gay?"

"It is the nature of Dagaeoga, and he should give thanks to Manitou that
he has been made that way. It is worth much more to him than the white
man's gold."

"I _am_ thankful, Tayoga. I'm thankful for a lot of things. How does
this coat look on me?"

"It is small. You have grown much in the last year or two. Your frame is
filling out and you are bigger every way. Still, it is a fine coat, and
the knee breeches, stockings and buckled shoes are very splendid. If
Dagaeoga does not look like a chief it is only because he is not old
enough, and he at least looks like the son of a chief."

Robert contemplated himself in a small mirror with much satisfaction.

"I'm frightfully tanned," he said. "Perhaps they wouldn't take me for a
model of fashion in Paris or London, but here nearly everybody else is
tanned also, and, after all, it's healthy."

The Onondaga regarded him with an amused smile.

"If Dagaeoga had the time and money he would spend much of both on
dress," he said. "He loves to make a fine appearance."

"You say nothing but the truth," said Robert frankly. "I hope some day
to have the very best clothes that are made. A man who respects his
clothes respects himself. I know no sin in trying to please the eyes of
others and incidentally myself. I note, Tayoga, that on occasion you
array yourself with great splendor, and that, at all times, you're very
particular about your attire."

"It is so, Dagaeoga. I spoke in terms of approval, not of criticism. Are
you satisfied with yourself?"

"As much as possible under the circumstances. If I could achieve the
change merely by making a wish I'd have the coat and breeches of a
somewhat richer hue, and the buckles on the shoes considerably larger,
but they'll do. Shall we sit here and rest until Caterina calls us for
supper?"

"I think so, Dagaeoga."

But it was not long until the summons came, and they went into the great
dining-room, where the elder company was already gathered. Besides Mr.
Huysman, Benjamin Hardy, Jonathan Pillsbury, and Alexander McLean, there
were Nicholas Ten Broeck and Oliver Suydam, two of Albany's most solid
burghers, and Alan Hervey, another visitor from New York, a thin man of
middle years and shrewd looks, whom Robert took to be a figure in
finance and trade. All the elders seemed to know one another well, and
to be on the best of terms.

Robert and Tayoga were presented duly, and made their modest
acknowledgments, sitting together near the end of the table.

"These lads, young as they are," said Master Jacobus Huysman, "have had
much experience of the present war. One of them was a prisoner of the
French at Ticonderoga and saw the whole battle, while the other fought
in it. Before that they were in innumerable encounters and other perils,
usually with the great hunter, David Willet, of whom you all know, and
who, I regret, is not here."

"It is no more than thousands of others have done," said Robert,
blushing under his tan.

Hervey regarded him and Tayoga with interest. The Onondaga was in full
Indian dress, but Albany was used to the Iroquois, and that fact was not
at all exceptional.

"War is a terrible thing," he said, "and whether a nation is or is not
to endure depends very much upon its youth."

"We always think that present youth is inferior to what our own youth
was," said Mr. Hardy. "That, I believe, is a common human failing. But
Master McLean ought to know. Forty years of youth, year after year have
passed through his hands. What say you, Alexander?"

"Youth is youth," replied the schoolmaster, weighing his sentences, "and
by those words I mean exactly what I say. I think it changes but little
through all the ages, and it is probably the same to-day that it was in
old Babylon. I find in my schoolroom that the youth of this year is just
like the youth of ten years ago, just as the youth of ten years ago was
exactly like the youth of twenty, thirty and forty years ago."

"And what are the cardinal points of this formative age, Alexander?"
asked Master Jacobus.

"Speaking mildly, I would call it concentration upon self. The horizon
of youth is bounded by its own eye. It looks no farther. As it sees and
feels it, the world exists for youth. We elders, parents, uncles,
guardians and such, live for its benefit. We are merely accessories to
the great and main fact, which is youth."

"Do you believe that to be true, Robert?" asked Master Benjamin Hardy, a
twinkle in his eye.

"I hope it's not, sir," replied Robert, reddening again under his tan.

"But it's true and it will remain true," continued the schoolmaster
judicially. "It was equally true of all of us who passed our youth long
ago. I do not quarrel with it. I merely state a fact of life. Perhaps if
I could I would not strip youth of this unconscious absorption in self,
because in doing so we might deprive it of the simplicity and
directness, the artless beliefs that make youth so attractive."

"I hold," said Mr. Hervey, "that age is really a state of mind. We
believe certain things at twenty, others at thirty, others at forty, and
so on. The beliefs of twenty are true at twenty, we must not try them by
the tests of thirty, nor must we try those of thirty by the tests of
forty or fifty. So how are we to say which age is the wiser, when every
age accepts as true what it believes, and, so makes it true? I agree,
too, with Mr. McLean, that I would not change the character of youth if
I could. Looking back upon my own youth I find much in it to laugh at,
but I did not laugh at it at the time. It was very real to me then, and
so must its feelings be to the youth of to-day."

"We wade into deep waters," said Mynheer Jacobus, "and we may go over
our heads. Ah, here are the oysters! I hope that all of you will find
them to your liking."

A dozen were served for every guest--it was the day of plenty, the
fields and woods and waters of America furnishing more food than its
people could consume--and they approached them with the keen appetites
of strong and healthy men.

"Perhaps we do not have the sea food here that you have in New York,
Alan," said Master Jacobus with mock humility, "but we give you of our
best."

"We've the finest oysters in the world, unless those of Baltimore be
excepted," said Hervey, "but yours are, in truth, most excellent.
Perhaps you can't expect to equal us in a specialty of ours. You'll
recall old Tom Cotton's inn, out by the East River, and how
unapproachably he serves oyster, crab, lobster and every kind of fish."

"I recall it full well, Alan. I rode out the Bowery road when I was last
in New York, but I did not get a chance to go to old Tom's. You and I
and Benjamin have seen some lively times there, when we were a bit
younger, eh, Alan?"

"Aye, Jacobus, you speak truly. We were just as much concentrated upon
self as the youth of to-day. And in our elderly hearts we're proud of
the little frivolities and dissipations that were committed then. Else
we would never talk of 'em and chuckle over 'em to one another."

"And what is more, we're not too old yet for a little taste of pleasure,
now and then, eh, Alexander?"

The schoolmaster, appealed to so directly, pursed his thin lips, lowered
his lids to hide the faint twinkle in his eyes, and replied in measured
tones:

"I cannot speak for you, Jacobus. I've known you a long time and your
example is corrupting, but I trust that I shall prove firm against
temptation."

The oysters were finished. No man left a single one untouched on his
plate, and then a thick chicken soup was served by two very black women
in gay cotton prints with red bandanna handkerchiefs tied like turbans
around their heads. Robert could see no diminution in the appetite of
the guests, nor did he feel any decrease in his own. Mr. Hervey turned
to him.

"I hear you saw the Marquis de Montcalm himself," he said.

"Yes, sir," replied Robert. "I saw him several times, at Ticonderoga,
and before that in the Oswego campaign. I've been twice a prisoner of
the French."

"How does he look?"

"Of middle age, sir, short, dark and very polite in speech."

"And evidently a good soldier. He has proved that and to our misfortune.
Yet, I cannot but think that we will produce his master. Now, I wonder
who it is going to be. Under the English system the best general does
not always come forward first, and perhaps we've not yet so much as
heard the name of the man who is going to beat Montcalm. That he will be
beaten I've no doubt. We'll conquer Canada and settle North American
affairs for all time. Perhaps it will be the last great war."

Robert was listening with the closest attention, and it seemed to him
that the New Yorker was right. With Canada conquered and the French
power expelled it would be the last great war so far as North America
was concerned? How fallible men are! How prone they are to think when
they have settled things for themselves they have settled them also for
all future generations!

"And then," continued Mr. Hervey, "New York will become a yet greater
port than it now is. It may even hope to rival Philadelphia in size and
wealth. It will be London's greatest feeder."

The soup, not neglected in the least, gave way to fish, and then to many
kinds of meat, in which game, bear, deer and wild fowl were conspicuous.
Robert took a little of everything, but he was absorbed in the talk. He
felt that these men were in touch with great affairs, and, however much
they diverged from such subjects they had them most at heart. It was a
thrilling thought that the future of North America, in some degree at
least, might be determined around that very table at which he was
sitting as a guest. He had knowledge and imagination enough to
understand that it was not the armies that determined the fate of
nations, but the men directing them who stood behind them farther back,
in the dark perhaps, obscure, maybe never to become fully known, but
clairvoyant and powerful just the same. He was resolved not to lose a
word. So he leaned forward just a little in his seat, and his blue eyes
sparkled.

"Dagaeoga is glad to be here," said Tayoga in an undertone.

"So I am, Tayoga. They talk of things of which I wish to hear."

"As I told you, these be sachems with whom we sit. They be not chiefs
who lead in battle, but, like the sachems, they plan, and, like the
medicine men, they make charms and incantations that influence the souls
of the warriors and also the souls of those who lead them to battle."

"The same thought was in my own mind."

Wine smuggled from France or Spain was served to the men, though young
Lennox and the Onondaga touched none. In truth, it was not offered to
them, Master Jacobus saying, with a glance at Robert:

"I have never allowed you and Tayoga to have anything stronger than
coffee in my house, and although you are no longer under my charge I
intend to keep to the rule."

"We wish nothing more, sir," said Robert.

"As for me," said the Onondaga, "I shall never touch any kind of liquor.
I know that it goes ill with my race."

"Yours, I understand, is the Onondaga nation," said Mr. Hervey, looking
at him attentively.

"The Onondaga, and I belong to the clan of the Bear," replied Tayoga
proudly. "The Hodenosaunee have held the balance in this war."

"That I know full well. I gladly give the great League ample credit. It
has been a wise policy of the English to deal honestly and fairly with
your people. In general the French surpass us in winning and holding the
affections of the native races, but some good angel has directed us in
our dealings with the Six Nations. Without their Indians the French
could have done little against us. I hear of one of their leaders who
has endeared himself to them in the most remarkable manner. There has
been much talk in New York of the Chevalier de St. Luc, and being nearer
the seat of action you've perhaps heard some of it here in Albany,
Jacobus!"

Robert leaned a little farther forward and concentrated every faculty on
the talk, but he said nothing.

"Yes, we've heard much of him, Alan," replied Master Jacobus. "I think
he's the most dangerous foe that we have among Montcalm's lieutenants.
He passes like a flame along the border, and yet report speaks well of
him, too. All our men who have come in contact with him say he is a
gallant and chivalrous foe."

Robert glanced at Master Benjamin Hardy, but the great merchant's face
was blank.

"Robert saw him, too, when he was a prisoner among the French," said Mr.
Huysman.

Mr. Hervey looked at Robert, who said:

"I saw him several times at Ticonderoga, where he was the chief adviser
of Montcalm during the battle, and I've seen him often elsewhere. All
that they say about him is true. He's a master of forest warfare, and
his following is devoted."

He glanced again at Benjamin Hardy, but the New Yorker was helping
himself to an especially tender bit of venison and his face expressed
nothing but appreciation of his food. Robert sighed under his breath.
They would never do more than generalize about St. Luc. Tayoga and he
asked presently to be excused. The men would sit much longer over their
nuts and wine, and doubtless when the lads were gone they would enter
more deeply into those plans and ventures that lay so near their hearts.

"I think I shall wander among the trees behind the house," said Tayoga,
when they were out of the dining-room. "I want fresh air, and I wish to
hear the wind blowing among the leaves. Then I can fancy that I am back
in the great forest, and my soul will be in peace."

"And commune, perhaps, with Tododaho on his star," said Robert, not
lightly but in all seriousness.

"Even so, Dagaeoga. He may have something to tell me, but if he does not
it is well to be alone for a while."

"I won't let you be alone just yet, because I'm going out with you, but
I don't mean to stay long, and then you can commune with your own soul."

It was a beautiful night, cooled by a breeze which came crisp and strong
from the hills, rustling through the foliage, already beginning to take
on the tints of early autumn. After the warm room and many courses of
food it was very grateful to the two lads who stood under the trees
listening to the pleasant song of the breeze. But in five minutes Robert
said:

"I'm going back into the house now, Tayoga. I can see your star in the
clear heavens, and perhaps Tododaho will speak to you."

"I shall see. Farewell for an hour, Dagaeoga."

Robert went in.




CHAPTER III

THE PURSUIT OF GARAY


Robert paused a few moments in the hall. Sounds of voices came from the
dining room, showing that the supper was still in progress. He thought
of going back there to listen to the talk, but he reflected that the
time for youth at the table had passed. They were in their secrets now,
and he strolled toward the large room that contained the chest of
drawers.

A dim light from an unshuttered window shone into the apartment and it
was in his mind to wait there for Tayoga, but he stopped suddenly at the
door and stared in astonishment. A shadow was moving in the room, thin,
impalpable and noiseless, but it had all the seeming of a man. Moreover,
it had a height and shape that were familiar, and it reminded him of the
spy, Garay.

He was too much surprised to move, and so he merely stared. Garay knelt
before the chest of drawers and began to work at it with a small sharp
tool that he drew from his coat. Robert saw, too, that his attention was
centered on the third drawer from the top. Then he came out of his
catalepsy and started forward, but in doing so his foot made a slight
noise on the floor.

Garay leaped to his feet, gave Robert one glance and then disappeared
through the open window, with incredible dexterity and speed. Robert
stared again. The man was there and then he was not. It could not be
Garay, but his ghost, some illusion, a trick of the eye or mind. Then he
knew it was no fancy. With extraordinary assurance the man had come
there to rifle the drawer--for what purpose Robert knew not.

He ran to the window, but saw nothing save the peaceful night, the
waving trees and the quiet lawn lying beyond. Then he walked to the
chest and examined the third drawer, noticing new scratches around the
lock. There was not the slightest doubt that Garay had been trying to
open it.

He went to the door, resolved to tell Mr. Huysman at once of the attempt
upon the chest, but he stopped irresolute. The low sounds of talk still
came from the dining-room. He was only a boy and his was a most
improbable tale. They might think he had been dreaming, though he knew
full well that he had seen straight and true. And then Garay was gone,
leaving no trace. No, he would not interrupt Mr. Huysman now, but he
would talk it over with Tayoga.

He found the Onondaga standing among the trees, gazing with rapt vision
at his star.

"Did Tododaho speak to you?" asked Robert.

"He did," replied Tayoga earnestly.

"What did he say?"

"That the great war will go on, and that you and I and the Great Bear,
who is away, will encounter many more perils. The rest is veiled."

"And while we take our ease, Tayoga, our enemies are at work."

"What does Dagaeoga mean?"

"I went into the room containing the chest of drawers, the story of
which you read, and found there Garay, the spy, trying to open it."

"Dagaeoga does not dream?"

"Oh, I thought for a moment or two that I did, but it was reality. Garay
escaped through the open window, and, on the lock of the third drawer,
were scratches that he left where he had been working with a sharp tool.
Come, Tayoga, and look at them."

The two went into the house. Robert lighted a lamp for better light, and
Tayoga knelt before the drawer, giving it a long and close examination.

"Garay is a very clever man," he said at last, "much cleverer, perhaps,
than we gave him the credit of being."

"I think so too," said Robert.

"As events show, he came into this house to obtain the papers in this
drawer, and you and I feel quite certain that those papers concern you.
And as you saw him and the slaver together, it indicates that they have
some plot against you, what I know not. But the papers here have much to
do with it."

"Do you think I should speak of it to Master Jacobus and Mr. Hardy now?"

"I think not, Dagaeoga. Whatever is the mystery about you it is evident
that they do not wish to tell you of it yet. So, being what you are, you
will not ask them, but wait until such time as they see fit. I think
these scratches on the lock were made by the sharp point of a hunting
knife. Garay did not succeed in opening it, though it is likely that he
would have done so if you had not interrupted him."

"When he saw me he was gone like a flash. I did not know a man could
skip through a window with so much celerity."

"One has to be skillful at such things to carry on the trade of a spy.
That is why he could have opened this lock, large and strong as it is,
with the point of his hunting knife had he been allowed time, and that
is why he flew through the window like a bird when you came upon him."

He examined the window, and then laughed a little.

"But he did not go without leaving further proof of himself," he said.
"Here on the sill is the faintest trace of blood where he bruised his
hand or wrist in his rapid flight."

"Suppose you try to trail him, Tayoga. I believe you could find out
which way he went, even here in Albany. The men will talk in there a
long time, and won't miss us. There's a fair moon."

"I will try," said Tayoga in his precise fashion. "First we will look at
the ground under the window."

They went outside and the Onondaga examined the grass beneath it, the
drop being five or six feet.

"As he had to come down hard, he ought to have left traces," said
Robert.

"So he did, Dagaeoga. I find several imprints, and there also are two or
three drops of blood, showing that he scratched his hand considerably
when he went through the window. Here go the traces, leading north.
Garay, of course, knows this immediate locality well, as he observed it
closely when he made his attempt upon you before. It is lucky that it
rained yesterday, leaving the ground soft. We may be able to follow him
quite a distance."

"If anybody can follow him, you can."

"It is friendship that makes Dagaeoga speak so. The trail continues in
its original course, though I think that sooner or later it will turn
toward the river."

"Meaning that Garay will meet the slaver somewhere, and that the natural
place of the latter is on the water."

"Dagaeoga reasons well. That, I think, is just what Garay will do. It is
likely, too, that he will curve about the town. If he went upon a hard
street we would lose him, since he would leave no trail there, but he
will keep away because he does not wish to be seen. Ah, he now turns
from the houses and into the fields! We shall be able to follow him. The
moon is our friend. It is pouring down rays enough to disclose his
trail, if trail he leaves."

They were soon beyond the houses and climbed three fences dividing the
fields. At the third, Tayoga said:

"Garay paused here and rested. There is a drop of blood on the top rail.
He probably sat there and looked back to see if he was followed. Ah,
here is a splinter on a lower rail freshly broken!"

"What do you make of it, Tayoga?"

"The spy was angry, angry that his effort, made at such great risk,
should have failed through the mere chance of your coming into the room
at that particular time. He was angry, too, that he had bruised his hand
so badly that it bled, and continued to bleed. So, his disappointment
made him grind his heel against the rail and break the splinter."

"I'm glad he felt that way. A man in his trade ought to suffer many
disappointments."

"When he had satisfied himself that no pursuit was in sight, he jumped
to the ground. Here are deep imprints made by his descending weight, and
now he becomes less careful. Albany is behind us, and he thinks all
danger of pursuit has passed. I see a little brook ahead, and it is safe
to say that he will kneel at it and drink."

"And also to bathe his wounded hand."

"Even so, Dagaeoga. Lo, it is as we said! Here are the imprints of his
knees, showing that he refreshed himself with water after his hurried
flight. The ground on the other side of the brook is soft and we shall
be able to find his imprints there, even if it were pitch dark. Now I
think they will turn very soon toward the river."

"Yes, they're curving. Here they go, Tayoga."

The trail led across a field, over a hill, and then through a little
wood, where Tayoga was compelled to go slowly, hunting about like a
hound, trying to trace a scent. But wherever he lost it he finally
picked it up again, and, when they emerged from the trees, they saw the
river not far ahead.

"Our trail will end at the stream," said Tayoga confidently.

As he had predicted, the imprints led directly to the river, and there
ended their pursuit also. The Hudson flowed on in silence. There was
nothing on its bosom.

"The slaver in a boat was waiting for him here," said Tayoga. "I think
we can soon find proof of it."

A brief examination of the bank showed traces where the prow had rested.

"It was probably a boat with oars for two," he said. "The slaver sat in
it most of the time, but he grew impatient at last and leaving the boat
walked up the bank a little distance. Here go his steps, showing very
plainly in the soft earth in the moonlight, and here come those of Garay
to meet him. They stood at the top of the bank under this oak, and the
spy told how he had failed. Doubtless, the slaver was much disappointed,
but he did not venture to upbraid Garay, because the spy is as necessary
to him as he is to the spy. After they talked it over they walked down
the bank together--see their trails going side by side--entered the boat
and rowed away. I wish the water would leave a trail, too, that we might
follow them, but it does not."

"Do you think they'll dare go back to Albany?"

"The slaver will. What proof of any kind about anything have we? Down!
Dagaeoga, down!"

Fitting the action to the word, the Onondaga seized Robert by the
shoulders suddenly and dragged him to the earth, falling with him. As he
did so a bullet whistled where Robert's head had been and a little puff
of smoke rose from a clump of bushes on the opposite shore.

"They're there in their boat among the bushes that grow on the water's
edge!" exclaimed Tayoga. "I ought to have thought of it, but I did see a
movement among the bushes in time! I cannot see their faces or the boat,
either, but I know it is Garay and the slaver."

"I have no weapon," said Robert. "It did not occur to me that I would
need one."

"I have a pistol in my tunic. I always carry one when I am in the white
man's country. It is wise."

"Under the circumstances, I think we'd better slip away and leave the
spy and the slaver to enjoy the river as they please, for to-night at
least."

He was about to rise, but Tayoga pulled him down a second time and a
report heavier than the first came from the far shore. Another bullet
passed over their heads and struck with a sough in the trunk of a big
tree beyond them.

"That was from a rifle. The other was from a pistol," said Tayoga. "It
is the slaver, of course, who has the rifle, and they mean to make it
very warm for us. Perhaps an unexpected chance gives them hope to do
here what they expected to achieve later on."

"Meaning a final disposition of me?"

"That was in my mind, Dagaeoga. I think it is you at whom they will
shoot and you would better creep away. Lie almost flat and edge along
until you come to the trees, which are about twenty yards behind us.
There, you will be safe."

"And leave you alone, Tayoga! What have I ever done to make you think
I'd do such a thing?"

"It is not Tayoga whom they want. It is Dagaeoga. I cannot go without
taking a shot at them, else my pistol would burn me inside my tunic. Be
wise as I am, Dagaeoga. Always carry a pistol when you are in the white
man's towns. Life is reasonably safe only in the red man's forest."

"It looks as if you were right, Tayoga, but remember that I stay here
with you as long as you stay."

"Then keep close to the earth. Roll back a bit and you will be sheltered
better by that little rise."

Robert obeyed, and it was well that he did so, as the heavy rifle
cracked a second time, and a plowing bullet caused fine particles of
earth to fly over him. Tayoga leveled his pistol at the flash and smoke,
but did not pull the trigger.

"Why didn't you fire, Tayoga?" asked Robert.

"I could not see well enough. They and their boat are still hidden by
the bushes in which they remain, because from there they can command the
bank where we lie."

"Then it looks as if each side held the other. If they come out of the
bushes you use your pistol on 'em, and if we retreat farther they use
their rifle on us. You'll notice, Tayoga, that we're in a little dip,
and if we go out of it on our far side in retreat we'll make a target of
ourselves. If they leave the bushes on their far side to climb their own
bank they come into view. It's checkmate for both."

"It is so, Dagaeoga. It is a difficult position for you, but not for me.
We of the red races learn to have patience, because we are not in such a
hurry to consume time as you white people are."

"That is true, but it is not a moment for a discussion of the relative
merits of white and red."

"We are likely to have plenty of leisure for it, since I think we are
doomed to a long wait."

"I think you're happy over it, Tayoga. Your voice has a pleased ring."

"I'm not unhappy. I see a chance to gratify a curiosity that I have long
had. I wish to see whether the white race, even in great danger, where
it is most needed, has as much patience as the red. Ah, Dagaeoga, you
were incautious! Do not raise your head again. You, at least, do not
have as much patience as the occasion requires."

The third bullet had passed so near Robert that cold shivers raced over
his body and he resolved not to raise his head again a single inch, no
matter what the temptation.

"Remember that it is you whom they want," said Tayoga in his precise,
book English. "Having the rifle they can afford to try shots at longer
range, but with the pistol I must wait until I can see them clearly.
Well, Dagaeoga, it is a fine evening, not too cold, we need fresh air
after a big supper, and perhaps one could not find a pleasanter place in
which to pass the night."

"You mean that we may lie here until day?"

"Dagaeoga speaks as if that would be remarkable. My father waited once
three days and three nights beside a run to obtain a deer. He neither
ate nor drank during that time, but he went home with the deer. If he
could wait so long for something to eat, cannot we wait as long when our
lives are at stake?"

"According to the laws of proportion we should be willing to stay here a
week, at least. Can you see anything moving in the bushes over there,
Tayoga?"

"Not a thing. They too are patient men, the slaver and the spy, and
having missed several times with the rifle they will bide a while,
hoping that we will expose ourselves."

The Onondaga settled himself comfortably against the earth, his pistol
lying on the little rise in front of him, over which his eyes watched
the clump of bushes into which the boat had gone. If the slaver and the
spy made any attempt to slip forth, whether on the water or up the bank,
he would certainly see them, and he would not withhold the pressure of
his finger on the trigger.

The full moon still shone down, clothing the world in a beautiful silver
light. The stars in myriads danced in a sky of soft, velvety blue. The
river flowed in an illuminated, molten mass. A light wind hummed a
pleasant song among the brown leaves. Robert had a curious feeling of
rest and safety. He was quite sure that neither the slaver nor the spy
could hit him while he lay in the dip, and no movement of theirs would
escape the observation of Tayoga, the incomparable sentinel. He relaxed,
and, for a few moments, his faculties seemed to fall into a dreamy
state.

"If I should go to sleep, Tayoga," he said, "wake me up when you need
me."

"You will not go to sleep."

"How do you know? I feel a lot like it."

"It is because the worry you felt a little while ago has passed. You
believe that in this duel of patience we shall conquer."

"I know that we'll conquer, Tayoga, because you are here."

"Dagaeoga's flattery is not subtle."

"It's not flattery. It's my real belief."

The night wore on. The breeze that rustled the leaves was warm and
soothing, and Robert's sleepiness increased. But he fought against it.
He used his will and brought his body roughly to task, shaking himself
violently. He also told himself over and over again that they were in a
position of great danger, that he must be on guard, that he must not
leave the duty to the Onondaga alone. Such violent efforts gradually
drove sleep away, and raising his head a few inches he looked over the
rise.

The whole surface of the river still showed clearly in the moonlight, as
it flowed slowly and peacefully on, silver in tint most of the time, but
now and then disclosing shades of deep blue. Directly opposite was the
clump of bushes in which the slaver and the spy had pushed their boat.
An easy shot for a rifle, but a hard one for a pistol.

Robert studied the bushes very closely, trying to discern their enemies
among them, but he saw nothing there save a slight movement of the
leaves before the wind. It was possible that his foes had slipped away,
going up the other bank in some manner unseen. Since he could discover
no trace of them he began to believe that it was true, and he raised his
head another inch for a better look.

Crack! went the rifle, and the bullet sang so close to his face that at
first he thought he was hit. He stared for a moment at the puff of smoke
rising from the bushes, his faculties in a daze. Then he came to himself
all at once and dropped back abruptly, feeling his head gingerly to see
that it was sound everywhere. But he was certain that the slaver and the
spy were there.

"Dagaeoga was rash," said the Onondaga.

"I know now I was. Still, I feel much relief because I've settled a
problem that was troubling me."

"What was it?"

"I wasn't sure that our enemies were still there. Now I am."

"If you feel like it yet, I think you may go to sleep. Nothing is likely
to happen for a long time, and I can awaken you at any moment."

"Thank you, Tayoga, but I've banished the wish. I know I can't do
anything without a weapon, but I can give you moral help. They're bound
to try something sometime or other, because when the day comes other
people may arrive--we're not so far from Albany--and they're guilty,
we're not. We don't mind being seen."

"It is so, Dagaeoga. You talk almost like a man. At times you reason
well. Finding that we are as patient as they are they will make a
movement in an hour or two, though I think we are not likely to see it."

"An hour or two? Then I think I'd better make myself comfortable again."

He settled his body against the brown turf which was soft and soothing,
and, in spite of himself, the wish for sleep returned. It was so quiet
that one was really invited to go away to slumberland, and then he had
eaten much at the big supper. After a long time, he was sinking into a
doze when he was dragged back abruptly from it by a report almost at his
ear that sounded like the roar of a cannon. He sat up convulsively, and
saw Tayoga holding in his hand a smoking pistol.

"Did you hit anything?" he asked.

"I saw a stir in the bushes over there," replied the Onondaga, "and
fired into them. I do not think my bullet found its target, but we will
wait. I have ammunition in my pocket, and meanwhile I will reload."

He put in the powder and ball, still keeping an eye on the bushes. He
waited a full half hour and then he handed the pistol to Robert.

"Watch, and use it if need be," he said, "while I swim over and get the
boat."

"Get the boat! What are you talking about, Tayoga? Has the moon struck
you with a madness?"

"Not at all, Dagaeoga. The slaver and the spy are gone, leaving behind
them the boat which they could not take with them, and we might as well
have it."

"Are you sure of what you are saying?"

"Quite sure, Dagaeoga. But for precaution's sake you can watch well with
the pistol and cover my approach."

He thrust the weapon into Robert's hand, quickly threw off his clothing
and sprang into the water, swimming with strong strokes toward the
dense, high bushes that lined the opposite shore. Robert watched the
lithe, brown figure cleave the water, disappear in the bushes and then
reappear a moment or two later, rowing a boat. All had fallen out as the
Onondaga had said, and he quickly came back to the western side.

"It is a good boat," he said, "a trophy of our victory, and we will use
it. Take the oars, Dagaeoga, while I put on my clothes again. Our long
wait is over."

Robert sprang into the boat, while Tayoga, standing upon the bank, shook
himself, making the drops fly from him in a shower.

"Which way did they go?" asked Robert.

"They crept down the stream among the bushes between the water and the
cliff. They could force their bodies that way but not the boat. I felt
sure they had gone after my pistol shot, because I saw some of the
bushes moving a little against the wind farther down the stream. It was
proof. Besides, they had to go, knowing that day would soon be here."

He reclothed himself and stepped back into the boat, taking up the
second pair of oars.

"Let us return to Albany in triumph by the river," he said.

"You think there is no danger of our being fired upon from ambush?"

"None at all. The slaver and spy will be anxious to get away and escape
observation. They would be glad enough to shoot at us, but they would
never dare to risk it."

"And so ours has been the triumph. Once more we've been victorious over
our enemies, Tayoga."

"But they will strike again, and Dagaeoga must beware."

They rowed into the middle of the river and dropped slowly down the
stream. Robert had so much confidence in the Onondaga that he felt quite
safe for the present at least. It seemed to his sanguine temperament
that as they had escaped every danger in the past so they would escape
every one in the future. He was naturally a child of hope, in which he
was fortunate.

The gray skies broke away in the east, and the dawn was unrolled, a
blaze of rose and gold. The surface of the river glittered in the
morning sun. The houses of Albany stood out sharp and clear in the first
light of the morning.

"They'll be anxious about us at Mr. Huysman's," said Robert.

"So they will," said Tayoga. "As I have said to you before, Dagaeoga, it
will be wise for us to return to the wilderness as soon as we can. The
red man's forest still seems to be safer than the white man's town."

They reached Albany, tied up the boat, and walked in the early dawn to
the house of Mynheer Jacobus Huysman, where Caterina met them at the
door with a cry of joy. Master Jacobus appeared in a few moments, his
face showing great relief.

"Where have you lads been?" he exclaimed.

"We have been in much danger," replied Robert soberly, "but we're out of
it now, and here we are."

The others, all of whom had lain down fully dressed, came soon, and
Robert told the story of the night, beginning with the spy's attempt
upon the third drawer in the chest of drawers. Mr. Huysman and Mr. Hardy
exchanged glances.

"That drawer does contain papers of value," said Mr. Huysman, "but I'll
see that they're put to-day in a place into which no thief can break."

"And it would perhaps be well for young Mr. Lennox also to keep himself
in a safe place," said Mr. Hervey, who had spent the night too in Mr.
Huysman's house. "It seems that a most determined effort is being made
against him."

"Thank you, sir, for your interest in me," said Robert, "and I'll do my
best to be cautious."

He ate a hearty breakfast and then, on the insistence of Master Jacobus,
lay down. Declaring that he would not sleep, he fell asleep nevertheless
in ten minutes, and did not awake until the afternoon. He learned then
that Albany was feeling better. Many of the rumors that Montcalm was
advancing had been quieted. Scouts brought word that he was yet at Lake
Champlain, and that he had not given any sign of marching upon Albany.

Robert learned also that the council in Mr. Huysman's house had been to
take measures of offense as well as defense. Alan Hervey spoke for the
leading men of New York and he was to tell Albany for them that they
would make a mighty effort. A campaign had been lost, but another would
be undertaken at once, and it would be won. They had no doubt that
Boston, Baltimore and Charleston were doing the same. The strong men of
the Colonies intended to assure England of their staunch support, and
the English-speaking race not dreaming perhaps even then that it was to
become such a mighty factor in the world, would fight to the bitter end
for victory.

"I go back by sloop to New York to-morrow," said Mr. Hardy to him, "and
of course Jonathan Pillsbury goes with me. There are important affairs
of which I must speak to you some day, Robert, and believe me, my lad, I
do not speak of them to you now because the reasons are excellent. I
know you've borne yourself bravely in many dangers, and I know you will
be as strong of heart in others to come. I'm sorry I have to go away
without seeing Willet, but you could not be in safer hands than his."

"And I know, too," said Robert earnestly, "that I could have no better
friend than you, Mr. Hardy, nor you, Mr. Pillsbury."

He spoke with the frank sincerity that always made such an appeal to
everybody, and Mr. Hardy patted him approvingly on the shoulder.

"And don't forget me, Mr. Lennox," said Mr. Hervey. "I want you to be my
guest in New York some day. We live in tremendous times, and so guard
yourself well."

They left with a favoring breeze and the swift sloop that bore them was
soon out of sight. Robert, Tayoga, Mr. Huysman and Master McLean, who
had seen them off, walked slowly back up the hill to Mr. Huysman's
house.

"I feel that they brought us new courage," said Master Jacobus. "New
York iss a great town, a full equal to Boston, though they are very
unlike, and do not forget, Robert, that the merchants and financiers
have much to say in a vast war like this which is vexing the world
to-day."

"I do not forget it, sir," said Robert. "I have seen New York and its
wealth and power. They say that it has nearly twenty thousand
inhabitants--and some day I hope to see London too. Lieutenant Grosvenor
is coming. Can we stop and speak to him?"

"Of course, my lad, but Master Alexander and I have pressing business
and you will pardon us if we go on. If Lieutenant Grosvenor will come to
my house as my guest bring him, and tell him to stay as long as he
will."

"That I will, sir, and gladly," said Robert, as he and Tayoga turned
aside to meet the young Englishman.

The meeting had all the warmth of youth and of real liking. Grosvenor
was fully restored now and his intense interest in everything that was
happening was undiminished. They strolled on together. Robert and Tayoga
did not say anything for the present about their adventure of the
preceding night with the slaver and the spy, but Robert delivered the
invitation of Master Jacobus.

"If you can get leave come and stay a while with us in the house of Mr.
Huysman," he said. "He bids me give you a most hospitable welcome, and
when he says a thing he means not only what he says but a good deal
more, too. You'll have a fine bed and you may have to eat more than you
can well stand."

"It appeals to me," said Grosvenor, "and I'd come, but I'm leaving
Albany in a day or two."

"Leaving Albany! I suppose I shouldn't ask where you're going."

"I'll tell you without the asking. I'm going with some other officers to
Boston, where we're to await orders. Between you and me, Lennox, I think
we shall take a sea voyage from Boston, maybe to Nova Scotia."

"And that, I think, indicates a new expedition from England and a new
attack upon Canada and the French, but from another point. It's like the
shadow of great events."

"It seems so to me, too. Come with us, Lennox. All your friends have got
into the Royal Americans, and I think they too are going east. We could
raise enough influence to secure you a lieutenant's commission."

Robert's heart swelled, but he shook his head.

"You tempt me, Grosvenor," he said. "I'd like to go. I think you and the
others will be in the thick of great events, but I could never desert
Tayoga and Willet. I feel that my business, whatever it is, is here. But
we may meet on the front again, though we'll come by different routes."

"If you can't you can't, and that's an end of it, but I'm glad, Lennox,
that I've known you and Tayoga and Willet, and that we've shared perils.
I'm to meet the Philadelphians and the Virginians at the George Inn
again. Will you two come on?"

"Gladly," said Robert.

They found that the others had already arrived, and they were full of
jubilation. Colden, Wilton and Carson were leaving their troop with
regret, but the Royal Americans raised in the Colonies were a picked
regiment ranking with the best of the British regulars. Stuart and
Cabell, coming from the south, which was now more remote from the scene
of war, were delighted at the thought that they would be in the heart of
the conflict. They, too, were insistent that Robert come with them, but
again he refused. When he and Tayoga left them and walked back to the
house of Mr. Huysman the Onondaga said:

"Dagaeoga was right to stay. His world is centered here."

"That's so. I feel it in every bone of me. Besides, I'm thinking that
we'll yet have to deal with Garay and that slaver. I'll be glad though
when Willet comes. Then we can decide upon our next step."

Robert was too active to stay quietly at the house of Mr. Huysman. Only
their host, Tayoga and he were present at their supper that evening,
and, as the man was rather silent, the lads respected his preoccupation,
believing that he was concerned with the great affairs in which he was
having a part. After supper Tayoga left for the camp on the flats to see
an Onondaga runner who had arrived that day, and Mr. Huysman, still
immersed in his thoughts, withdrew into the room containing the great
chest of drawers.

Robert spent a little while in the chamber that he and Tayoga had used,
looking at the old, familiar things, and then he wandered restlessly
outside, where he stood, glancing down at the lights of the town. He
felt lonely for the moment. Everybody else was doing something, and he
liked to be with people. Perhaps some of his friends had come to the
George Inn. A light was burning there and he would go and see.

There was a numerous company at the inn, but it included nobody that
Robert knew, and contenting himself with a look from the doorway, he
turned back. Then the masts and spars in the river, standing up a black
tracery against the clear, moonlit sky, interested him, and he walked
casually to the bank. Some activity was still visible on the vessels,
but tiring of them soon he turned away.

It was dark on the shore, but Robert started violently. If fancy were
not playing tricks with him he saw the shadow of Garay once more. The
figure had appeared about twenty yards ahead of him and then it was
gone. Robert was filled with fierce anger that the man should show such
brazen effrontery, and impulsively he pursued. Profiting by his
experience with the spy, he now had a pistol in his pocket, and
clutching the butt of it he hurried after the elusive shadow.

He caught a second glimpse. It was surely Garay, and he was running
along the shore, up the stream.

Robert's anger rose by leaps. The spy's presumption was beyond all
endurance, but he would make him pay for it this time. He drew his
pistol that he might be ready should Garay turn and attack, though he
did not believe that he would do so, and sped after him. But always the
shadow flitted on before, and the distance between them did not seem to
diminish.

They soon left all houses behind, although Robert, in his excitement,
did not notice it, and then he saw that at last he was gaining.

"Stop, Garay! Stop, or I shoot!" he cried.

The spy halted, and Robert, covering him with his pistol, was about to
approach when he heard a step behind him. He whirled, but it was too
late. A stunning weight crashed down upon his head, and he fell into
oblivion.




CHAPTER IV

OUT TO SEA


When Robert came back from the far country in which he had been
dwelling, for a little space, he looked into a long face, with eyes set
close and a curved nose. He was dimly conscious that it was a familiar
countenance, but he could not yet remember where he had seen it before,
because he could not concentrate his thoughts. His head was heavy and
aching. He knew that he lived, but he did not know much more.

The staring face was distinctly unpleasant and menacing. He gazed into
it, trying to recall the owner, but the effort was still too great. Then
he became conscious that he was lying upon his back and that he was
moving. Trees on his right and trees on his left, some distance away,
were filing past. Two men on each side were pulling hard on oars, and
then it slowly entered his mind that he was in a boat.

He made another and stronger effort to gather up his wandering faculties
and then he realized with a jerk that the face looking into his was that
of the slaver. Making a supreme effort he sat up. The slaver laughed.

"So, Peter Smith," he said, "you've decided to come back a second time.
I knew that you couldn't stay away always from such a good, kind captain
as I am. I saw the light of welcome in your eyes when we met so
unexpectedly at the George Inn, and I decided that it was only a
question of time until you came into my service again."

Robert stared at him. His mind, which would not work hitherto, recovered
its power with great suddenness. All his faculties were keen and alert,
and they coördinated smoothly and perfectly. He had been trapped. He had
been struck from behind, while he pursued Garay with such eagerness. He
had been careless, and once more he was in the power of the slaver. And
there was the spy, too, in the prow of the boat, with his back to him,
but that very back seemed to express insolent triumph. He felt a great
sinking of the heart, but in a few moments recalled his courage. His was
a spirit that could not be crushed. His head still ached and he was a
prisoner, but his courage was invincible, and he put on a light manner.

"Yes, I've come back," he said. "You see, Captain, there are some things
concerning you of which I'm not sure, and I couldn't part from you
permanently until I learned them."

"I'm glad of it, Peter. You've an inquiring mind, I know, and you'll
have plenty of opportunity to learn everything about me. We're likely to
be together for quite a while."

Robert looked around. He was in a long boat, and there were four
oarsmen, stout fellows, rough of looks and with hangers and pistols in
their belts. Garay and the captain completed the party, and both the
slaver and the spy were armed heavily. He saw that he had no earthly
chance of escape at present, and he resigned himself for the moment. The
slaver read his look.

"I'm glad, Peter," he said, "that you've given up the thought of leaving
us that was flitting around in your head a minute or two ago. You're in
a better state of mind now, and it was not possible anyway. Nor will
there be any storm to send you away from me again. A chance like that
wouldn't happen once in a hundred times. I suppose you understand where
you are."

"I'm in a boat a few miles above Albany, and I think that before long
you'll turn and go back down the stream."

"Why, Peter?"

"Because there's nothing for you to go to up the stream. If you kept on
you'd arrive in the Indian country, and I doubt whether that's any part
of your plan."

"Clever, Peter, clever! and well reasoned. I see that your intellect's
as good as ever. You must rise above the place of a common seaman. When
you're a little older there's a mate's berth for you."

Garay turned for the first time, and his malignant look of triumph was
not veiled at all.

"You and Willet and the Indian thought you were very clever there in the
forest when you compelled me to tell where the paper was hid," he said,
"but you forgot that I might make repayment. We've taken you out of
Albany from the very center of your friends, and you'll never see them
again."

"Theatricals! theatricals!" said Robert, preserving his gay manner,
though his heart was low within him. "A cat has nine lives, but I have
ten. I've been twice a prisoner of the French, and my presence here is
proof that I escaped both times. When I tire of your society and that of
the captain I'll leave you."

"No quarreling! no quarreling!" said the slaver. "I never allow it among
my men. And now, Peter, I must insure your silence for a little while."

Two of the men who were rowing dropped their oars, seized him, bound and
gagged him. He struggled at first against the indignity, but, soon
realizing its futility, lay inert on the bottom of the boat.

"Good judgment, Peter," said the slaver, looking down at him. "It's
never wise to struggle against a certainty. You've the makings of a fine
officer in you."

The two resumed their oars, and the boat, turning abruptly, as Robert
had surmised it would, went down the stream. The men ceased to talk and
the lad on his back looked up at the sky in which but few stars
twinkled. Heavy clouds floated past the moon, and the night was
darkening rapidly. Once more his heart sank to the uttermost depths, and
it had full cause to do so. For some reason he had been pursued with
singular malice and cunning, and now it seemed that his enemies were
triumphant. Tayoga could trail him anywhere on land, but water left no
trail. He was sure that his captors would keep to the river.

The speed of the boat increased with the efforts of the rowers and the
favor of the current. Soon it was opposite Albany and then the men rowed
directly to a small schooner that lay at anchor, having come up the
stream the day before. Robert was lifted on board and carried into the
depths of the vessel, where they took out the gag and put him on the
floor. The captain held a lantern over him and said:

"Garay is telling you good-bye, Peter. He's sorry he can't go with us,
but he'll be having business on the Canadian frontier. He feels that the
score is about even with you for that business of the letter in the
forest, and that later on he'll attend also to the hunter and the
Onondaga."

"And I wish you a pleasant life on the West Indian plantations," said
Garay. "They still buy white labor there in both the French and British
islands. It does not matter to me to which the captain sells you, for in
either case it means a life of hard labor in the sugar cane. Few ever
escape, and you never will."

Robert turned quite sick. So this was the plan. To sell him into slavery
in the West Indies. Kidnapping was not at all uncommon then in both the
Old World and the New, and they seemed to have laid their plans well. As
the slaver had said, there was not one chance in a hundred of another
storm. Again the captain read his mind.

"You don't like the prospect," he said, "and I'll admit myself that it's
not a cheerful one. I've changed my opinion of you, Peter. I thought
you'd make a fine sailor and that you might become a mate some day, but
I've seen a light. You're not a good sailor at all. The stuff's not in
you. But you're strong and hearty and you'll do well in the sugar cane.
If the sun's too hot and your back bends too much just reflect that for
a white man it's not a long life and your troubles will be over, some
day."

Robert's old indomitable spirit flamed up.

"I never expect to see a West Indian plantation, not on this journey, at
least," he said. "You and that miserable spy boast that you took me out
of the very center of my friends, and I tell you in reply that if I have
enemies who follow me I also have friends who are truer in their
friendship than you are in your hate, and they'll come for me."

"That's the spirit. I never heard another lad sling words in the noble
fashion you do. You'll live a deal longer on the plantations than most
of 'em. Now, Garay, I think you can go. It will be the last farewell for
you two."

The exulting spy left the close little place, and Robert felt that a
breath of hate went with him. His feet disappeared up a narrow little
stair, and the slaver cut the cords that bound Robert.

"You'll be locked in here," he said, "and it's not worth while to damage
good property by keeping it tied up too long."

"That's so," said Robert, trying to preserve a light manner. "You want
to keep me strong and active for the work on the plantations. A white
slave like a black one ought to be in good health."

The captain laughed. He was in high humor. Robert knew that he felt
intense satisfaction because he was taking revenge for his mortification
when he was defeated in the duel with swords before his own men by a
mere boy. Evidently that would rankle long with one of the slaver's
type.

"I'm glad to see you recognize facts so well, Peter," he said. "I see
that you've an ambition to excel on the plantations, perhaps to be the
best worker. Now, Garay, telling me of that little adventure of his in
the forest with the hunter, the Indian and you, wanted me to be very
careful about your rations, to put you on a sparing diet, so to speak.
He thought it would be best not to let you have anything to eat for two
or three days. His idea rather appealed to me, too, but, on the other
hand, I couldn't impair your value, and so I decided against him."

"I'm not hungry," said Robert.

"No, but you will be. You're young and strong, and that wound on your
head where I had to hit you with the butt of my pistol doesn't amount to
much."

Robert put up his hands, felt of the back of his head, where the ache
was, and found that the hair was matted together by congealed blood. But
he could tell that the hurt was not deep.

"I'll leave you now," said the slaver in the same satisfied tone, "and I
hope you'll enjoy the voyage down the river. There's a good wind blowing
and we start in a half hour."

He went out, taking the lantern with him, and bolted the door heavily
behind him. Then Robert felt despair for a while. It was much worse to
be a prisoner on the ship than in the French camp or in the village of
the partisan, Langlade. There he had been treated with consideration and
the fresh winds of heaven blew about him, but here he was shut up in a
close little hole, and his captors rejoiced in his misery.

It was quite dark in the tiny galley, and the only air that entered came
from a small porthole high over a bunk. He stood upon the bank and
brought his face level with the opening. It was not more than four
inches across, but he was able to inhale a pure and invigorating breeze
that blew from the north, and he felt better. The pain in his head was
dying down also, and his courage, according to its habit, rose fast. In
a character that nature had compounded of optimistic materials hope was
always a predominant factor.

He could see nothing through the porthole save a dark blur, but he heard
the creaking of cordage and the slatting of sails. He did not doubt that
the slaver had told the truth when he said the schooner would soon
start, and there was no possibility of escaping before then.
Nevertheless, he tried the door, but could not shake it. Then he went
back to the porthole for the sake of the air, and, because, if he could
not have freedom for himself, he could at least see a little way into
the open world.

The creaking of cordage and slatting of sails increased, he felt the
schooner heave and roll beneath him, and then he knew that they were
leaving Albany. It was the bitterest moment of his life. To be carried
away in that ignominious manner, from the very center of his friends,
from a town in which he had lived, and that he knew so well was a
terrible blow to his pride. For the moment apprehension about the future
was drowned in mortification.

He heard heavy footsteps overhead, and the sound of commands, and the
schooner began to move. He continued to stand on the bunk, with his eyes
at the porthole. He was able to see a dark shore, moving past, slowly at
first and then faster. The dim outlines of houses showed and he would
have shouted for help, but he knew that it was impossible to make any
one hear, and pride restrained.

The blurred outlines of the houses ceased and Albany was gone. Doubtless
the schooner had appeared as an innocent trader with the proper
licenses, and the slaver, having awaited its arrival, had come on ahead
to the town. He was compelled to admit the thoroughness of the plan, and
the skill with which it had been carried out, but he wondered anew why
so much trouble had been taken in regard to him, a mere lad.

He stood at the porthole a long time, and the wind out of the north rose
steadily. He heard its whistle and he also heard the singing of men
above him. He knew that the schooner was making great speed down the
stream and that Albany and his friends were now far behind. As the wise
generally do, he resigned himself to inevitable fate, wasting no
strength in impossible struggles, but waiting patiently for a better
time. There was a single blanket on the hard bunk, and, lying down on
it, he fell asleep.

When he awoke, day shining through the porthole threw a slender bar of
light across the floor, which heaved and slanted, telling that the wind
out of the north still blew strong and true. An hour later the door was
opened and a sailor brought a rude breakfast on a tin plate. While he
was eating it, and hunger made everything good, the slaver came in.

"You'll see, Peter, that I did not put you on the diet suggested by
Garay," he said. "I'm at least a kind man and you ought to thank me for
all I'm doing for you."

"For any kindness of yours to me I'm grateful," said Robert. "We're apt
to do unto people as they do unto us."

"Quite a young philosopher, I see. You'll find such a spirit useful on
the West India plantations. My heart really warms to you, Peter. I'd let
you go on deck as we're running through good scenery now, but it's
scarcely prudent. We'll have to wait for that until we pass New York and
put out to sea. I hope you don't expect it of me, Peter?"

"No, I don't look for it. But if you don't mind I'd like to have a
little more breakfast."

"A fine, healthy young animal, so you are! And you shall have it, too."

He called the sailor who brought a second helping and Robert fell to. He
was really very hungry and he was resolved also to put the best possible
face on the matter. He knew he would need every ounce of his strength,
and he meant to nurse it sedulously.

"When do you expect to reach New York?" he asked.

"To-morrow some time, if the wind holds fair, but we won't stay there
long. A few hours only to comply with the port regulations, and then ho!
for the West Indies! It's a grand voyage down! And splendid islands!
Green mountains that seem to rise straight up out of the sea! While
you're working in the cane fields you can enjoy the beautiful scenery,
Peter."

Robert was silent. The man's malice filled him with disgust. Undoubtedly
the slaver had felt intense chagrin because of his former failure and
his defeat in the duel of swords before his own men, but then one should
not exult over a foe who was beaten for the time. He felt a bitter and
intense hatred of the slaver, and, his breakfast finished, he leaned
back, closing his eyes.

"So you do not wish to talk, but would meditate," said the man. "Perhaps
you're right, but, at any rate, you'll have plenty of time for it."

When he went out Robert heard the heavy lock of the tiny room shove into
place again, and he wasted no further effort in a new attempt upon it.
Instead, he lay down on the bunk, closed his eyes and tried to reconcile
himself, body and mind, to his present situation. He knew that it was
best to keep quiet, to restrain any mental flutterings or physical
quivers. Absolute calm, if he could command it, was good for the soul,
placed as he was, and the mere act of lying still helped toward that. It
was what Tayoga would do if he were in his place, and, spurred by a
noble emulation, he resolved that he would not be inferior to the
Onondaga.

An hour, two hours passed and he did not stir. His stillness made his
hearing more acute. The trampling of feet over his head came to him with
great distinctness. He heard the singing of wind at the porthole, and,
now and then, the swish of waters as they swept past the schooner. He
wondered what Tayoga was doing and what would Willet think when he came
back to Albany and found him gone. It gave him a stab of agony. His
pride was hurt, too, that he had been trapped so thoroughly. Then his
resolution returned to his aid. Making a supreme effort of his will, he
dismissed the thought, concentrating his mind on hope. Would Tayoga's
Manitou help him? Would Tododaho on his remote star look down upon him
with kindness? The Onondaga in his place would put his faith in them,
and the Manitou of the Indian after all was but another name for his own
Christian God. Resolving to hope he did hope. He refused to believe that
the slaver could make him vanish from the face of the earth like a mist
before the wind.

The air in the little cabin was dense and heavy already, but after a
while he felt it grow thicker and warmer. He was conscious, too, of a
certain sultriness in it. The tokens were for a storm. He thought with a
leap of the heart of the earlier storm that had rescued him, but that
was at sea; this, if it came, would be on a river, and so shrewd a
captain as the slaver would not let himself be wrecked in the Hudson.

The heat and sultriness increased. Then he stood on the bunk and looked
through the porthole. He caught glimpses of lofty shores, trees at the
summit, and stretches of a dark and angry sky. Low thunder muttered,
rolling up from the west. Then came flashes of lightning, and the
thunder grew louder. By and by the wind blew heavily, making the
schooner reel before it, and when it died somewhat rain fell in sheets.

Although he felt it rather than saw it, Robert really enjoyed the storm.
It seemed a tonic to him, and the wilder it was the steadier grew his
own spirit. The breath of the rain as it entered the porthole was
refreshing, and the air in the cabin became clear and cool again. Then
followed the dark, and his second night in the schooner.

A sailor brought him his supper, the slaver failing to reappear, and
soon afterward he fell asleep. He made no surmise where they were the
next morning, as he had no way of gauging their speed during the night,
but he was allowed to go about under guard below decks for an hour or
two. The slaver came down the ladder and gave him the greetings of the
day.

"You will see, Peter," he said, "that I'm a much kinder man than Garay.
He would restrict your food, but I not only give you plenty of it, I
also allow you exercise, very necessary and refreshing to youth. I'm
sorry I'll have to shut you up again soon, but in the afternoon we'll
reach New York, and I must keep you away from the temptations of the
great town."

Robert would have given much to be allowed upon the deck and to look at
the high shores, but he could not sink his pride enough to ask for the
privilege, and, when the time came for him to return to his cell of a
cabin he made no protest.

He felt the schooner stop late in the afternoon and he was sure that
they had reached New York. He heard the dropping of the anchor, and then
the sounds became much dimmer. The light in the cabin was suddenly shut
off, and he realized that the porthole had been closed from the outside.
They were taking no chances of a call for help, and he tried to resign
himself.

But will could not control feelings now. To know that he was in New York
and yet was absolutely helpless was more than he could bear. He had
never really believed that the schooner could pass the port and put out
to sea with him a prisoner. It had seemed incredible, one of the things
not to be contemplated, but here was the event coming to pass. Mind lost
control of the body. He threw himself upon the door, pulled at it, and
beat it. It did not move an inch. Then he shouted again and again for
help. There was no response.

Gradually his panic passed, and ashamed of it he threw himself once more
upon the bunk, where he tried to consider whatever facts were in his
favor. It was certain they were not trying to take his life; had they
wished they could have done that long ago, and while one lived one was
never wholly lost. It was a fact that he would remember through
everything and he would pin his faith to it.

He slept, after a while, and he always thought afterwards that the foul,
dense air of the cabin added a kind of stupor to sleep. When he came out
of it late the next day he was conscious of an immense heaviness in the
head and of a dull, apathetic feeling. He sat up slowly and painfully as
if he were an old man. Then he noticed that the porthole was open again,
but, judging from the quality of the air in the cabin, it had not been
open long.

So the slaver had been successful. He had stopped in the port of New
York and had then put out to sea. Doubtless he had done so without any
trouble. He was having his revenge in measure full and heaped over.
Robert was bound to admit it, but he bore in mind that his own life was
still in his body. He would never give up, he would never allow himself
to be crushed.

He stood upon the bunk and put his eyes to the porthole, catching a view
of blue water below and blue sky above, and the sea as it raced past
showed that the vessel was moving swiftly. He heard, too, the hum of the
strong wind in the rigging and the groaning timbers. It was enough to
tell him that they were fast leaving New York behind, and that now the
chances of his rescue upon a lone ocean were, in truth, very small. But
once more he refused to despair.

He did not believe the slaver would keep him shut up in the cabin, since
they were no longer where he could be seen by friends or those who might
suspect, and his opinion was soon justified. In a half hour the door was
opened by the man himself, who stood upon the threshold, jaunty, assured
and triumphant.

"You can come on deck now, Peter," he said. "We've kept you below long
enough, and, as I want to deliver you to the plantations strong and
hearty, fresh air and exercise will do you good."

"I'll come willingly enough," said Robert, resolved to be jaunty too.
"Lead the way."

The captain went up the ladder just outside the door and Robert followed
him, standing at first in silence on the swaying deck and content to
look at sky and ocean. How beautiful they were! How beautiful the world
was to one who had been shut up for days in a close little room! How
keen and sweet was the wind! And what a pleasant song the creaking of
the ropes and the slatting of the sails made!

It was a brilliant day. The sun shone with dazzling clearness. The sea
was the bluest of the blue. The wind blew steady and strong. Far behind
them was a low line of land, showing but dimly on the horizon, and
before them was the world of waters. Robert balanced himself on the
swaying deck, and, for a minute or two, he enjoyed too much the
sensation of at least qualified freedom to think of his own plight.
While he stood there, breathing deeply, his lungs expanding and his
heart leaping, the slaver who had gone away, reappeared, saluting him
with much politeness.

"Look back, Peter," he said, "and you can get your last glimpse of your
native soil. The black line that just shows under the sky is Sandy Hook.
We won't see any more land for days, and you'll have a fine,
uninterrupted voyage with me and my crew."

Robert in this desperate crisis of his life resolved at once upon a
course of action. He would not show despair, he would not sulk, he would
so bear himself and with such cheerfulness and easy good nature that the
watch upon him might be relaxed somewhat, and the conditions of his
captivity might become less hard. It was perhaps easier for him than for
another, with his highly optimistic nature and his disposition to be
friendly. He kissed his hand to the black line on the horizon and said:

"I'm going now, but I'll come back. I always come back."

"That's the right spirit, Peter," said the slaver. "Be pleasant. Always
be pleasant, say I, and you'll get along much better in the world.
Things will just melt away before you."

Robert looked over the schooner. He did not know much about ships, but
she seemed to him a trim and strong craft, carrying, as he judged, about
thirty men. A long eighteen-pound cannon was mounted in her stern, but
that was to be expected in war, and was common in peace also when one
sailed into that nest of pirates, the West Indies. The slaver carried
pistol and dirk in his belt, and those of the crew whom he could see
were sturdy, hardy men. The slaver read his eyes:

"Yes, she's a fine craft," he said. "Able to fight anything of her size
we're likely to meet, and fast enough to run away from them that's too
big for her. You can see as much of her as you want to. So long as we've
no neighbor on the ocean you've the run of the craft. But if you should
want to leave you needn't try to tempt any of my men to help you. They
wouldn't dare do it, and they wouldn't want to anyhow. All their
interests are with me. I'm something of a deity to them."

The slaver went away and Robert walked about the narrow deck, standing
at last by the rail, where he remained a long time. No one seemed to pay
any attention to him. He was free to come and go as he pleased within
the narrow confines of the schooner. But he watched the black line of
land behind them until it was gone, and then it seemed to him that he
was cut off absolutely from all the life that he had lived. Tayoga,
Willet, Master Jacobus, all the good friends of his youth had
disappeared over the horizon with the lost land.

It had been so sudden, so complete that it seemed to him it must have
been done with a purpose. To what end had he been wrenched away from the
war and sent upon the unknown ocean? His wilderness had been that of the
woods and not of the waters. He had imbibed much of Tayoga's philosophy
and at times, at least, he believed that everything moved forward to an
appointed end. What was it now?

He left the low rail at last, and finding a stool sat down upon the
deck. The schooner was going almost due south, and she was making great
speed. The slaver's boast that she could run away from anything too
strong for her was probably true, and Robert judged also that she
carried plenty of arms besides the eighteen-pounder. Most of the crew
seemed to him to be foreigners, that is, they were chiefly of the races
around the Mediterranean. Dark of complexion, short and broad, some of
them wore earrings, and, without exception, they carried dirks and now
and then both pistols and dirks in their belts. He sought among them for
the face of one who might be a friend, but found none. They were all
hardened and sinister, and he believed that at the best they were
smugglers, at the worst pirates.

A heavy dark fellow whom Robert took to be a Spaniard was mate and
directed the task of working the vessel, the captain himself taking no
part in the commands, but casting an occasional keen glance at the
sailors as he strolled about. Robert judged that he was an expert sailor
and a leader of men. In truth, he had never doubted his ability from the
first, only his scruples, or, rather, he felt sure that he had none at
all.

The policy of ignoring the prisoner, evidently by order, was carried out
by the men. For all save the captain he did not exist, apparently, and
the slaver himself took no further notice of him for several hours.
Then, continuing his old vein, he spoke to him lightly, as if he were a
guest rather than a captive.

"I see that you're improving in both mind and body, Peter," he said.
"You've a splendid color in your cheeks and you look fine and hearty.
The sea air is good for anybody and it's better for you to be here than
in a town like Albany."

"Since I'm here," said Robert, "I'll enjoy myself as much as I can. I
always try to make the best of everything."

"That's philosophical, and 'tis a surprisingly good policy for one so
young."

Robert looked at him closely. His accent was that of an educated man,
and he did not speak ungrammatically.

"I've never heard your name, captain," he said, "and as you know mine, I
ought to know yours."

"We needn't mind about that now. Three-fourths of my men don't know my
name, just calling me 'Captain.' And, at any rate, if I were to give it
to you it wouldn't be the right one."

"I suspected as much. People who change their names usually do so for
good reasons."

Color came into the man's sun-browned cheeks.

"You're a bold lad, Peter," he said, "but I'll admit you're telling the
truth. I rather fancy you in some ways. If I felt sure of you I might
take you with me on a voyage that will not be without profit, instead of
selling you to a plantation in the Indies. But to go with me I must have
your absolute faith, and you must agree to share in all our perils and
achievements."

His meaning was quite plain, and might have tempted many another,
thinking, in any event, to use it as a plan for escape, but Robert never
faltered for a moment. His own instincts were always for the right, and
long comradeship with Willet and Tayoga made his will to obey those
instincts all the stronger.

"Thank you, Captain," he replied, "but I judge that your cruises are all
outside the law, and I cannot go with you on them, at least, not
willingly."

The slaver shrugged his shoulder.

"'Tis just as well that you declined," he said. "'Twas but a passing
whim of mine, and ten minutes later I'd have been sorry for it had you
accepted."

He shrugged his shoulders again, took a turn about the deck and then
went down to his cabin. Robert, notified by a sailor, the first man on
the schooner outside of the slaver to speak to him, ate supper with him
there. The food was good, but the captain was now silent, speaking only
a few times, and mostly in monosyllables. Near the end he said:

"You're to sleep in the room you've been occupying. The door will not be
bolted on you, but I don't think you'll leave the ship. The nearest land
is sixty or seventy miles away, and that's a long swim."

"I won't chance it," said Robert. "Just now I prefer solid timber
beneath my feet."

"A wise decision, Peter."

After supper the slaver went about his duties, whatever they were, and
Robert, utterly free so far as the schooner was concerned, went on deck.
It was quite dark and the wind was blowing strong, but the ship was
steady, and her swift keel cut the waters. All around him curved the
darkness, and the loneliness of the sea was immense at that moment. It
was in very truth a long swim to the land, and just then the thought of
escape was far from him. He shivered, and going down to the little cabin
that had been a prison, he soon fell asleep.




CHAPTER V

MUSIC IN THE MOONLIGHT


Several days passed and from the standpoint of the schooner the voyage
was successful. The wind continued fresh and strong, and it came out of
the right quarter. The days were clear, the sea was a dazzling color,
shifting as the sky over it shifted. The slaver was in high good humor.
His crew seemed to be under perfect control and went about their work
mostly in silence. They rarely sang, as sailors sing, but Robert,
watching them on spar or mast, although he knew little about ships, knew
that they were good sailors. He realized, too, that the crew was very
large for a vessel of its size, and he believed that he understood the
reason.

As for himself, he felt a vast loneliness. It was incredible, but he was
there on the schooner far from all he had known. The forest, in which he
had lived and the war that had concerned the whole world had sunk out of
sight beyond the horizon. And on the schooner he had made no
acquaintance save the slaver. He knew that the mate was called Carlos,
but he had not yet spoken to him. He tried his best to be cheerful, but
there were times when despair assailed him in spite of all his courage
and natural buoyancy.

"Better reconsider," said the slaver one day, catching the look upon his
face. "As I've told you, Peter, the life on the plantations is hard and
they don't last long, no matter how strong they are. There's peril in
the life I lead, I'll admit, but at least there's freedom also. Sport's
to be found among the islands, and along the Spanish Main."

"I couldn't think of it," said Robert.

"Well, it's the second time I've made you the offer, and the last. I
perceive you're bent on a life in the sugar cane, and you'll have your
wish."

Robert, seeing no chance of escape from the ship now, began to hope for
rescue from without. It was a time of war and all vessels were more than
commonly wary, but one might come at last, and, in some way he would
give a signal for help. How he did not know, but the character of the
schooner was more than doubtful, and he might be able, in some way, yet
unsuggested, to say so to any new ship that came.

But the surface of the sea, so far as their own particular circle of it
was concerned, was untroubled by any keel save their own. It was as lone
and desolate as if they were the first vessel to come there. They fell
into a calm and the schooner rocked in low swells but made no progress.
The sun shone down, brassy and hot, and Robert, standing upon the deck,
looked at the sails flapping idly above. Although it carried him farther
and farther away from all for which he cared, he wished that the wind
would rise. Nothing was more tedious than to hang there upon the surface
of the languid ocean. The slaver read his face.

"You want us to go on," he said, "and so do I. For once we are in
agreement. I'd like to make a port that I know of much sooner than I
shall. The war has brought privateersmen into these seas, and there are
other craft that any ship can give a wide berth."

"If the privateer should be British, or out of one of our American ports
why should you fear her?" asked Robert.

"I'm answering no such questions except to say that in some parts of the
world you're safer alone, and this is one of the parts."

The dead calm lasted two days and two nights, and it was like forever to
Robert. When the breeze came at last, and the sails began to fill, new
life flowed into his own veins, and hope came back. Better any kind of
action than none at all, and he drew long breaths of relief when the
schooner once more left her trailing wake in the blue sea. The wind blew
straight and strong for a day and night, then shifted and a long period
of tacking followed. It was very wearisome, but Robert, clinging to his
resolution, made the best of it. He even joined in some of the labor,
helping to polish the metal work, especially the eighteen-pounder in the
stern, a fine bronze gun. The men tolerated him, but when he tried to
talk with them he found that most of them had little or no English, and
he made scant progress with them in that particular. The big first mate,
Carlos, rebuffed him repeatedly, but he persisted, and in time the
rebuffs became less brusque. He also noticed a certain softening of the
sailors toward him. His own charm of manner was so great that it was
hard to resist it when it was continuously exerted, and sailors, like
other men, appreciate help when it is given to them continuously. The
number of frowns for him decreased visibly.

He still ate at the captain's table, why he knew not, but the man seemed
to fancy his company; perhaps there was no other on the schooner who was
on a similar intellectual level, and he made the most of the opportunity
to talk.

"Peter," he said, "you seem to have ingratiated yourself to a certain
extent with my crew. I'm bound to admit that you're a personable young
rascal, with the best manners I've met in a long time, but I warn you
that you can't go far. You'll never win 'em over to your side, and be
able to lead a mutiny which will dethrone me, and put you in command."

"I've no such plan in my mind," said Robert laughing. "I don't know
enough about sailing to take command of the ship, and I'd have to leave
everything to Carlos, whom I'd trust, on the whole, less than I do you."

"You're justified in that. Carlos is a Spaniard out of Malaga, where he
was too handy with the knife, just as he has been elsewhere. Whatever I
am, you're safer with me than you would be with Carlos, although he's a
fine sailor and loyal to me."

"How long will it be before we make any of the islands?"

"It's all with the wind, but in any event it will be quite a while yet.
It's a long run from New York down to the West Indies. Moreover, we may
be blown out of our course at any time."

"Are we in the stormy latitudes?"

"We are. Hurricanes appear here with great suddenness. You noticed how
hot it was to-day. We're to have another calm, and the still, intense
heat is a great breeder of storms. I think one will come soon, but don't
put any faith in its helping you, Peter. To be saved that way once is
all the luck you can expect. If we were wrecked here you'd surely go
down; it's too far from land."

"I'm not expecting another wreck, nor am I hoping for it," said Robert.
"I'm thinking the land will be better for me. I'll make good my escape
there. I've been uncommonly favored in that way. Once I escaped from you
and twice from the French and Indians, so I think my future will hold
good."

"Maybe it will, Peter. As resolute an optimist as you ought to succeed.
If you escape after I deliver you to the plantation 'twill be no concern
to me at all. On the whole I'm inclined to hope you will, for I'm rather
beginning to like you, spite of all the trouble you've caused me and
that time you beat me with the swords before my own men."

Robert's heart leaped up. Could the man be induced to relent in his
plan, whatever it was? But his hope fell the next moment, when the
slaver said:

"Though I tell you, Peter, I'm going to stick to my task. You'll be
handed over to the plantation, whatever comes. After that, it's for
others to watch you, and I rather hope you'll get the better of 'em."

The storm predicted by the slaver arrived within six hours, and it was a
fearful thing. It came roaring down upon them, and the wind blew with
such frightful violence that Robert did not see how they could live
through it, but live they did. Both the captain and mate revealed great
seamanship, and the schooner was handled so well and behaved so
handsomely that she drove through it without losing a stick.

When the hurricane passed on the sea resumed its usual blue color, and,
the dead, heavy heat gone, the air was keen and fresh. Robert, although
he did not suffer from seasickness, had been made dizzy by the storm,
and he felt intense relief when it was over.

"You'll observe, Peter," said the slaver, "that we're coming into
regions of violence both on land and sea. You've heard many a tale of
the West Indies. Well, they're all true, whatever they are, earthquakes,
hurricanes, smugglers, pirates, wild Englishmen, Frenchmen, Americans,
Spaniards, Portuguese, deeds by night that the day won't own, and the
prize for the strongest. It's a great life, Peter, for those that can
live it."

The close-set eyes flashed, and the nostrils dilated. Despite the
apparent liking that the slaver had shown for him, Robert never doubted
his character. Here was a man to whom the violent contrasts and violent
life of the West Indian seas appealed. He wondered what was the present
mission of the schooner, and he thought of the bronze eighteen-pounder,
and of the dirks and pistols in the belts of the crew.

"I prefer the north," he said. "It's cooler there and people are more
nearly even, in temper and life."

"Your life there has been in peril many times from the Indians."

"That's true, but I understand the Indians. Those who are my friends are
my friends, and those who are my enemies are my enemies. I take it that
in the West Indies you never know what change is coming."

"Correct, Peter, but it's all a matter of temperament. You like what you
like, because you're made that way, and you can't alter it, but the West
Indies have seen rare deeds. Did you ever hear of Morgan, the great
buccaneer?"

"Who hasn't?"

"There was a man for you! No law but his own! Willing to sack the
biggest and strongest cities on the Spanish Main and did it, too! Ah,
Peter, 'twould have been a fine thing to have lived in his day and to
have done what he did."

"I shouldn't care to be a pirate, no matter how powerful, and no matter
how great the reward."

"Again it's just a matter of temperament. I'm not trying to change you,
and you couldn't change me."

Came another calm, longer than the first. They hung about for days and
nights on a hot sea, and captain and crew alike showed anxiety and
impatience. The captain was continually watching the horizon with his
glasses, and he talked to Robert less than usual. It was obvious that he
felt anxiety.

The calm was broken just before nightfall. Dark had come with the
suddenness of the tropic seas. There was a puff of wind, followed by a
steady breeze, and the schooner once more sped southward. Robert,
anxious to breathe the invigorating air, came upon deck, and standing
near the mainmast watched the sea rushing by. The captain paused near
him and said to Robert in a satisfied tone:

"It won't be long now, Peter, until we're among the islands, and it may
be, too, that we'll see another ship before long. We've been on a lone
sea all the way down, but you'll find craft among the islands."

"It might be a hostile vessel, a privateer," said Robert.

"It's not privateers of which I'm thinking."

The light was dim, but Robert plainly saw the questing look in his eyes,
the look of a hunter, and he drew back a pace. This man was no mere
smuggler. He would not content himself with such a trade. But he said in
his best manner:

"I should think, captain, it was a time to avoid company, and that you
would be better pleased with a lone sea."

"One never knows what is coming in these waters," said the slaver. "It
may be that we shall have to run away, and I must not be caught off my
guard."

But the look in the man's eyes did not seem to Robert to be that of one
who wished to run away. It was far more the look of the hunter, and when
the hulking mate, Carlos, passed near him his face bore a kindred
expression. The sailors, too, were eager, attentive, watching the
horizon, as if they expected something to appear there.

No attention was paid to Robert, and he remained on the deck, feeling a
strong premonition that they were at the edge of a striking event, one
that had a great bearing upon his own fate, no matter what its character
might be.

The wind rose again, but it did not become a gale. It was merely what a
swift vessel would wish, to show her utmost grace and best speed. The
moon came out and made a silver sea. The long white wake showed clearly
across the waters. The captain never left the deck, but continued to
examine the horizon with his powerful glasses.

Robert, quick to deduce, believed that they were in some part of the sea
frequented by ships in ordinary times and that the captain must be
reckoning on the probability of seeing a vessel in the course of the
night. His whole manner showed it, and the lad's own interest became so
great that he lost all thought of going down to his cabin. Unless force
intervened he would stay there and see what was going to happen, because
he felt in every fiber that something would surely occur.

An hour, two hours passed. The schooner went swiftly on toward the
south, the wind singing merrily through the ropes and among the sails.
The captain walked back and forth in a narrow space, circling the entire
horizon with his glasses at intervals seldom more than five minutes
apart. It was about ten o'clock at night when he made a sharp, decisive
movement, and a look of satisfaction came over his face. He had been
gazing into the west and the lad felt sure that he had seen there that
for which he was seeking, but his own eyes, without artificial help,
were not yet able to tell him what it was.

The captain called the mate, speaking to him briefly and rapidly, and
the sullen face of the Spaniard became alive. An order to the steersman
and the course of the schooner was shifted more toward the west. It was
evident to Robert that they were not running away from whatever it was
out there. The slaver for the first time in a long while took notice of
Robert.

"There's another craft in the west, Peter," he said, "and we must have a
look at her. Curiosity is a good thing at sea, whatever it may be on
shore. When you know what is near you you may be able to protect
yourself from danger."

His cynical, indifferent air had disappeared. He was gay, anticipatory,
as if he were going to something that he liked very much. The close-set
eyes were full of light, and the thin lips curved into a smile.

"You don't seem to expect danger," said Robert. "It appears to me that
you're thinking of just the opposite."

"It's because I've so much confidence in the schooner. If it's a wicked
ship over there we'll just show her the fastest pair of heels in the
West Indies."

He did not speak again for a full quarter of an hour, but he used the
glasses often, always looking at the same spot on the western horizon.
Robert was at last able to see a black dot there with his unassisted
eyes, and he knew that it must be a ship.

"She's going almost due south," said the captain, "and in two hours we
should overhaul her."

"Why do you wish to overhaul her?" asked Robert.

"She may be a privateer, a Frenchman, or even a pirate, and if so we
must give the alarm to other peaceful craft like ourselves in these
waters."

He raised the glasses again and did not take them down for a full five
minutes. Meantime the strange ship came nearer. It was evident to Robert
that the two vessels were going down the sides of a triangle, and if
each continued on its course they would meet at the point.

The night was steadily growing brighter. The moon was at its fullest,
and troops of new stars were coming out. Robert saw almost as well as by
day. He was soon able to distinguish the masts and sails of the
stranger, and to turn what had been a black blur into the shape and
parts of a ship. He was able, too, to tell that the stranger was keeping
steadily on her course, but the schooner, obeying her tiller, was
drawing toward her more and more.

"They don't appear to be interested in us," he said to the captain.

"No," replied the man, "but they should be. They show a lack of that
curiosity which I told you is necessary at sea, and it is my duty to
overtake them and tell them so. We must not have any incautious ships
sailing in these strange waters."

Ten minutes later he called the mate and gave a command. Cutlasses and
muskets with powder and ball were put at convenient points. Every man
carried at least one pistol and a dirk in his belt. The captain himself
took two pistols and a cutlass.

"Merely a wise precaution, Peter," he said, "in case our peaceful
neighbor, to whom we wish to give a useful warning, should turn out to
be a pirate."

Robert in the moonlight saw his eyes gleam and his lips curve once more
into a smile. He had seen enough of men in crucial moments to know that
the slaver was happy, that he was rejoicing in some great triumph that
he expected to achieve. In spite of himself he shivered and looked at
the stranger. The tracery of masts and spars was growing clearer and the
dim figures of men were visible on her decks.

"Oh, we'll meet later," said the captain exultantly. "Don't deceive
yourself about that. There is a swift wind behind us and the speed of
both ships is increasing."

Robert looked over the side. The sea was running in white caps and above
his head the wind was whistling. The schooner rolled and his footing
grew unsteady, but it was only a fine breeze to the sailors, just what
they loved. Suddenly the captain burst into a great laugh.

"The fools! the fools!" he exclaimed. "As I live, they're pleasuring
here in the most dangerous seas in the world! Music in the moonlight!"

"What do you mean?" asked Robert, astonished.

"Just what I say! A madness hath o'ercome 'em! Take a look through the
glasses, Peter, and see a noble sight, but a strange one at such a
time."

He clapped the glasses to Robert's eyes. The other ship, suddenly came
near to them, and grew fourfold in size. Every detail of her stood out
sharp and vivid in the moonlight, a stout craft with all sails set to
catch the good wind, a fine merchantman by every token, nearing the end
of a profitable voyage. Discipline was not to say somewhat relaxed, but
at least kindly, the visible evidence of it an old sailor sitting with
his back against the mast playing vigorously upon a violin, while a
dozen other men stood around listening.

"Look at 'em, Peter. Look at 'em," laughed the captain. "It's a most
noble sight! Watch the old fellow playing the fiddle, and I'll lay my
eyes that in a half minute or so you'll have some of the sailormen
dancing."

Robert shuddered again. The glee in the slaver's voice was wicked. The
cynical jesting tone was gone and in its place was only unholy malice.
But Robert was held by the scene upon the deck of the stranger.

"Yes, two of the sailors have begun to dance," he said. "They're young
men and clasping each other about the shoulders, they're doing a
hornpipe. I can see the others clapping their hands and the old fellow
plays harder than ever."

"Ah, idyllic! Most idyllic, I vow!" exclaimed the captain. "Who would
have thought, Peter, to have beheld such a sight in these seas! 'Tis a
childhood dream come back again! 'Tis like the lads and maids sporting
on the village green! Ah, the lambs! the innocents! There is no war for
them. It does my soul good, Peter, to behold once more such innocent
trust in human nature."

The shudder, more violent than ever, swept over Robert again. He felt
that he was in the presence of something unclean, something that exhaled
the foul odor of the pit. The man had become wholly evil, and he shrank
away.

"Steady, Peter," said the slaver. "Why shouldn't you rejoice with the
happy lads on yon ship? Think of your pleasant fortune to witness such a
play in the West Indian seas, the merry sailormen dancing to the music
in the moonlight, the ship sailing on without care, and we in our
schooner bearing down on 'em to secure our rightful share in the
festival. Ah, Peter, we must go on board, you and I and Carlos and more
stout fellows and sing and dance with 'em!"

Robert drew back again. It may have been partly the effect of the
moonlight, and partly the mirror of his own mind through which he
looked, but the captain's face had become wholly that of a demon. The
close-set eyes seemed to draw closer together than ever, and they were
flashing. His hand, sinewy and strong, settled upon the butt of a pistol
in his belt, but, in a moment, he raised it again and took the glasses
from Robert. After a long look he exclaimed:

"They dream on! They fiddle and dance with their whole souls, Peter, my
lad, and such trusting natures shall be rewarded!"

Robert could see very well now without the aid of the glasses. The
sailor who sat on a coil of rope with his back against a mast, playing
the violin, was an old man, his head bare, his long white hair flying.
It was yet too far away for his face to be disclosed, but Robert knew
that his expression must be rapt, because his attitude showed that his
soul was in his music. The two young sailors, with their arms about the
shoulders of each other, were still dancing, and two more had joined
them.

The crowd of spectators had thickened. Evidently it was a ship with a
numerous crew, perhaps a rich merchantman out of Bristol or Boston. No
flag was flying over her. That, however, was not unusual in those seas,
and in times of war when a man waited to see the colors of his neighbor
before showing his own. But Robert was surprised at the laxity of
discipline on the stranger. They should be up and watching, inquiring
into the nature of the schooner that was drawing so near.

"And now, Peter," said the captain, more exultant than ever, "you shall
see an unveiling! It is not often given to a lad like you, a landsman,
to behold such a dramatic act at sea, a scene so powerful and complete
that it might have been devised by one of the great Elizabethans! Ho,
Carlos, make ready!"

He gave swift commands and the mate repeated them as swiftly to the men.
The two ships were rapidly drawing nearer, but to Robert's amazement the
festival upon the deck of the stranger did not cease. Above the creaking
of the spars the wailing strains of the violin came to him across the
waters. If they were conscious there of the presence of the schooner
they cared little about it. For the moment it occurred to Robert that it
must be the _Flying Dutchman_, or some other old phantom ship out of the
dim and legendary past.

"And now, Carlos!" exclaimed the captain in a full, triumphant voice,
"we'll wake 'em up! Break out the flag and show 'em what we are!"

A coiled piece of cloth, dark and menacing, ran up the mainmast of the
schooner, reached the top, and then burst out, streaming at full length
in the strong wind, dark as death and heavy with threat. Robert looked
up and shuddered violently. Over the schooner floated the black flag,
exultant and merciless.

The tarpaulin was lifted and the long bronze gun in the stern was
uncovered. Beside her stood the gunners, ready for action. The
boatswain's whistle blew and the dark crew stood forth, armed to the
teeth, eager for action, and spoil. Carlos, a heavy cutlass in hand,
awaited his master's orders. The captain laughed aloud.

"So you see, Peter, what we are!" he exclaimed. "And it's not too late
for you to seize a cutlass and have your share. Now, my lads, we'll
board her and take her in the good old way."

The mate shouted to the steersman, and the schooner yawed. Robert,
filled with horror, scarcely knew what he was doing; in truth, he had no
conscious will to do anything, and so he ended by doing nothing. But he
heard the fierce low words of the pirates, and he saw them leaning
forward, as if making ready to leap on the deck of the stranger and cut
down every one of her crew.

Then he looked at the other ship. The old man who had been playing the
violin suddenly dropped it and snatched up a musket from behind the coil
of rope on which he had been sitting. The dancers ceased to dance,
sprang away, and returned in an instant with muskets also. Heavy pistols
leaped from the shirts and blouses of the spectators, and up from the
inside of the ship poured a swarm of men armed to the teeth. A piece of
cloth swiftly climbed the mainmast of the stranger also, reached the
top, broke out there triumphantly, and the flag of England, over against
the black flag, blew out steady and true in the strong breeze.

"God! A sloop of war!" exclaimed the captain. "About, Carlos! Put her
about!"

But the sloop yawed quickly, her portholes opened, bronze muzzles
appeared, tampions fell away, and a tremendous voice shouted:

"Fire!"

Robert saw a sheet of flame spring from the side of the sloop, there was
a terrific crash, a dizzying column of smoke and the schooner seemed
fairly to leap from the water, as the broadside swept her decks and tore
her timbers. The surly mate was cut squarely in two by a round shot, men
screaming in rage and pain went down and the captain staggered, but
recovered himself. Then he shouted to the steersman to put the schooner
about and rushing among the sailors he ordered them to another task than
that of boarding.

"It was a trick, and it trapped us most damnably!" he cried. "A fool I
was! Fools we must all have been to have been caught by it! They lured
us on! But now, you rascals, to your work, and it's for your lives! We
escape together or we hang together!"

The night had darkened much, clouds trailing before the moon and stars,
but Robert clearly saw the slaver's face. It was transformed by chagrin
and wrath, though it expressed fierce energy, too. Blood was running
from his shoulder down his left arm, but drawing his sword he fairly
herded the men to the sails; that is, to those that were left. The
helmsman put the shattered schooner about and she drove rapidly on a new
course. But the sloop of war, tacking, let go her other broadside.

Robert anticipated the second discharge, and by impulse rather than
reason threw himself flat upon the deck, where he heard the heavy shot
whistling over his head and the cries of those who were struck down.
Spars and rigging, too, came clattering to the deck, but the masts stood
and the schooner, though hit hard, still made way.

"Steady! Keep her steady, my boys!" shouted the captain. "We've still a
clean pair of heels, and with a little luck we'll lose the sloop in the
darkness!"

He was a superb seaman and the rising wind helped him. The wounded
schooner had gained so much that the third broadside did but little
damage and killed only one man. Robert stood up again and looked back at
the pursuing vessel, her decks covered with men in uniform, the gunners
loading rapidly while over the sloop the flag of England that was then
the flag of his own country too, streamed straight out in the wind,
proud and defiant.

He felt a throb of intense, overwhelming pride. The black flag had been
overmatched by the good flag. In the last resort, those who lived right
had proved themselves more than equal to those who lived wrong. Law and
order were superior to piracy and chaos. Forgetful of his own safety, he
hoped that the sloop would overtake the schooner, and obeying his
impulse he uttered a shout of triumph. The captain turned upon him
fiercely.

"You cheer the wrong ship," he said. "If they overtake us, you being
with us, I'll swear that you were one of the hardiest men in my crew!"

Robert laughed, he could not help it, though the act was more or less
hysterical, and replied:

"I'll chance it! But, Captain, didn't you have the surprise of your
whole life, and you so cunning, too!"

The man raised his cutlass, but dropped it quickly.

"Don't try me that way again," he said. "It was my impulse to cut you
down, and the next time I'd do it. But you're right. It was a surprise,
though we'll escape 'em yet, and we'll let 'em know we're not just a
hunted rabbit, either!"

The Long Tom in the stern of the schooner opened fire. The first shot
splashed to the right of the sloop, and the second to the left, but the
third struck on board, and two men were seen to go down. The captain
laughed.

"That's a taste of their own medicine," he said.

A big gun on the sloop thundered, and a round shot cut away one of the
schooner's spars. Another flashed and a load of grape hissed over the
decks. Two men were killed and three more wounded. The captain shouted
in anger and made the others crack on all the sail they could. She was a
staunch schooner, and though hurt grievously she still made speed.
Swifter than the sloop, despite her injuries, she gradually widened the
gap between them, while the wind rose fast, and the trailing blackness
spread over the sea.

Although still close at hand, the outline of the pursuing sloop became
dim. Robert was no longer able to trace the human figures on her deck,
but the banner of law and right flying from her topmast yet showed in
the dusk. Forgetful as before of his own danger, he began to have a fear
that the pirate would escape. Under his breath he entreated the avenging
sloop to come on, to sail faster and faster, he begged her gunners to
aim aright despite the darkness, to rake the decks of the schooner with
grape and to send the heavy round shot into her vitals.

The sloop kept up a continuous fire with her bow guns. The heavy reports
crashed through the darkness, the sounds rolling sullenly away, and not
every shot went wild. There was a tearing of sails, a splintering of
spars, a shattering of wood, and now and then the fall of a man. Under
the insistent and continuous urgence of the captain the men on the
schooner replied with the Long Tom in her stern, and, when one of the
shots swept the deck of the sloop, the fierce, dark sailors shouted in
joy. Robert saw with a sinking of the heart that the gap between the two
vessels was still widening, while almost the last star was gone from the
heavens, and it was now so dark that everything was hidden a few hundred
yards away.

"We'll lose her! We'll lose her yet!" cried the captain. "Winds and the
night fight for us. See you, Peter, we must be the chosen children of
fortune, for this can hardly be chance!"

Robert said nothing, because it seemed for the time at least that the
captain's words were true. A sudden and tremendous gust of wind caught
the schooner and drove her on, ragged and smashed though she was, at
increased speed, while the same narrow belt of wind seemed to miss the
sloop. The result was apparent at once. The gap between them became a
gulf. The flag flying so proudly on the topmast of the sloop was gone in
the dusk. Her spars and sails faded away, she showed only a dim, low
hulk on the water from which her guns flashed.

The schooner tacked again. A new bank of blackness poured down over the
sea, and the sloop was gone.

"It was a trap and we sailed straight into it," exclaimed the captain,
"but it couldn't hold us. We've escaped!"

He spoke the truth. They drove steadily on a long time, and saw no more
of the sloop of war.




CHAPTER VI

THE ISLAND


Robert came out of his benumbed state. It had all seemed a fantastic
dream, but he had only to look around him to know that it was reality.
Three or four battle lanterns were shining and they threw a ghostly
light over the deck of the schooner, which was littered with spars and
sails, and the bodies of men who had fallen before the fire of the
sloop. Streams of blood flowed everywhere. He sickened and shuddered
again and again.

The captain, a savage figure, stained with blood, showed ruthless
energy. Driving the men who remained unwounded, he compelled them to cut
away the wreckage and to throw the dead overboard. Garrulous, possessed
by some demon, he boasted to them of many prizes they would yet take,
and he pointed to the black flag which still floated overhead, unharmed
through all the battle. He boasted of it as a good omen and succeeded in
infusing into them some of his own spirit.

Robert was still unnoticed and at first he wandered about his strait
territory. Then he lent a helping hand with the wreckage. His own life
was at stake as well as theirs, and whether they wished it or not he
could not continue to stand by an idler. Circumstance and the sea forced
him into comradeship with men of evil, and as long as it lasted he must
make the best of it. So he fell to with such a will that it drew the
attention of the captain.

"Good boy, Peter!" he cried. "You'll be one of us yet in spite of
yourself! Our good fortune is yours, too! You as well as we have escaped
a merry hanging! I'll warrant you that the feel of the rope around the
neck is not pleasant, and it's well to keep one's head out of the noose,
eh, Peter?"

Robert did not answer, but tugged at a rope that two other men were
trying to reeve. He knew now that while they had escaped the sloop of
war their danger was yet great and imminent. The wind was still rising,
and now it was a howling gale. The schooner had been raked heavily. Most
of her rigging was gone, huge holes had been smashed in her hull, half
of her crew had been killed and half of the rest were wounded, there
were not enough men to work her even were she whole and the weather the
best. As the crest of every wave passed she wallowed in the trough of
the sea, and shipped water steadily. The exultant look passed from the
captain's eyes.

"I'm afraid you're a lad of ill omen, Peter," he said to Robert. "I had
you on board another ship once and she went to pieces. It looks now as
if my good schooner were headed the same way."

A dark sailor standing near heard him, and nodded in approval, but
Robert said:

"Blame the sloop of war, not me. You would lay her aboard, and see what
has happened!"

The captain frowned and turned away. For a long time he paid no further
attention to Robert, all his skill and energy concentrated upon the
effort to save his ship. But it became evident even to Robert's
inexperienced eye that the schooner was stricken mortally. The guns of
the sloop had not raked and slashed her in vain. A pirate she had been,
but a pirate she would be no more. She rolled more heavily all the time,
and Robert noticed that she was deeper in the water. Beyond a doubt she
was leaking fast.

The captain conferred with the second mate, a tall, thin man whom he
called Stubbs. Then the two, standing together near the mast, watched
the ship for a while and Robert, a little distance away, watched them.
He was now keenly alive to his own fate. Young and vital, he did not
want to die. He had never known a time when he was more anxious to live.
He was not going to be sold into slavery on a West India plantation.
Fortune had saved him from that fate, and it might save him from new
perils. In a storm on a sinking vessel he was nevertheless instinct with
hope. Somewhere beyond the clouds Tayoga's Tododaho on his great star
was watching him. The captain spoke to him presently.

"Peter," he said, "I think it will be necessary for us to leave the ship
soon. That cursed sloop has done for the staunchest schooner that ever
sailed these seas. I left you on board a sinking vessel the other time,
but as it seemed to bring you good luck then, I won't do it now.
Besides, I'm tempted to keep you with me. You bore yourself bravely
during the battle. I will say that for you."

"Thanks for taking me, and for the compliment, too," said Robert. "I've
no mind to be left here alone in the middle of the ocean on a sinking
ship."

"'Tis no pleasant prospect, nor have we an easy path before us in the
boats, either. On the whole, the chances are against us. There's land
not far away to starboard, but whether we'll make it in so rough a sea
is another matter. Are you handy with an oar?"

"Fairly so. I've had experience on lakes and rivers, but none on the
sea."

"'Twill serve. We'll launch three boats. Hooker, the boatswain, takes
one, Stubbs has the other, and I command the last. You go with me."

"It would have been my choice."

"I'm flattered, Peter. I may get a chance yet to sell you to one of the
plantations."

"I think not, Captain. The stars in their courses have said 'no.'"

"Come! Come! Don't be Biblical here."

"The truth is the truth anywhere. But I'm glad enough to go with you."

One of the boats was launched with great difficulty, and the boatswain,
Hooker, and six men, two of whom were wounded, were lowered into it. It
capsized almost immediately, and all on board were lost. Those destined
for the other two boats hung back a while, but it became increasingly
necessary for them to make the trial, no matter what the risk. The
schooner rolled and pitched terribly, and a sailor, sent to see,
reported that the water was rising in her steadily.

The captain showed himself a true seaman and leader. He had been wounded
in the shoulder, but the hurt had been bound up hastily and he saw to
everything. Each of the boats contained kegs of water, arms, ammunition
and food. A second was launched and Stubbs and his crew were lowered
into it. A great wave caught it and carried it upon its crest, and
Robert, watching, expected to see it turn over like the first, but the
mate and the crew managed to restore the balance, and they disappeared
in the darkness, still afloat.

"There, lads," exclaimed the captain, "you see it can be done. Now we'll
go too, and the day will soon come when we'll have a new ship, and then,
ho! once more for the rover's free and gorgeous life!"

The unwounded men raised a faint cheer. The long boat was launched with
infinite care, and Robert lent a hand. The pressure of circumstances
made his feeling of comradeship with these men return. For the time at
least his life was bound up with theirs. Two wounded sailors were
lowered first into the boat.

"Now, Peter, you go," said the captain. "As I told you, I may have a
chance yet to sell you to a plantation, and I must preserve my
property."

Robert slid down the rope. The captain and the others followed, and they
cast loose. They were eight in the boat, three of whom were wounded,
though not badly. The lad looked back at the schooner. He saw a dim
hulk, with the black flag still floating over it, and then she passed
from sight in the darkness and driving storm.

He took up an oar, resolved to do his best in the common struggle for
life, and with the others fought the sea for a long time. The captain
set their course south by west, apparently for some island of which he
knew, and meanwhile the men strove not so much to make distance as to
keep the boat right side up. Often Robert thought they were gone. They
rode dizzily upon high waves, and they sloped at appalling angles, but
always they righted and kept afloat. The water sprayed them continuously
and the wind made it sting like small shot, but that was a trifle to men
in their situation who were straining merely to keep the breath in their
bodies.

After a while--Robert had no idea how long the time had been--the
violence of the wind seemed to abate somewhat, and their immense peril
of sinking decreased. Robert sought an easier position at the oar, and
tried to see something reassuring, but it was still almost as dark as
pitch, and there was only the black and terrible sea around them. But
the captain seemed cheerful.

"We'll make it, lads, before morning," he said. "The storm is sinking,
as you can see, and the island is there waiting for us."

In another hour the sea became so much calmer that there was no longer
any danger of the boat overturning. Half of the men who had been rowing
rested an hour, and then the other half took their turn. Robert was in
the second relay, and when he put down his oar he realized for the first
time that his hands were sore and his bones aching.

"You've done well, Peter," said the captain. "You've become one of us,
whether or no, and we'll make you an honored inhabitant of our island
when we come to it."

Robert said nothing, but lay back, drawing long breaths of relief. The
danger of death by drowning had passed for the moment and he had a sense
of triumph over nature. Despite his weariness and soreness, he was as
anxious as ever to live, and he began to wonder about this island of
which the captain spoke. It must be tropical, and hence in his
imagination beautiful, but by whom was it peopled? He did not doubt that
they would reach it, and that he, as usual, would escape all perils.

Always invincible, his greatest characteristic was flaming up within
him. He seemed to have won, in a way, the regard of the captain, and he
did not fear the men. They would be castaways together, and on the land
opportunities to escape would come. On the whole he preferred the
hazards of the land to those of the sea. He knew better how to deal with
them. He was more at home in the wilderness than on salt water. Yet a
brave heart was alike in either place.

"We'd better take it very easy, lads," said the captain. "Not much
rowing now, and save our strength for the later hours of the night."

"Why?" asked Robert.

"Because the storm, although it has gone, is still hanging about in the
south and may conclude to come back, assailing us again. A shift in the
wind is going on now, and if it hit us before we reached the island,
finding us worn out, we might go down before it."

It was a good enough reason and bye and bye only two men kept at the
oars, the rest lying on the bottom of the boat or falling asleep in
their seats. The captain kept a sharp watch for the other boat, which
had gone away in the dark, but beheld no sign of it, although the moon
and stars were now out, and they could see a long distance.

"Stubbs knows where the island is," said the captain, "and if they've
lived they'll make for it. We can't turn aside to search all over the
sea for 'em."

Robert after a while fell asleep also in his seat, and despite his
extraordinary situation slept soundly, though it was rather an
unconsciousness that came from extreme exhaustion, both bodily and
mental. He awoke some time later to find that the darkness had come back
and that the wind was rising again.

"You can take a hand at the oar once more, Peter," said the captain. "I
let you sleep because I knew that it would refresh you and we need the
strength of everybody. The storm, as I predicted, is returning, not as
strong as it was at first, perhaps, but strong enough."

He wakened the other men who were sleeping, and all took to the oars.
The waves were running high, and the boat began to ship water. Several
of the men, under instructions from the captain, dropped their oars and
bailed it out with their caps or one or two small tin vessels that they
had stored aboard.

"Luckily the wind is blowing in the right direction," said the captain.
"It comes out of the northeast, and that carries us toward the island.
Now, lads, all we have to do is to keep the boat steady, and not let it
ship too much water. The wind itself will carry us on our way."

But the wind rose yet more, and it required intense labor and vigilance
to fight the waves that threatened every moment to sink their craft.
Robert pulled on the oar until his arms ached. Everybody toiled except
the captain, who directed, and Robert saw that he had all the qualities
to make him a leader of slavers or pirates. In extreme danger he was the
boldest and most confident of them all, and he stood by his men. They
could see that he would not desert them, that their fortune was his
fortune. He was wounded, Robert did not yet know how badly, but he never
yielded to his hurt. He was a figure of strength in the boat, and the
men drew courage from him to struggle for life against the overmastering
sea. Somehow, for the time at least, Robert looked upon him as his own
leader, obeying his commands, willingly and without question.

He was drenched anew with the salt water, but as they were in warm seas
he never thought of it. Now and then he rested from his oar and helped
bail the water from the boat.

A pale dawn showed at last through the driving clouds, but it was not
encouraging. The sea was running higher than ever, and there was no sign
of land. One of the men, much worse wounded than they had thought, lay
down in the bottom of the boat and died. They tossed his body
unceremoniously overboard. Robert knew that it was necessary, but it
horrified him just the same. Another man, made light of head by dangers
and excessive hardships, insisted that there was no island, that either
they would be drowned or would drift on in the boat until they died of
thirst and starvation. The captain drew a pistol and looking him
straight in the eye said:

"Another word of that kind from you, Waters, and you'll eat lead. You
know me well enough to know that I keep my word."

The man cowered away and Robert saw that it was no vain threat. Waters
devoted his whole attention to an oar, and did not speak again.

"We'll strike the island in two or three hours," the captain said with
great confidence.

The dawn continued to struggle with the stormy sky, but its progress was
not promising. It was only a sullen gray dome over a gray and ghastly
sea, depressing to the last degree to men worn as they were. But in
about two hours the captain, using glasses that he had taken from his
coat, raised the cry:

"Land ho!"

He kept the glasses to his eyes a full two minutes, and when he took
them down he repeated with certainty:

"Land ho! I can see it distinctly there under the horizon in the west,
and it's the island we've been making for. Now, lads, keep her steady
and we'll be there in an hour."

All the men were vitalized into new life, but the storm rose at the same
time, and spray and foam dashed over them. All but two or three were
compelled to work hard, keeping the water out of the boat, while the
others steadied her with the oars. Robert saw the captain's face grow
anxious, and he began to wonder if they would reach the island in time.
He wondered also how they would land in case they reached it, as he knew
from his reading and travelers' tales that most of the little islands in
these warm seas were surrounded by reefs.

The wind drove them on and the island rose out of the ocean, a dark, low
line, just a blur, but surely land, and the drooping men plucked up
their spirits.

"We'll make it, lads! Don't be down-hearted!" cried the captain. "Keep
the boat above water a half hour longer, and we'll tread the soil of
mother earth again! Well done, Peter! You handle a good oar! You're the
youngest in the boat, but you've set an example for the others! There's
good stuff in you, Peter."

Robert, to his own surprise, found his spirit responding to this man's
praise, slaver and pirate though he was, and he threw more strength into
his swing. Soon they drew near to the island, and he heard such a
roaring of the surf that he shuddered. He saw an unbroken line of white
and he knew that behind it lay the cruel teeth of the rocks, ready to
crunch any boat that came. Every one looked anxiously at the captain.

"There's a rift in the rocks to the right," he said, "and when we pass
through it we'll find calm water inside. Now, lads, all of you to the
oars and take heed that you do as I say on the instant or we'll be on
the reef!"

They swung to the right, and so powerful were wind and wave that it
seemed to Robert they fairly flew toward the island. The roaring of the
surf grew and the long white line rose before them like a wall. He saw
no opening, but the captain showed no signs of fear and gave quick,
sharp commands. The boat drove with increased speed toward the island,
rising on the crests of great waves, then sinking with sickening speed
into the trough of the sea, to rise dizzily on another wave. Robert saw
the rocks, black, sharp and cruel, reaching out their long, savage
teeth, and the roar of wind and surf together was now so loud that he
could no longer hear the captain's commands. He was conscious that the
boat was nearly full of water, and when he was not blinded by the flying
surf he saw looks of despair on the faces of the men.

An opening in the line of reefs disclosed itself, and the boat shot
toward it. He heard the captain shout, but did not understand what he
said, then they were wrenched violently to the left by a powerful
current. He saw the black rocks frowning directly over him, and felt the
boat scrape against them. The whole side of it was cut away, and they
were all hurled into the sea.

Robert was not conscious of what he did. He acted wholly from impulse
and the instinctive love of life that is in every one. He felt the water
pour over him, and fill eye, ear and nostril, but he was not hurled
against rock. He struck out violently, but was borne swiftly away, not
knowing in which direction he was taken.

He became conscious presently that the force driving him on was not so
great and he cleared the water from his eyes enough to see that he had
been carried through the opening and toward a sandy beach. His mind
became active and strong in an instant. Chance had brought him life, if
he only had the presence of mind to take it. He struck out for the land
with all his vigor, hoping to reach it before he could be carried back
by a returning wave.

The wave caught him, but it was not as powerful as he had feared, and,
when he had yielded a little, he was able to go forward again. Then he
saw a head bobbing upon the crest of the next retreating wave and being
carried out to sea. It was the captain, and reaching out a strong arm
Robert seized him. The shock caused him to thrust down his feet, and to
his surprise he touched bottom. Grasping the captain with both hands he
dragged him with all his might and ran inland.

It was partly an instinctive impulse to save and partly genuine feeling
that caused him to seize the slaver when he was being swept helpless out
to sea. The man, even though in a malicious, jeering way, had done him
some kindnesses on the schooner and in the boat, and he could not see
him drown before his eyes. So he settled his grasp upon his collar, held
his head above the water and strove with all his might to get beyond the
reach of the cruel sea. Had he been alone he could have reached the land
with ease, but the slaver pulled upon him almost a dead weight.

Another returning wave caught him and made him stagger, but he settled
his feet firmly in the sand, held on to the unconscious man, and when it
had passed made a great effort to get beyond the reach of any other. He
was forced half to lift, half to drag the slaver's body, but he caught
the crest of the next incoming wave, one of unusual height and strength,
and the two were carried far up the beach. When it died in foam and
spray he lifted the man wholly and ran until he fell exhausted on the
sand. When another wave roared inland it did not reach him, and no
others came near. As if knowing they were baffled, they gave up a
useless pursuit.

Robert lay a full half hour, supine, completely relaxed, only half
conscious. Yet he was devoutly thankful. The precious gift of life had
been saved, the life that was so young, so strong and so buoyant in him.
The sea, immense, immeasurable and savage might leap for him, but it
could no longer reach him. He was aware of that emotion, and he was
thankful too that an Infinite Hand had been stretched out to save him in
his moment of direst peril.

He came out of his cataleptic state, which was both a mental and
physical effect, and stood up. The air was still dim with heavy clouds
and the wind continuously whistled its anger. He noticed for the first
time that it was raining, but it was a trifle to him, as he had already
been thoroughly soaked by the sea.

The sea itself was as wild as ever. Wave after wave roared upon the land
to break there, and then rush back in masses of foam. As far as Robert
could see the surface of the water, lashed by the storm, was wild and
desolate to the last degree. It was almost as if he had been cast away
on another planet. A feeling of irrepressible, awful loneliness
overpowered him.

"Well, Peter, we're here."

It was a feeble voice, but it was a human one, the voice of one of his
own kind, and, in that dreary wilderness of the ocean, it gave welcome
relief as it struck upon his ear. He looked down. The slaver, returned
to consciousness, had drawn himself into a sitting position and was
looking out at the gray waters.

"I've a notion, Peter," he said, "that you've saved my life. The last I
remember was being engulfed in a very large and very angry ocean. It was
kind of you, Peter, after I kidnapped you away from your friends,
meaning to sell you into slavery on a West India plantation."

"I couldn't let you drown before my eyes."

"Most men in your place would have let me go, and even would have helped
me along."

"Perhaps I felt the need of company. 'Twould have been terrible to be
alone here."

"There may be something in that. But at any rate, you saved me. I'm
thinking that you and I are all that's left. I was a fool, Peter, ever
to have mixed in your business. I can see it now. When I carried you
away from New York I lost my ship. I kidnap you away again from Albany,
and I lose my ship and all my crew. I would have lost my own life, too,
if it had not been for you. It was never intended by the fates that I
should have been successful in my attempts on you. The first time should
have been enough. That was a warning. Well, I've paid the price of my
folly. All fools do."

He tried to stand up, but fresh blood came from his shoulder and he
quickly sat down again. It was obvious that he was very weak.

"I'll do the best I can for us both," said Robert, "but I don't know the
nature of this land upon which we're cast. I suppose it's an island, of
course. I can see trees inland, but that's all I can discover at
present."

"I know a deal more," said the slaver. "That's why I had the boat
steered for this point, hoping to make the little bay into which the
opening through the reefs leads. It's an island, as you say, seven or
eight miles long, half as broad and covered thickly with trees and
brush. There's a hut about half a mile inland, and if you help me there
we'll both find shelter. I'll show the way. As trying too steadily to do
you evil brought me bad luck I'll now try to do you good. You can put it
down to logic, and not to any sudden piety in me."

Yet Robert in his heart did not ascribe it wholly to logic. He was
willing to believe in a kindly impulse or two in everybody, there was a
little good hidden somewhere deep down even in Tandakora, though it
might have to struggle uncommonly hard for expression. He promptly put
his arm under the man's and helped him to his feet.

"Give me the direction," he said, "and I'll see that we reach the hut."

"Bear toward the high hill ahead and to the right. And between you and
me, Peter, I'm glad it's inland. I've had enough of the sea for a while
and I don't want to look at it. How is it behaving now?"

Robert, looking back, saw a great wave rushing upon the beach as if it
thought it could overtake them, and it gave him an actual thrill of
delight to know the effort would be in vain.

"It's as wild, as desolate and as angry as ever," he said, "and we're
well away from it for the present."

"Then go on. I fear I shall have to lean upon you rather hard. A bit of
grape shot from that cursed sloop has bitten pretty deep into my
shoulder. I've been doubly a fool, Peter, in kidnapping you a second
time after the first warning, and in allowing myself to be tolled up
under the broadside of that sloop. It's the last that hurts me most. I
behaved like any youngster on his first cruise."

Robert said nothing, but did his best to support the wounded man, who
was now bearing upon him very heavily. His own strength was largely
factitious, coming from the hope that they would soon find shelter and a
real place in which to rest, but such as it was it was sufficient for
the time being.

He did not look back again. Like the slaver, he wanted to shut out the
sea for the present. It was a raging, cruel element, and he felt better
with it unseen. But he became conscious, instead, of the rain which was
driving hard. He suddenly realized that he was cold, and he shivered so
violently that the slaver noticed it.

"Never mind, Peter," he said. "We're going to a palace, or at least
'twill seem a palace by power of contrast. There you'll be snug and
warm."

"And you can bind up your wound again and get back your strength."

"Aye, we can bind it up again, but it's not so sure about my getting
back my strength. I tell you again, lad, that the grape bit deep. It
hurts me all the time to think I was lured under those guns by a silly
old fiddler and a couple of silly sailors dancing to his silly tune.
You're a good lad, Peter, I give you credit for it, and since, beside
myself, only one on board the schooner was saved, I'm glad it was you
and not a member of the crew."

"We don't know that others were not saved. We haven't had time yet to
see."

"I know they weren't. It's only a miracle that we two came through the
reefs. Miracles may happen, Peter, but they don't happen often. Nobody
else will appear on the island. Keep steering for the hill. I'll be glad
when we get there, because, between you and me, Peter, it will be just
about as far as I can go and I'll need a long, long rest."

He bore so heavily upon Robert now that their progress was very slow,
and the lad himself began to grow weak. It was impossible for any one,
no matter how hardy of body and soul, to endure long, after going
through what he had suffered. He too staggered.

"I'm leaning hard on you, Peter," said the slaver. "I know it, but I
can't help it. What a difference a whiff of grapeshot makes!"

Robert steadied himself, made a mighty effort, and they went on. The
wind shifted now and the rain drove directly in his face. It was cold to
him, but it seemed to whip a little increase of vigor and strength into
his blood, and he was able to go somewhat faster. As he pulled along
with his burden he looked curiously at the region through which he was
traveling. The ground was rough, often with layers of coral, and he saw
on all sides of him dense groves of bushes, among which he recognized
the banana by the fruit. It gave him a thrill of relief. At all events
here was food of a kind, and they would not starve to death. It was the
first time he had thought of food. Hitherto he had been occupied wholly
with the struggle for immediate life.

A belt of tall trees shut out the hill toward which he had been
steering, and he was uncertain. But the man gave him guidance.

"More to the right, Peter," he said. "I won't let you go astray, and
it's full lucky for us both that I know this island."

A half hour of painful struggle and Robert saw the dark shape of a small
house in the lee of a hill.

"It's the hut, Peter," said the slaver, "and you've done well to bring
us here. You're not only a good lad, but you're strong and brave, too.
You needn't knock at the door. No one will answer. Push it open and
enter. It really belongs to me."

Robert obeyed while the man steadied himself sufficiently to stand
alone. He thrust his hand against the door, which swung inward,
revealing a dark interior. A musty odor entered his nostrils, but the
hut, whatever its character, was dry. That was evident, and so it was
welcome. He went in, helping the wounded man along with him, and
standing there a moment or two everything became clear.

It was more than a hut. He was in a room of some size, containing
articles of furniture, obviously brought across the sea, and clothing
hanging from the wall on hooks. A couch was beside one wall, and two
doors seemed to lead to larger chambers or to small closets. The captain
staggered across the room and lay down on the couch.

"Well, how do you like it, Peter?" he asked. "'Twill serve in a storm,
will it not?"

"It will serve grandly," replied Robert. "How does it come to be here?"

"I had it built. The islands all the way from the Bahamas to South
America and the waters around them are the great hunting ground for
people in my trade, and naturally we need places of refuge, secluded
little harbors, so to speak, where we can commune with ourselves and
refresh our minds and bodies. Even rovers must have periods of
relaxation, and you'll find a lot of such places scattered about the
islands, or, rather, you won't find 'em because they're too well hidden.
I had this built myself, but I never dreamed that I should come back to
it in the way I have."

"It's a palace just now," said Robert, "yes, it's more than a palace,
it's a home. I see clothing here on the wall, and, by your leave, I'll
change you and then myself into some of those dry garments."

"You're lord of the manor, Peter, by right of strength. I'm in no
condition to resist you, even had I the wish, which I haven't."

Assisted by the man himself, he removed the captain's garments and put
him in dry clothing, first looking at the wound in his shoulder, which
his experience told him was very serious. The piece of grapeshot had
gone entirely through, but the loss of blood had been large, and there
was inflammation.

"I must bathe that with fresh water a little later and devise some kind
of dressing," said Robert. "I've had much experience in the wilderness
with wounds."

"You're a good lad, Peter," said the slaver. "I've told you that before,
but I repeat it now."

Robert then arrayed himself in dry garments. He was strangely and
wonderfully attired in a shirt of fine linen with lace ruffles, a short,
embroidered jacket of purple velvet, purple velvet knee-breeches, silk
stockings and pumps, or low shoes, with large silver buckles. It was
very gorgeous, and, just then, very comfortable.

"You look the dandy to the full, Peter," said the slaver. "The clothes
have hung here more than a year. They came from a young Spaniard who had
the misfortune to resist too much when we took the ship that carried
him. They've come to a good use again."

Robert shuddered, but in a moment or two he forgot the origin of his new
raiment. He had become too much inured to deadly peril to be excessively
fastidious. Besides, he was feeling far better. Warmth returned to his
body and the beat of the rain outside the house increased the comfort
within.

"I think, Peter," said the slaver, "that you'd better go to sleep.
You've been through a lot, and you don't realize how near exhaustion you
are."

Without giving a thought to the question of food, which must present
itself before long, Robert lay down on the floor and fell almost at once
into a sound slumber.




CHAPTER VII

THE PIRATE'S WARNING


When the lad awoke it was quite dark in the house, but there was no
sound of rain. He went to the door and looked out upon a fairly clear
night. The storm was gone and he heard only a light wind rustling
through palms. There was no thunder of beating surf in the distance. It
was a quiet sky and a quiet island.

He went back and looked at the slaver. The man was asleep on his couch,
but he was stirring a little, and he was hot with fever. Robert felt
pity for him, cruel and blood-stained though he knew him to be. Besides,
he was the only human companion he had, and he did not wish to be left
alone there. But he did not know what to do just then, and, lying down
on the floor, he went to sleep again.

When he awoke the second time day had come, and the slaver too was
awake, though looking very weak.

"I've been watching you quite a while, Peter," he said. "You must have
slept fifteen or sixteen hours. Youth has a wonderful capacity for
slumber and restoration. I dare say you're now as good as ever, and
wondering where you'll find your breakfast. Well, when I built this
house I didn't neglect the plenishings of it. Open the door next to you
and you'll find boucan inside. 'Boucan,' as you doubtless know, is dried
beef, and from it we got our name the buccaneers, because in the
beginning we lived so much upon dried beef. Enough is in that closet to
last us a month, and there are herds of wild cattle on the island, an
inexhaustible larder."

"But we can't catch wild cattle with our hands," said Robert.

The slaver laughed.

"You don't think, Peter," he said, "that when I built a house here and
furnished it I neglected some of the most necessary articles. In the
other closet you'll find weapons and ammunition. But deal first with the
boucan."

Robert opened the closet and found the boucan packed away in sheets or
layers on shelves, and at once he became ravenously hungry.

"On a lower shelf," said the slaver, "you'll find flint and steel, and
with them it shouldn't be hard for a wilderness lad like you to start a
fire. There are also kettles, skillets and pans, and I think you know
how to do the rest."

Robert went to work on a fire. The wood, which was abundant outside, was
still damp, but he had a strong clasp knife and he whittled a pile of
dry shavings which he succeeded in igniting with the flint and steel,
though it was no light task, requiring both patience and skill. But the
fire was burning at last and he managed to make in one of the kettles
some soup of the dried beef, which he gave to the captain. The man had
no appetite, but he ate a little and declared that he felt stronger.
Then Robert broiled many strips for himself over the coals and ate
ravenously. He would have preferred a greater variety of food, but it
was better than a castaway had a right to expect.

His breakfast finished, he continued his examination of the house, which
was furnished with many things, evidently captured from ships. He found
in one of the closets a fine fowling piece, a hunting rifle, two
excellent muskets, several pistols, ammunition for all the fire-arms and
a number of edged weapons.

"You see, Peter, you're fitted for quite an active defense should
enemies come," said the slaver. "You'll admit, I think, that I've been a
good housekeeper."

"Good enough," said Peter. "Are there any medicines?"

"You'll find some salves and ointments on the top shelf in the second
closet, and you can make a poultice for this hurt of mine. Between you
and me, Peter, I've less pain, but much more weakness, which is a bad
sign."

"Oh, you'll be well in a few days," said Robert cheerfully. "One wound
won't carry off a man as strong as you are."

"One wound always suffices, provided it goes in deep enough, but I thank
you for your rosy predictions, Peter. I think your good wishes are
genuinely sincere."

Robert realized that they were so, in truth. In addition to the call of
humanity, he had an intense horror of being left alone on the island,
and he would fight hard to save the slaver's life. He compounded the
poultice with no mean skill, and, after bathing the wound carefully with
fresh water from a little spring behind the hut, he applied it.

"It's cooling, Peter, and I know it's healing, too," said the man, "but
I think I'll try to go to sleep again. As long as I'm fastened to a
couch that's about the only way I can pass the time. Little did I think
when I built this house that I'd come here without a ship and without a
crew to pass some helpless days."

He shut his eyes. After a while, Robert, not knowing whether he was
asleep or not, took down the rifle, loaded it, and went out feeling that
it was high time he should explore his new domain.

In the sunlight the island did not look forbidding. On the contrary, it
was beautiful. From the crest of the hill near the house he saw a
considerable expanse, but the western half of the island was cut off
from view by a higher range of hills. It was all in dark green foliage,
although he caught the sheen of a little lake about two miles away. As
far as he could see a line of reefs stretched around the coast, and the
white surf was breaking on them freely.

From the hill he went back to the point at which he and the captain had
been swept ashore, and, as he searched along the beach he found the
bodies of all those who had been in the boat with them. He had been
quite sure that none of them could possibly have escaped, but it gave
him a shock nevertheless to secure the absolute proof that they were
dead. He resolved if he could find a way to bury them in the sand beyond
the reach of the waves, but, for the present, he could do nothing, and
he continued along the shore several miles, finding its character
everywhere the same, a gentle slope, a stretch of water, and beyond that
the line of reefs on which the white surf was continually breaking,
reefs with terrible teeth as he well knew.

But it was all very peaceful now. The sea stretched away into infinity
the bluest of the blue, and a breeze both warm and stimulating came out
of the west. Robert, however, looked mostly toward the north. Albany and
his friends now seemed a world away. He had been wrenched out of his old
life by a sudden and unimaginable catastrophe. What were Tayoga and
Willet doing now? How was the war going? For him so far as real life was
concerned the war simply did not exist. He was on a lost island with
only a wounded man for company and the struggle to survive and escape
would consume all his energies.

Presently he came to what was left of their boat. It was smashed badly
and half buried in the sand. At first he thought he might be able to use
it again, but a critical examination showed that it was damaged beyond
any power of his to repair it, and with a sigh he abandoned the thought
of escape that way.

He continued his explorations toward the south, and saw groves of wild
banana, the bushes or shrubs fifteen or twenty feet high, some of them
with ripe fruit hanging from them. He ate one and found it good, though
he was glad to know that he would not have to depend upon bananas wholly
for food.

A mile to the south and he turned inland, crossing a range of low hills,
covered with dense vegetation. As he passed among the bushes he kept his
rifle ready, not knowing whether or not dangerous wild animals were to
be found there. He had an idea they were lacking in both the Bahamas and
the West Indies, but not being sure, he meant to be on his guard.

Before he reached the bottom of the slope he heard a puff, and then the
sound of heavy feet. All his wilderness caution was alive in a moment,
and, drawing back, he cocked the rifle. Then he crept forward, conscious
that some large wild beast was near. A few steps more and he realized
that there were more than one. He heard several puffs and the heavy feet
seemed to be moving about in an aimless fashion.

He came to the edge of the bushes, and, parting them, he looked
cautiously from their cover. Then his apprehensions disappeared. Before
him stretched a wide, grassy savanna and upon it was grazing a herd of
wild cattle, at least fifty in number, stocky beasts with long horns.
Robert looked at them with satisfaction. Here was enough food on the
hoof to last him for years. They might be tough, but he had experience
enough to make them tender when it came to fire and the spit.

"Graze on in peace until I need you," he said, and crossing the savanna
he found beyond, hidden at first from view by a fringe of forest, the
lake that he had seen from the crest of the hill beside the house. It
covered about half a square mile and was blue and deep. He surmised that
it contained fish good to eat, but, for the present he was content to
let them remain in the water. They, like the wild cattle, could wait.

Feeling that he had been gone long enough, he went back to the house and
found the slaver asleep or in a stupor, and, when he looked at him
closely, he was convinced that it was more stupor than sleep. He was
very pale and much wasted. It occurred suddenly to Robert that the man
would die and the thought gave him a great shock. Then, in very truth,
he would be alone. He sat by him and watched anxiously, but the slaver
did not come back to the world for a full two hours.

"Aye, Peter, you're there," he said. "As I've told you several times,
you're a good lad."

"Can I make you some more of the beef broth?" asked Robert.

"I can take a little I think, though I've no appetite at all."

"And I'd like to dress your wound again."

"If it's any relief to you, Peter, to do so, go ahead, though I think
'tis of little use."

"It will help a great deal. You'll be well again in a week or two. It
isn't so bad here. With a good house and food it's just the place for a
wounded man."

"Plenty of quiet, eh Peter? No people to disturb me in my period of
convalescence."

"Well, that's a help."

Robert dressed the wound afresh, but he noticed during his ministrations
that the slaver's weakness had increased, and his heart sank. It was a
singular fact, but he began to feel a sort of attachment for the man who
had done him so much ill. They had been comrades in a great hazard, and
were yet. Moreover, the fear of being left alone in a tremendous
solitude was recurrent and keen. These motives and that of humanity made
him do his best.

"I thank you, Peter," said the wounded man. "You're standing by me in
noble fashion. On the whole, I'm lucky in being cast away with you
instead of one of my own men. But it hurts me more than my wound does to
think that I should have been tricked, that a man of experience such as
I am should have been lured under the broadside of the sloop of war by
an old fellow playing a fiddle and a couple of sailors dancing. My mind
keeps coming back to it. My brain must have gone soft for the time
being, and so I've paid the price."

Robert said nothing, but finished his surgeon's task. Then he made a
further examination of the house, finding more boucan stored in a small,
low attic, also clothing, both outer and inner garments, nautical
instruments, including a compass, a pair of glasses of power, and
bottles of medicine, the use of some of which he knew.

Then he loaded the fowling piece and went back toward the lake, hoping
he might find ducks there. Beef, whether smoked or fresh, as an
exclusive diet, would become tiresome, and since they might be in for a
long stay on the island he meant to fill their larder as best he could.
On his way he kept a sharp watch for game, but saw only a small coney, a
sort of rabbit, which he left in peace. He found at a marshy edge of the
lake a number of ducks, three of which he shot, and which he dressed and
cooked later on, finding them to be excellent.

Robert made himself a comfortable bed on the floor with blankets from
one of the closets and slept soundly through the next night. The
following morning he found the slaver weaker than ever and out of his
head at times. He made beef broth for him once more, but the man was
able to take but little.

"'Tis no use, Peter," he said in a lucid interval. "I'm sped. I think
there's no doubt of it. When that sloop of war lured us under her guns
she finished her task; she did not leave a single thing undone. My
schooner is gone, my crew is gone, and now I'm going."

"Oh, no," said Robert. "You'll be better to-morrow."

The man said nothing, but seemed to sink back into a lethargic state.
Robert tried his pulse, but could hardly feel its beat. In a half hour
he roused himself a little.

"Peter," he said. "You're a good lad. I tell you so once more. You saved
me from the sea, and you're standing by me now. I owe you for it, and I
might tell you something, now that my time's at hand. It's really come
true that when I built this house I was building the place in which I am
to die, though I didn't dream of it then."

Robert was silent, waiting to hear what he would tell him. But he closed
his eyes and did not speak for five minutes more. The lad tried his
pulse a second time. It was barely discernible. The man at length opened
his eyes and said:

"Peter, if you go back to the province of New York beware of Adrian Van
Zoon."

"Beware of Van Zoon! Why?"

"He wants to get rid of you. I was to put you out of the way for him, at
a price, and a great price, too. But it was not intended, so it seems,
that I should do so."

"Why does Adrian Van Zoon want me put out of the way?"

"That I don't know, Peter, but when you escape from the island you must
find out."

His eyelids drooped and closed once more, and when Robert felt for his
pulse a third time there was none. The slaver and pirate was gone, and
the lad was alone.

Robert felt an immense desolation. Whatever the man was he had striven
to keep him alive, and at the last the captain had shown desire to undo
some of the evil that he had done to him. And so it was Adrian Van Zoon
who wished to put him out of the way. He had suspected that before, in
fact he had been convinced of it, and now the truth of it had been told
to him by another. But, why? The mystery was as deep as ever.

Robert had buried the bodies of the sailors in the sand in graves dug
with an old bayonet that he had found in the house, and he interred the
captain in the same manner, only much deeper. Then he went back to the
house and rested a long time. The awful loneliness that he had feared
came upon him, and he wrestled with it for hours. That night it became
worse than ever, but it was so acute that it exhausted itself, and the
next morning he felt better.

Resolved not to mope, he took down the rifle, put some of the smoked
beef in his pocket, and started on a long exploration, meaning to cross
the high hills that ran down the center of the island, and see what the
other half was like.

In the brilliant sunshine his spirits took another rise. After all, he
could be much worse off. He had a good house, arms and food, and in time
a ship would come. A ship must come, and, with his usual optimism, he
was sure that it would come soon.

He passed by the lakes and noted the marshy spot where he had shot the
ducks. Others had come back and were feeding there now on the water
grasses. Doubtless they had never seen man before and did not know his
full destructiveness, but Robert resolved to have duck for his table
whenever he wanted it.

A mile or two farther and he saw another but much smaller lake, around
the edge of which duck also were feeding, showing him that the supply
was practically unlimited. Just beyond the second lake lay the range of
hills that constituted the backbone of the island, and although the sun
was hot he climbed them, their height being about a thousand feet. From
the crest he had a view of the entire island, finding the new half much
like the old, low, hilly, covered with forest, and surrounded with a
line of reefs on which the surf was breaking.

His eyes followed the long curve of the reefs, and then stopped at a
dark spot that broke their white continuity. His blood leaped and
instantly he put to his eyes the strong glasses that he had found in the
house and that fortunately he had brought with him. Here he found his
first impression to be correct. The dark spot was a ship!

But it was no longer a ship that sailed the seas. Instead it was a
wrecked and shattered ship, with her bow driven into the sand, and her
stern impaled on the sharp teeth of the breakers. Then his heart leaped
again. A second long look through the glasses told him that the lines of
the ship, bruised and battered though she was, were familiar.

It was the schooner. The storm had brought her to the island also,
though to the opposite shore, and there she lay a wreck held by the sand
and rocks. He descended the hills, and, after a long walk, reached the
beach. The schooner was not broken up as much as he had thought, and as
she could be reached easily he decided to board her.

The vessel was tipped partly over on her side, and all her spars and
sails were gone. She swayed a little with the swell, but she was held
fast by sand and rocks. Robert, laying his clothes and rifle on the
beach, waded out to her, and, without much difficulty, climbed aboard,
where he made his way cautiously over the slanting and slippery deck.

His first motive in boarding the wreck was curiosity, but it now
occurred to him that there was much treasure to be had, treasure of the
kind that was most precious to a castaway. A long stay on the island had
not entered into his calculations hitherto, but he knew now that he
might have to reckon on it, and it was well to be prepared for any
event.

He searched first the cabins of the captain and mates, taking from them
what he thought might be of use, and heaping the store upon the beach.
He soon had there a pair of fine double-barreled pistols with plenty of
ammunition to fit, another rifle, one that had been the captain's own,
with supplies of powder and ball, a half dozen blankets, a medicine
chest, well supplied, and a cutlass, which he took without any
particular thought of use.

Then he invaded the carpenter's domain, and there he helped himself very
freely, taking out two axes, two hatchets, two saws, a hammer, two
chisels, several augers, and many other tools, all of which he heaped
with great labor upon the beach.

Then he explored the cook's galley, gleaning three large bags of flour,
supplies of salt and pepper, five cured hams, four big cheeses, several
bottles of cordial and other supplies such as were carried on any
well-found ship. It required great skill and caution to get all his
treasures safely ashore, but his enthusiasm rose as he worked, and he
toiled at his task until midnight. Then he slept beside the precious
heap until the next day.

He lighted a fire with his flint and steel, which he made a point to
carry with him always, and cooked a breakfast of slices from one of the
hams. Then he planned a further attack upon the schooner, which had not
altered her position in the night.

Robert now felt like a miser who never hoards enough. Moreover, his
source of supply once gone, it was not likely that he would find
another, and there was the ship. The sea was in almost a dead calm, and
it was easier than ever to approach her. So he decided to board again
and take off more treasure.

He added to the heap upon the beach another rifle, two muskets, several
pistols, a small sword and a second cutlass, clothing, a considerable
supply of provisions and a large tarpaulin which he meant to spread over
his supplies while they lay on the sand. Then he launched a dinghy which
he found upon the ship with the oars inside.

The dinghy gave him great pleasure. He knew that it would be an arduous
task to carry all his supplies on his back across the island to the
house, and it would lighten the labor greatly to make trips around in
the boat. So he loaded into the dinghy as much of the most precious of
his belongings as he thought it would hold, and began the journey by
water that very day, leaving the rest of the goods covered with the
tarpaulin in the event of rain.

It was a long journey, and he had to be careful about the breakers, but
fortunately the sea remained calm. He was caught in currents several
times, but he came at last to the opening in the rocks through which he
and the captain had entered and he rowed in joyfully. He slept that
night in the house and started back in the morning for another load. One
trip a day in the dinghy he found to be all that he could manage, but he
stuck to his work until his precious store was brought from the beach to
the house.

He could not make up his mind even then to abandon the schooner
entirely. There might never be another magazine of supply, and he
ransacked her thoroughly, taking off more tools, weapons, clothing and
ammunition. Even then he left on board much that might be useful in case
of emergency, such as cordage, sails, and clothing that had belonged to
the sailors. There was also a large quantity of ammunition for the Long
Tom which he did not disturb. The gun itself was still on board the
ship, dismounted and wedged into the woodwork, but practically as good
as ever. Robert, with an eye for the picturesque, thought it would have
been fine to have taken it ashore and to have mounted it before the
house, but that, of course, was impossible. He must leave it to find its
grave in the ocean, and that, perhaps, was the best end to a gun used as
the Long Tom had been.

Part of his new treasures he took across the island on his back, and
part he carried around it in the boat, which he found to be invaluable,
and of which he took the utmost care, drawing it upon the beach at
night, beyond the reach of tide or storm.

More than two weeks passed in these labors, and he was so busy, mind and
body, that he was seldom lonely except at night. Then the feeling was
almost overpowering, but whenever he was assailed by it he would
resolutely tell himself that he might be in far worse case. He had
shelter, food and arms in plenty, and it would not be long before he was
taken off the island. Exerting his will so strongly, the periods of
depression became fewer and shorter.

But the silence and the utter absence of his own kind produced a marked
effect upon his character. He became graver, he thought more deeply upon
serious things than his years warranted. The problem of his own identity
was often before him. Who was he? He was sure that Benjamin Hardy knew.
Jacobus Huysman must know, too, and beyond a doubt Adrian Van Zoon did,
else he would not try so hard to put him out of the way. And St. Luc
must have something to do with this coil. Why had the Frenchman really
pointed out to him the way of escape when he was a prisoner at
Ticonderoga? He turned these questions over and over and over in his
mind, though always the answer evaded him. But he resolved to solve the
problem when he got back to the colonies and as soon as the great war
was over. It was perhaps typical of him that he should want his own
personal fortunes to wait upon the issue of the mighty struggle in which
he was so deeply absorbed.

Then his thoughts turned with renewed concentration to the war. Standing
far off in both mind and body, he was able to contemplate it as a whole
and also to see it in all its parts. And the more he looked at it the
surer he was that England and her colonies would succeed. Distance and
perspective gave him confidence. The French generals and French soldiers
had done wonders, nobody could be braver or more skilful than they, but
they could not prevail always against superior might and invincible
tenacity.

Sitting on the ground and looking at the white surf breaking on the
rocks, he ended the war in the way he wished. The French and Canada were
conquered completely and his own flag was victorious everywhere.
Braddock's defeat and Ticonderoga were but incidents which could delay
but which could not prevent.

But he did not spend too much time in reflection. He was too young for
that, and his years in the wilderness helped him to bear the burden of
being alone. Rifle on shoulder, he explored every part of the island,
finding that his domain presented no great variety. There was much
forest, and several kinds of tropical fruits were for his taking, but
quadruped life was limited, nothing larger than small rodents.
Well-armed as he was, he would have preferred plenty of big game. It
would have added spice to his life, much of which had been spent in
hunting with Willet and Tayoga. Excitement might have been found in
following bear or deer, but he knew too well ever to have expected them
on an island in summer seas.

There was some sport in fishing. Plenty of tackle had been found among
the ship's stores, and he caught good fish in the larger lake. He also
tried deep sea fishing from the dinghy, but the big fellows bit so fast
that it soon ceased to be of interest. The fish, though, added freshness
and variety to his larder, and he also found shellfish, good and
wholesome when eaten in small quantities, along the shore.

He went often to the highest hill in the center of the island, where he
would spend long periods, examining the sea from horizon to horizon with
his strong glasses, searching vainly for a sail. He thought once of
keeping a mighty bonfire burning every night, but he reconsidered it
when he reflected on the character of the ship that it might draw.

Both the Bahamas and the West Indies--he did not know in which group he
was--swarmed then with lawless craft. For nearly two hundred years
piracy had been common, and in a time of war especially the chances were
against a ship being a friend. He decided that on the whole he would
prefer a look at the rescuer before permitting himself to be rescued.

The weather remained beautiful. He had been a month on the island, and
the sea had not been vexed by another storm since his arrival. The
schooner was still wedged in the sand and on the rocks, and he made
several more trips to her, taking off many more articles, which,
however, he left in a heap well back of the beach covered with a
tarpaulin and the remains of sails. He felt that they could lie there
awaiting his need. Perhaps he would never need them at all.

His later visits to the schooner were more from curiosity than from any
other motive. He had a strong desire to learn more about the captain and
his ship. There was no name anywhere upon the vessel, nor could he find
any ship's log or manifest or any kind of writing to indicate it.
Neither was the name of the slaver known to him, nor was there any
letter nor any kind of paper to disclose it. It was likely that it would
always remain hidden from him unless some day he should wrench it from
Adrian Van Zoon.

Robert went into the sea nearly every morning. As he was a powerful
swimmer and the weather remained calm, he was in the habit of going out
beyond the reefs, but one day he noticed a fin cutting the water and
coming toward him. Instantly he swam with all his might toward the
reefs, shivering as he went. When he drew himself up on the slippery
rocks he did not see the formidable fin. He was quite willing to utter
devout thanks aloud. It might not have been a shark, but it made him
remember they were to be expected in those waters. After that he took no
chances, bathing inside the reefs and going outside in the dinghy only.

A few days later he was upon his highest hill watching the horizon when
he saw a dark spot appear in the southwest. At first he was hopeful that
it was a sail, but as he saw it grow he knew it to be a cloud. Then he
hurried toward the house, quite sure a storm was coming. Knowing how the
southern seas were swept by hurricanes, it was surprising that none had
come sooner, and he ran as fast as he could for the shelter of the
house.

Robert made the door just in time. Then the day had turned almost as
dark as night and, with a rush and a roar, wind and rain were upon him.
Evidently the slaver had known those regions, and so he had built a
house of great strength, which, though it quivered and rattled under the
sweep of the hurricane, nevertheless stood up against it.

The building had several small windows, closed with strong shutters, but
as wind and rain were driving from the west he was able to open one on
the eastern side and watch the storm. It was just such a hurricane as
that which had wrecked the shattered schooner. It became very dark,
there were tremendous displays of thunder and lightning, which ceased,
after a while, as the wind grew stronger, and then through the dark he
saw trees and bushes go down. Fragments struck against the house, but
the stout walls held.

The wind kept up a continuous screaming, as full of menace as the crash
of a battle. Part of the time it swept straight ahead, cutting wide
swathes, and then, turning into balls of compressed air, it whirled with
frightful velocity, smashing everything level with the ground as if it
had been cut down by a giant sword.

Robert had seen more than one hurricane in the great northern woods and
he watched it without alarm. Although the house continued to rattle and
shake, and now and then a bough, wrenched from its trunk, struck it a
heavy blow, he knew that it would hold. There was a certain comfort in
sitting there, dry and secure, while the storm raged without in all its
violence. There was pleasure too in the knowledge that he was on the
land and not the sea. He remembered the frightful passage that he and
the slaver had made through the breakers, and he knew that his escape
then had depended upon the slimmest of chances. He shuddered as he
recalled the rocks thrusting out their savage teeth.

The storm, after a while, sank into a steady rain, and the wind blew but
little. The air was now quite cold for that region, and Robert, lying
down on the couch, covered himself with a blanket. He soon fell asleep
and slept so long, lulled by the beat of the rain, that he did not
awaken until the next day.

Then he took the dinghy and rowed around to the other side of the
island. As he had expected, the schooner was gone. The storm had broken
her up, and he found many of her timbers scattered along the beach,
where they had been brought in by the waves. He felt genuine sadness at
the ship's destruction and disappearance. It was like losing a living
friend.

Fortunately, the tarpaulin and heavy sails with which he had covered his
heap of stores high up the beach, weighting them down afterward with
huge stones, had held. Some water had entered at the edges, but, as the
goods were of a kind that could not be damaged much, little harm was
done. Again he resolved to preserve all that he had accumulated there,
although he did not know that he would have any need of them.

When he rowed back in the dinghy he saw a formidable fin cutting the
water again, and, laying down the oars, he took up the rifle which he
always carried with him. He watched until the shark was almost on the
surface of the water, and then he sent a bullet into it. There was a
great splashing, followed by a disappearance, and he did not know just
then the effect of his shot, but a little later, when the huge body of
the slain fish floated to the surface he felt intense satisfaction, as
he believed that it would have been a man-eater had it the chance.




CHAPTER VIII

MAKING THE BEST OF IT


After his return in the dinghy Robert decided that he would have some
fresh beef and also a little sport. Although the island contained no
indigenous wild animals of any size, there were the wild cattle, and he
had seen they were both long of horn and fierce. If he courted peril he
might find it in hunting them, and in truth he rather wanted a little
risk. There was such an absence of variety in his life, owing to the
lack of human companionship, that an attack by a maddened bull, for
instance, would add spice to it. The rifle would protect him from any
extreme danger.

He knew he was likely to find cattle near the larger lake, and, as he
had expected, he saw a herd of almost fifty grazing there on a flat at
the eastern edge. Two fierce old bulls with very long, sharp horns were
on the outskirts, as if they were mounting guard, while the cows and
calves were on the inside near the lake.

Robert felt sure that the animals, although unharried by man, would
prove wary. For the sake of sport he hoped that it would be so, and,
using all the skill that he had learned in his long association with
Willet and Tayoga, he crept down through the woods. The bulls would be
too tough, and as he wanted a fat young cow it would be necessary for
him to go to the very edge of the thickets that hemmed in the little
savanna on which they were grazing.

The wind was blowing from him toward the herd and the bulls very soon
took alarm, holding up their heads, sniffing and occasionally shaking
their formidable horns. Robert picked a fat young cow in the grass
almost at the water's edge as his target, but stopped a little while in
order to disarm the suspicion of the wary old guards. When the two went
back to their pleasant task of grazing he resumed his cautious advance,
keeping the fat young cow always in view.

Now that he had decided to secure fresh beef, he wanted it very badly,
and it seemed to him that the cow would fulfill all his wants. A long
experience in the wilderness would show him how to prepare juicy and
tender steaks. Eager to replenish his larder in so welcome a way, he
rose and crept forward once more in the thicket.

The two bulls became suspicious again, the one on the right, which was
the larger, refusing to have his apprehension quieted, and advancing
part of the way toward the bushes, where he stood, thrusting forward
angry horns. His attitude served as a warning for the whole herd, which,
becoming alarmed, began to move.

Robert was in fear lest they rush away in a panic, and so he took a long
shot at the cow, bringing her down, but failing to kill her, as she rose
after falling and began to make off. Eager now to secure his game he
drew the heavy pistol that he carried at his belt, and, dropping his
rifle, rushed forward from the thicket for a second shot.

The cow was not running fast. Evidently the wound was serious, but
Robert had no mind for her to escape him in the thickets, and he pursued
her until he could secure good aim with the pistol. Then he fired and
had the satisfaction of seeing the cow fall again, apparently to stay
down this time.

But his satisfaction was short. He heard a heavy tread and an angry
snort beside him. He caught the gleam of a long horn, and as he whirled
the big bull was upon him. He leaped aside instinctively and escaped the
thrust of the horn, but the bull whirled also, and the animal's heavy
shoulder struck him with such force that he was knocked senseless.

When Robert came to himself he was conscious of an aching body and an
aching head, but he recalled little else at first. Then he remembered
the fierce thrusts of the angry old bull, and he was glad that he was
alive. He felt of himself to see if one of those sharp horns had entered
him anywhere, and he was intensely relieved to find that he had suffered
no wound. Evidently it had been a collision in which he had been the
sufferer, and that he had fallen flat had been a lucky thing for him, as
the fierce bull had charged past him and had then gone on.

Robert was compelled to smile sourly at himself. He had wanted the
element of danger as a spice for his hunting, and he had most certainly
found it. He had been near death often, but never nearer than when the
old bull plunged against him. He rose slowly and painfully, shook
himself several times to throw off as well as he could the effect of his
heavy jolt, then picked up his rifle at one point and his pistol at
another.

The herd was gone, but the cow that he had chosen lay dead, and, as her
condition showed him that he had been unconscious not more than five
minutes, there was his fresh beef after all. As his strength was fast
returning, he cut up and dressed the cow, an achievement in which a long
experience in hunting had made him an expert. He hung the quarters in a
dense thicket of tall bushes where vultures or buzzards could not get at
them, and took some of the tenderest steaks home with him.

He broiled the steaks over a fine bed of coals in front of the house and
ate them with bread that he baked himself from the ship's flour. He
enjoyed his dinner and he was devoutly grateful for his escape. But how
much pleasanter it would have been if Willet and Tayoga, those faithful
comrades of many perils, were there with him to share it! He wondered
what they were doing. Doubtless they had hunted for him long, and they
had suspected and sought to trace Garay, but the cunning spy doubtless
had fled from Albany immediately after his capture. Willet and Tayoga,
failing to find him, would join in the great campaign which the British
and Americans would certainly organize anew against Canada.

It was this thought of the campaign that was most bitter to Robert. He
was heart and soul in the war, in which he believed mighty issues to be
involved, and he had seen so much of it already that he wanted to be in
it to the finish. When these feelings were strong upon him it was almost
intolerable to be there upon the island, alone and helpless. All the
world's great events were passing him by as if he did not exist. But the
periods of gloom would not last long. Despite his new gravity, his
cheerful, optimistic spirit remained, and it always pulled him away from
the edge of despair.

Although he had an abundance of fresh meat, he went on a second hunt of
the wild cattle in order to keep mind and body occupied. He wanted
particularly to find the big bull that had knocked him down, and he knew
that he would recognize him when he found him. He saw a herd grazing on
the same little savanna by the lake, but when he had stalked it with
great care he found that it was not the one he wanted.

A search deeper into the hills revealed another herd, but still the
wrong one. A second day's search disclosed the right group grazing in a
snug little valley, and there was the big bull who had hurt so sorely
his body and his pride. A half hour of creeping in the marsh grass and
thickets and he was within easy range. Then he carefully picked out that
spot on the bull's body beneath which his heart lay, cocked his rifle,
took sure aim, and put his finger to the trigger.

But Robert did not pull that trigger. He merely wished to show to
himself and to any invisible powers that might be looking on that he
could lay the bull in the dust if he wished. If he wanted revenge for
grievous personal injury it was his for the taking. But he did not want
it. The bull was not to blame. He had merely been defending his own from
a dangerous intruder and so was wholly within his rights.

"Now that I've held you under my muzzle you're safe from me, old
fellow," were Robert's unspoken words.

He felt that his dignity was restored and that, at the same time, his
sense of right had been maintained. Elated, he went back to the house
and busied himself, arranging his possessions. They were so numerous
that he was rather crowded, but he was not willing to give up anything.
One becomes very jealous over his treasures when he knows the source of
supplies may have been cut off forever. So he rearranged them, trying to
secure for himself better method and more room, and he also gave them a
more minute examination.

In a small chest which he had not opened before he found, to his great
delight, a number of books, all the plays of Shakespeare, several by
Beaumont and Fletcher, others by Congreve and Marlowe, Monsieur Rollin's
Ancient History, a copy of Telemachus, translations of the Iliad and
Odyssey, Ovid, Horace, Virgil and other classics. Most of the books
looked as if they had been read and he thought they might have belonged
to the captain, but there was no inscription in any of them, and, on the
other hand, they might have been taken from a captured ship.

With plenty of leisure and a mind driven in upon itself, Robert now read
a great deal, and, as little choice was left to him, he read books that
he might have ignored otherwise. Moreover, he thought well upon what he
read. It seemed to him as he went over his Homer again and again that
the gods were cruel. Men were made weak and fallible, and then they were
punished because they failed or erred. The gods themselves were not at
all exempt from the sins, or, rather, mistakes for which they punished
men. He felt this with a special force when he read his Ovid. He
thought, looking at it in a direct and straight manner, that Niobe had a
right to be proud of her children, and for Apollo to slay them because
of that pride was monstrous.

His mind also rebelled at his Virgil. He did not care much for the
elderly lover, Æneas, who fled from Carthage and Dido, and when Æneas
and his band came to Italy his sympathies were largely with Turnus, who
tried to keep his country and the girl that really belonged to him. He
was quite sure that something had been wrong in the mind of Virgil and
that he ought to have chosen another kind of hero.

Shakespeare, whom he had been compelled to read at school, he now read
of his own accord, and he felt his romance and poetry. But he lingered
longer over the somewhat prosy ancient history of Monsieur Rollin. His
imaginative mind did not need much of a hint to attempt the
reconstruction of old empires. But he felt that always in them too much
depended upon one man. When an emperor fell an empire fell, when a king
was killed a kingdom went down.

He applied many of the lessons from those old, old wars to the great war
that was now raging, and he was confirmed in his belief that England and
her colonies would surely triumph. The French monarchy, to judge from
all that he had heard, was now in the state of one of those old oriental
monarchies, decayed and rotten, spreading corruption from a poisoned
center to all parts of the body. However brave and tenacious the French
people might be, and he knew that none were more so, he was sure they
could not prevail over the strength of free peoples like those who
fought under the British flag, free to grow, whatever their faults might
be. So, old Monsieur Rollin, who had brought tedium to many, brought
refreshment and courage to Robert.

But he did not bury himself in books. He had been a creature of action
too long for that. He hunted the wild cattle over the hills, and, now
and then, taking the dinghy he hunted the sharks also. Whenever he found
one he did not spare the bullets. His finger did not stop at the
trigger, but pulled hard, and he rarely missed.

But in spite of reading and action, time dragged heavily. The old
loneliness and desolation would return and they were hard to dispel. He
could not keep from crying aloud at the cruelty of fate. He was young,
so vital, so intensely alive, so anxious to be in the middle of things,
that it was torture to be held there. Yet he was absolutely helpless. It
would be folly to attempt escape in the little dinghy, and he must wait
until a ship came. He would spend hours every day on the highest hill,
watching the horizon through his glasses for a ship, and then, bitter
with disappointment, he would refuse to look again for a long time.

Whether his mind was up or down its essential healthiness and sanity
held true. He always came back to the normal. Had he sought purposely to
divest himself of hope he could not have done it. The ship was coming.
Its coming was as certain as the rolling in of the tide, only one had to
wait longer for it.

Yet time passed, and there was no sign of a sail on the horizon. His
island was as lonely as if it were in the South Seas instead of the
Atlantic. He began to suspect that it was not really a member of any
group, but was a far flung outpost visited but rarely. Perhaps the war
and its doubling the usual dangers of the sea would keep a ship of any
kind whatever from visiting it. He refused to let the thought remain
with him, suppressing it resolutely, and insisting to himself that such
a pleasant little island was bound to have callers some time or other,
some day.

But the weeks dragged by, and he was absolutely alone in his world. He
had acquired so many stores from the schooner that life was comfortable.
It even had a touch of luxury, and the struggle for existence was far
from consuming all his hours. He found himself as time went on driven
more and more upon his books, and he read them, as few have ever read
anything, trying to penetrate everything and to draw from them the best
lessons.

As a student, in a very real sense of the term, Robert became more
reconciled to his isolation. His mind was broadening and deepening, and
he felt that it was so. Many things that had before seemed a puzzle to
him now became plain. He was compelled, despite his youth, to meditate
upon life, and he resolved that when he took up its thread again among
his kind he would put his new knowledge to the best of uses.

He noted a growth of the body as well as of the mind. An abundant and
varied diet and plenty of rest gave him a great physical stimulus. It
seemed to him that he was taller, and he was certainly heavier. Wishing
to profit to the utmost, and, having a natural neatness, he looked after
himself with great care, bathing inside the reefs once every day, and,
whether there was work to be done or not, taking plenty of exercise.

He lost count of the days, but he knew that he was far into the autumn,
that in truth winter must have come in his own and distant north. That
thought at times was almost maddening. Doubtless the snow was already
falling on the peaks that had seen so many gallant exploits by his
comrades and himself, and on George and Champlain, the lakes so
beautiful and majestic under any aspect. Those were the regions he
loved. When would he see them again? But such thoughts, too, he crushed
and saw only the ship that was to take him back to his own.

Some change in the weather came, and he was aware that the winter of the
south was at hand. Yet it was not cold. There was merely a fresh sparkle
in the air, a new touch of crispness. Low, gray skies were a relief,
after so much blazing sunshine, and the cool winds whipped his blood to
new life. The house had a fireplace and chimney and often he built a low
fire, not so much for the sake of warmth as for the cheer that the
sparkling blaze gave. Then he could imagine that he was back in his
beloved province of New York. Now the snow was certainly pouring down
there. The lofty peaks were hidden in clouds of white, and the ice was
forming around the edges of Andiatarocte and Oneadatote. Perhaps Willet
and Tayoga were scouting in the snowy forests, but they must often hang
over the blazing fires, too.

The coldness without, the blaze on the hearth, and the warmth within
increased his taste for reading and his comprehension seemed to grow
also. He found new meanings in the classics and he became saturated also
with style. His were the gifts of an orator, and it was often said in
after years, when he became truly great, that his speech, in words, in
metaphor and in illustration followed, or at least were influenced, by
the best models. Some people found in him traces of Shakespeare, the
lofty imagery and poetry and the deep and wide knowledge of human
emotions, of life itself. Others detected the mighty surge of Homer, or
the flow of Virgil, and a few discerning minds found the wit shown in
the comedies of the Restoration, from which he had unconsciously plucked
the good, leaving the bad.

It is but a truth to say that every day he lived in these days he lived
a week or maybe a month. The stillness, the utter absence of his kind,
drove his mind inward with extraordinary force. He gained a breadth of
vision and a power of penetration of which he had not dreamed. He
acquired toleration, too. Looking over the recent events in his perilous
life, he failed to find hate for anybody. Perhaps untoward events had
turned the slaver into his evil career, and at the last he had shown
some good. The French were surely fighting for what they thought was
their own, and they struck in order that they might not be struck.
Tandakora himself was the creature of his circumstances. He hated the
people of the English colonies, because they were spreading over the
land and driving away the game. He was cruel because it was the Ojibway
nature to be cruel. He would have to fight Tandakora, but it was because
conditions had made it necessary.

His absorption as a student now made him forget often that he was alone,
and there were long periods when he was not unhappy, especially when he
was trying to solve some abstruse mental problem. He regretted sometimes
that he did not have any book on mathematics, but perhaps it was as well
for him that he did not. His mind turned more to the other side of life,
to style, to poetry, to the imagination, and, now, as he was moving
along the line of least resistance, under singularly favorable
circumstances, he made extraordinary progress.

Heavy winds came and Robert liked them. He had plenty of warm clothing
and it pleased him to walk on the beach, his face whipped by the gale,
and to watch the great waves come in. It made him stronger to fight the
storm. The response to its challenge rose in his blood. It was curious,
but at such times his hope was highest. He stood up, defying the lash of
wind and rain, and felt his courage rise with the contest. Often, he ran
up and down the beach until he was soaked through, letting the fierce
waves sweep almost to his feet, then he would go back to the house,
change to dry clothing, and sleep without dreams.

There was no snow, although he longed for it, as do those who are born
in northern regions. Once, when he stood on the crest of the tallest
hill on the island, he thought he saw a few tiny flakes floating in the
air over his head, but they were swept away by the wind, as if they were
down, and he never knew whether it was an illusion or reality. But he
was glad that it had happened. It gave him a fleeting touch of home, and
he could imagine once more, and, for a few seconds, that he was not
alone on the island, but back in his province of New York, with his
friends not far away.

Then came several days of fierce and continuous cold rain, but he put on
an oilskin coat that he found among the stores and spent much of the
time out of doors, hunting ducks along the edges of the larger lake,
walking now and then for the sake of walking, and, on rare occasions,
seeking the wild cattle for fresh meat. The herds were in the timber
most of the time for shelter, but he was invariably able to secure a
tender cow or a yearling for his larder. He saw the big bull often, and,
although he was charged by him once again, he refused to pull trigger on
the old fellow. He preferred to look upon him as a friend whom he had
met once in worthy combat, but with whom he was now at peace. When the
bull charged him he dodged him easily among the bushes and called out
whimsically:

"Let it be the last time! I don't mean you any harm!"

The fierce leader went peacefully back to his grazing, and it seemed to
Robert that he had been taken at his word. The old bull apparently
realized at last that he was in no danger from the human being who came
to look at him at times, and he also was willing to call a truce. Robert
saw him often after that, and invariably hailed him with words of
friendship, though at a respectful distance. The old fellow would look
up, shake his big head once or twice in a manner not at all hostile, and
then go on peacefully with his grazing. It pleased Robert to think that
in the absence of his own kind he had a friend here, and--still at a
respectful distance--he confided to him some of his opinions upon
matters of importance. He laughed at himself for doing so, but he was
aware that he found in it a certain relief, and he continued the
practice.

The dinghy became one of his most precious possessions. A little farther
to the north he had found a creek that flowed down from the center of
the island, rising among the hills. It was narrow and shallow, except
near the mouth, but there it had sufficient depth for the boat, and he
made of it a safe anchorage and port during the winter storms. He slept
more easily now, as he knew that however hard the wind might blow there
was no danger of its being carried out to sea. He thought several times
of rigging a mast and sails for it and trying to make some other island,
but he gave up the idea, owing to the smallness of the boat, and his own
inexperience as a sailor. He was at least safe and comfortable where he
was, and a voyage of discovery or escape meant almost certain death.

But he used the dinghy in calm weather for bringing back some of the
stores that he had left on the other side of the island. The lighter
articles he brought by land. There was not room for all of them in the
house, but he built a shed under which he placed those not of a
perishable nature, and covered them over with the tarpaulin and sails.
He still had the feeling that he must not lose or waste anything,
because he knew that in the back of his head lay an apprehension lest
his time on the island should be long, very long.

He kept in iron health. His life in the wilderness had taught him how to
take care of himself, and, with an abundant and varied diet and plenty
of exercise, he never knew a touch of illness. He did not forget to be
grateful for it. A long association with Tayoga had taught him to
remember these things. It might be true that he was being guarded by
good spirits. The white man's religion and the red man's differed only
in name. His God and Tayoga's Manitou were the same, and the spirits of
the Onondaga were the same as his angels of divine power and mercy.

Often in the moonlight he looked up at the great star upon which Tayoga
said that Tododaho dwelled, that wise Onondaga chieftain who had gone
away to the skies four hundred years before. Once or twice he thought he
could see the face of Tododaho with the wise snakes, coil on coil in his
hair, but, without his full faith, it was not given to him to have the
full vision of Tayoga. He found comfort, however, in the effort. It gave
new strength to the spirit, and, situated as he was, it was his soul,
not his body, that needed fortifying.

He decided that Christmas was near at hand, and he decided to celebrate
it. With the count of time lost it was impossible for him to know the
exact day, but he fixed upon one in his mind, and resolved to use it
whether right or wrong in date. The mere fact that he celebrated it
would make it right in spirit. It might be the 20th or the 30th of
December, but if he chose to call it the 25th, the 25th it would be.
Endowed so liberally with fancy and with such a power of projecting the
mind, it was easy for him to make believe, to turn imagination into
reality. And this power was heightened by his loneliness and isolation,
and by the turning in of his mind so tremendously upon itself.

After the thought of a Christmas dinner was struck out by his fancy it
grew fast, and he made elaborate preparations. Ducks were shot, a
yearling from the wild cattle was killed, the stores from the ship were
drawn upon liberally, and he even found among them a pudding which could
yet be made savory. Long experience had made him an excellent cook and
he attended to every detail in the most thorough manner.

The dinner set, he arrayed himself in the finest clothes to be found in
his stock, and then, when all was ready, he sat down to his improvised
board. But there was not one plate alone, there were four, one for
Willet opposite him, one for Tayoga at his right hand and one for
Grosvenor at his left. And for every thing he ate he placed at least a
small portion on every plate, while with unspoken words he talked with
these three friends of his.

It was a dark day, very cold and raw for the island, and while there was
no Christmas snow there was a cold rain lashing the windows that could
very well take its place. A larger fire than usual, crackling and
cheerful, was blazing on the hearth, throwing the red light of its
flames over the table, and the three places where his invisible friends
sat.

His power of evocation was so vivid and intense that he could very well
say that he saw his comrades around the table. There was Willet big,
grave and wise, but with the lurking humor in the corner of his eye,
there was Tayoga, lean, calm, inscrutable, the young philosopher of the
woods and the greatest trailer in the world, and there was Grosvenor,
ruddy, frank, tenacious, eager to learn all the lore of the woods. Yes,
he could see them and he was glad that he was serving Christmas food to
them as well as to himself. Willet loved wild duck and so he gave him an
extra portion. Tayoga was very partial to cakes of flour and so he gave
him a double number, and Grosvenor, being an Englishman, must love beef,
so he helped him often to steak.

It was fancy, but fancy breeds other and stronger fancies, and the
feeling that it was all reality grew upon him. Dreams are of thin and
fragile texture, but they are very vivid while they last. Of course
Willet, Tayoga and Grosvenor were there, and when the food was all
served, course by course, he filled four glasses, one at each plate,
from a bottle of the old cordial that he had saved from the ship, lifted
his own to his lips, tasted it and said aloud:

"To the victory of our cause under the walls of Quebec!"

Then he shut his eyes and when he shut them he saw the three tasting
their own glasses, and he heard them say with him:

"To the victory of our cause under the walls of Quebec!"




CHAPTER IX

THE VOICE IN THE AIR


Robert slept long and peacefully the night after his Christmas dinner,
and, when he rose the next morning, he felt more buoyant and hopeful
than for days past. The celebration had been a sort of anchor to his
spirit, keeping him firm against any tide of depression that in his
situation might well have swept him toward despair. As he recalled it
the day after, Tayoga, Willet and Grosvenor were very vivid figures at
his table, sitting opposite him, and to right and left. They had
responded to his toast, he had seen the flash in their eyes, and their
tones were resonant with hope and confidence. It was clear they had
meant to tell him that rescue was coming.

He accepted these voices out of the distance as definite and real. It
could not be long until he saw the hunter, the Onondaga and the young
Englishman once more. His lonely life caused him, despite himself, to
lend a greater belief to signs and omens. Tayoga was right when he
peopled the air with spirits, and most of the spirits on that island
must be good spirits, since all things, except escape, had been made
easy for him, house, clothes, food and safety.

The day itself was singularly crisp and bright, inciting to further
cheerfulness. It was also the coldest he had yet felt on the island,
having a northern tang that stirred his blood. He could shut his eyes
and see the great forests, not in winter, but as they were in autumn,
glowing in many colors, and with an air that was the very breath of
life. The sea also sang a pleasant song as it rolled in and broke on the
rocks, and Robert, looking around at his island, felt that he could have
fared far worse.

Rifle on shoulder he went off for a long and brisk walk, and his steps
unconsciously took him, as they often did, toward the high hill in the
center of the island, a crest that he used as a lookout. On his way he
passed his friend, the old bull, grazing in a meadow, and, watching his
herd, like the faithful guardian he was. Robert called to him
cheerfully. The big fellow looked up, shook his horns, not in hostile
fashion but in the manner of comrade saluting comrade, and then went
back, with a whole and confident heart, to his task of nipping the
grass. Robert was pleased. It was certain that the bull no longer
regarded him with either fear or apprehension, and he wanted to be
liked.

It was nearly noon when he reached his summit, and as he was warm from
exercise he sat down on a rock, staying there a long time and scouring
the horizon now and then through the glasses. The sea was a circle of
blazing blue, and the light wind sang from the southwest.

He had brought food with him and in the middle of the day he ate it.
With nothing in particular to do he thought he would spend the afternoon
there, and, making himself comfortable, he waited, still taking
occasional glances through the glasses. While he sat, idling more than
anything else, his mind became occupied with Tayoga's theory of spirits
in the air--less a theory however than the religious belief of the
Indians.

He wanted to believe that Tayoga was right, and his imagination was so
vivid and intense that what he wished to believe he usually ended by
believing. He shut his eyes and tested his power of evocation. He knew
that he could create feeling in any part of his body merely by
concentrating his mind upon that particular part of it and by continuing
to think of it. Physical sensation even came from will. So he would
imagine that he heard spirits in the air all about him, not anything
weird or hostile, but just kindly people of the clouds and winds, such
as those created by the old Greeks.

Fancying that he heard whispers about him and resolved to hear them, he
heard them. If a powerful imagination wanted to create whispers it could
create them. The spirits of the air, Tayoga's spirits, the spirits of
old Hellas, were singing in either ear, and the song, like that of the
sea, like the flavor breathed out by his Christmas celebration, was full
of courage, alive with hope.

He had kept his eyes closed a full half hour, because, with sight shut
off, the other senses became much more acute for the time. The power
that had been in the eyes was poured into their allies. Imagination, in
particular, leaped into a sudden luxuriant growth. It was true, of
course it was quite true, that those friendly spirits of the air were
singing all about him. They were singing in unison a gay and brilliant
song, very pleasant to hear, until he was startled by a new note that
came into it, a note not in harmony with the others, the voice of
Cassandra herself. He listened and he was sure. Beyond a doubt it was a
note of warning.

Robert opened his eyes and everything went away. There was the pleasant,
green island, and there was the deep blue sea all about it. He laughed
to himself. He was letting imagination go too far. One could make
believe too much. He sat idly a few minutes and then, putting the
glasses to his eyes, took another survey of the far horizon where blue
sky and blue water met. He moved the focus slowly around the circle, and
when he came to a point in the east he started violently, then sprang to
his feet, every pulse leaping.

He had seen a tiny black dot upon the water, one that broke the
continuity of the horizon line, and, for a little while, he was too
excited to look again. He stood, the glasses in his trembling fingers
and stared with naked eyes that he knew could not see. After a while he
put the glasses back and then followed the horizon. He was afraid that
it was an illusion, that his imagination had become too vivid, creating
for him the thing that was not, and now that he was a little calmer he
meant to put it to the proof.

He moved the glasses slowly from north to east, following the line where
sky and water met, and then the hands that held them trembled again.
There was the black spot, a trifle larger now, and, forcing his nerves
to be calm, he stared at it a long time, how long he never knew, but
long enough for him to see it grow and take form and shape, for the
infinitesimal but definite outline of mast, sails and hull to emerge,
and then for a complete ship to be disclosed.

The ship was coming toward the island. The increase in size told him
that. It was no will-o'-the-wisp on the water, appearing a moment, then
gone, foully cheating his hopes. If she kept her course, and there was
no reason why she should not, she would make the island. He had no doubt
from the first that a landing there was its definite purpose, most
likely for water.

When he took the glasses from his eyes the second time he gave way to
joy. Rescue was at hand. The ship, wherever she went, would take him to
some place where human beings lived, and he could go thence to his own
country. He would yet be in time to take part in the great campaign
against Quebec, sharing the dangers and glory with Willet, Tayoga,
Grosvenor and the others. The spirits in the air had sung to him a true
song, when his eyes were shut, and, in his leaping exultation, he forgot
the warning note that had appeared in their song, faint, almost buried,
but nevertheless there.

He put the glasses to his eyes a third time. The ship was tacking, but
that was necessary, and it was just as certain as ever that her
destination was the island. Owing to the shifts and flaws in the wind it
would be night before she arrived, but that did not matter to him.
Having waited months he could wait a few hours longer. Likely as not she
was an English ship out of the Barbadoes, bound for the Carolinas. He
must be somewhere near just such a course. Or, maybe she was a colonial
schooner, one of those bold craft from Boston. There was a certain
luxury in speculating on it, and in prolonging a doubt which would
certainly be solved by midnight, and to his satisfaction. It was not
often that in real life one looked at a play bound to develop within a
given time to a dramatic and satisfying finish.

He remained on the crest until late in the afternoon, watching the ship
as she tacked with the varying winds, but, in the end, always bearing
toward the island. He was quite sure now that her arrival would be after
dark. She would come through the opening in the reefs that he and the
slaver had made so hardly in the storm, but on the night bound to follow
such a day it would be as easy as entering a drawing room, with the
doors held open, and the guest made welcome. He would be there to give
the welcome.

He was able to see more of the ship now. As he had surmised, she was a
schooner, apparently very trim and handled well. Doubtless she was fast.
The faster the better, because he was eager to get back to the province
of New York.

Late in the afternoon, he left the hill and went swiftly back to his
house, where he ate an early supper in order that he might be on the
beach to give welcome to the guest, and perhaps lend some helpful advice
about making port. There was none better fitted than he. He was the
oldest resident of the island. Nobody could be jealous of his position
as adviser to the arriving vessel.

This was to be a great event in his life, and it must be carried out in
the proper manner with every attention to detail. He put on the uniform
of an English naval officer that he had found on the ship, and then
rifle on shoulder and small sword in belt went through the forest toward
the inlet.

The night was bright and beautiful, just fitted for a rescue, and an
escape from an island. All the stars had come out to see it, and, with
his head very high, he trod lightly as he passed among the trees,
approaching the quiet beach. Before he left the wood he saw the top of
the schooner's mast showing over a fringe of bushes. Evidently she had
anchored outside the reefs and was sending in a boat to look further.
Well, that was fit and proper, and his advice and assistance would be
most timely.

The wind rose a little and it sang a lilting melody among the leaves.
His imagination, alive and leaping, turned it into the song of a
troubadour, gay and welcoming. Tayoga's spirits were abroad again,
filling the air in the dusk, their favorite time, and he rejoiced, until
he suddenly heard once more that faint note of warning, buried under
the volume of the other, but nevertheless there.

Alone, driven in upon himself for so many months, he was a creature of
mysticism that night. What he imagined he believed, and, obedient to the
warning, he drew back. All the caution of the northern wilderness
returned suddenly to him. He was no longer rushing forward to make a
welcome for guests awaited eagerly. He would see what manner of people
came before he opened the door. Putting the rifle in the hollow of his
arm he crept forward through the bushes.

A large boat was coming in from the schooner, and the bright moonlight
enabled him to see at first glance that the six men who sat in it were
not men of Boston. Nor were they men of England. They were too dark, and
three of them had rings in their ears.

Perhaps the schooner was a French privateer, wishing to make a secret
landing, and, if so, he had done well to hold back. He had no mind to be
taken a prisoner to France. The French were brave, and he would not be
ill-treated, but he had other things to do. He withdrew a little farther
into the undergrowth. The door of welcome was open now only a few
inches, and he was peering out at the crack, every faculty alive and
ready to take the alarm.

The boat drew closer, grounded on the beach, and the men, leaping out,
dragged it beyond the reach of the low waves that were coming in. Then,
in a close group, they walked toward the forest, looking about
curiously. They were armed heavily, and every one of them had a drawn
weapon in his hand, sword or pistol. Their actions seemed to Robert
those of men who expected a stranger, as a matter of course, to be an
enemy. Hence, they were men whose hands were against other men, and so
also against young Robert Lennox, who had been alone so long, and who
craved so much the companionship of his kind.

He drew yet deeper into the undergrowth and taking the rifle out of the
hollow of his arm held it in both hands, ready for instant use. The men
came nearer, looking along the edge of the forest, perhaps for water,
and, as he saw them better, he liked them less. The apparent leader was
a short, broad fellow of middle years, and sinister face, with huge gold
rings in his ears. All of them were seamed and scarred and to Robert
their looks were distinctly evil.

The door of welcome suddenly shut with a snap, and he meant to bar it on
the inside if he could. His instinct gave him an insistent warning.
These men must not penetrate the forest. They must not find his house
and treasures. Fortunately the dinghy was up the creek, hidden under
overhanging boughs. But the event depended upon chance. If they found
quickly the water for which they must be looking, they might take it and
leave with the schooner before morning. He devoutly hoped that it would
be so. The lad who had been so lonely and desolate an hour or two
before, longing for the arrival of human beings, was equally eager, now
that they had come, that they should go away.

The men began to talk in some foreign tongue, Spanish or Portuguese or a
Levantine jargon, perhaps, and searched assiduously along the edges of
the forest. Robert, lurking in the undergrowth, caught the word "aqua"
or "agua," which he knew meant water, and so he was right in his surmise
about their errand. There was a fine spring about two hundred yards
farther on, and he hoped they would soon stumble upon it.

All his skill as a trailer, though disused now for many months, came
back to him. He was able to steal through the grass and bushes without
making any noise and to creep near enough to hear the words they said.
They went half way to the spring, then stopped and began to talk. Robert
was in fear lest they turn back, and a wider search elsewhere would
surely take them to his house. But the men were now using English.

"There should be water ahead," said the swart leader. "We're going down
into a dip, and that's just the place where springs are found."

Another man, also short and dark, urged that they turn back, but the
leader prevailed.

"There must be water farther on," he said. "I was never on this island
before, neither were you, José, but it's not likely the trees and bushes
would grow so thick down there if plenty of water didn't soak their
roots."

He had his way and they went on, with Robert stalking them on a parallel
line in the undergrowth, and now he knew they would find the water. The
spirit of the island was watching over its own, and, by giving them what
they wanted at once, would send these evil characters away. The leader
uttered a shout of triumph when he saw the water gleaming through the
trees.

"I told you it was here, didn't I, José?" he said. "Trust me, a sailor
though I am, to read the lay of the land."

The spring as it ran from under a rock formed a little pool, and all of
the men knelt down, drinking with noise and gurglings. Then the leader
walked back toward the beach, and fired both shots from a
double-barreled pistol into the air. Robert judged that it was a signal,
probably to indicate that they had found water. Presently a second and
larger boat, containing at least a dozen men, put out from the schooner.
A third soon followed and both brought casks which were filled at the
spring and which they carried back to the ship.

Robert, still and well hidden, watched everything, and he was glad that
he had obeyed his instinct not to trust them. He had never seen a crew
more sinister in looks, not even on the slaver, and they were probably
pirates. They were a jumble of all nations, and that increased his
suspicion. So mixed a company, in a time of war, could be brought
together only for evil purposes.

It was hard for him to tell who was the captain, but the leader who had
first come ashore seemed to have the most authority, although nearly all
did about as they pleased to the accompaniment of much talk and many
oaths. Still they worked well at filling the water casks, and Robert
hoped they would soon be gone. Near midnight, however, one of the boats
came back, loaded with food, and kegs and bottles of spirits. His heart
sank. They were going to have a feast or an orgie on the beach and the
day would be sure to find them there. Then they might conclude to
explore the island, or at least far enough to find his house.

They dragged up wood, lighted a fire, warmed their food and ate and
drank, talking much, and now and then singing wild songs. Robert knew
with absolute certainty that this was another pirate ship, a rover of
the Gulf or the Caribbean, hiding among the islands and preying upon
anything not strong enough to resist her.

The men filled him with horror and loathing. The light of the flames
fell on their faces and heightened the evil in them, if that were
possible. Several of them, drinking heavily of the spirits, were already
in a bestial state, and were quarreling with one another. The others
paid no attention to them. There was no discipline.

Apparently they were going to make a night of it, and Robert watched,
fascinated by the first sight of his own kind in many months, but
repelled by their savagery when they had come. Some of the men fell down
before the fires and went to sleep. The others did not awaken them,
which he took to be clear proof that they would remain until the next
day.

A drop of water fell on his face and he looked up. He had been there so
long, and he was so much absorbed in what was passing before his eyes
that he had not noted the great change in the nature of the night. Moon
and stars were gone. Heavy clouds were sailing low. Thunder muttered on
the western horizon, and there were flashes of distant lightning.

Hope sprang up in Robert's heart. Perhaps the fear of a storm would
drive them to the shelter of the ship, but they did not stir. Either
they did not dread rain, or they were more weatherwise than he. The
orgie deepened. Two of the men who were quarreling drew pistols, but the
swart leader struck them aside, and spoke to them so fiercely that they
put back their weapons, and, a minute later, Robert saw them drinking
together in friendship.

The storm did not break. The wind blew, and, now and then, drops of rain
fell, but it did not seem able to get beyond the stage of thunder and
lightning. Yet it tried hard, and it became, even to Robert, used to the
vagaries of nature, a grim and sinister night. The thunder, in its
steady growling, was full of menace, and the lightning, reddish in
color, smelled of sulphur. It pleased Robert to think that the island
was resenting the evil presence of the men from the schooner.

The ruffians, however, seemed to take no notice of the change. It was
likely that they had not been ashore for a long time before, and they
were making the most of it. They continued to eat and the bottles of
spirits were passed continuously from one to another. Robert had heard
many a dark tale of piracy on the Spanish Main and among the islands,
but he had never dreamed he would come into such close contact with it
as he was now doing for the second time.

He knew it was lucky for the men that the storm did not break. The
schooner in her position would be almost sure to drag her anchor and
then would drive on the rocks, but they seemed to have no apprehensions,
and, it was quite evident now, that they were not going back to the
vessel until the next day. The ghastly quality of the night increased,
however. The lightning flared so much and it was so red that it was
uncanny, it even had a supernatural tinge, and the sullen rumbling of
the distant thunder added to it.

The effect upon Robert, situated as he was and alone for many months,
was very great. Something weird, something wild and in touch with the
storm that threatened but did not break, crept into his own blood. He
was filled with hatred and contempt of the men who caroused there. He
wondered what crimes they had committed on those seas, and he had not
the least doubt that the list was long and terrible. He ought to be an
avenging spirit. He wished intensely that Tayoga was with him in the
bush. The Onondaga would be sure to devise some plan to punish them or
to fill them with fear. He felt at that moment as if he belonged to a
superior race or order, and would like to stretch forth his hand and
strike down those who disgraced their kind.

The swart leader at last took note of the skies and their sinister
aspect. Robert saw him walking back and forth and looking up. More than
half of his men were stretched full length, either asleep or in a
stupor, but some of the others stood, and glanced at the skies. Robert
thought he saw apprehension in their eyes, or at least his imagination
put it there.

A wild and fantastic impulse seized him. These men were children of the
sea, superstitious, firm believers in omens, and witchcraft, ready to
see the ghosts of the slain, all the more so because they were stained
with every crime, then committed so freely under the black flag. He had
many advantages, too. He was a master of woodcraft, only their
wilderness was that of the waters.

He gave forth the long, melancholy hoot of the owl, and he did it so
well that he was surprised at his own skill. The note, full of
desolation and menace, seemed to come back in many echoes. He saw the
swart leader and the men with him start and look fearfully toward the
forest that curved so near. Then he saw them talking together and gazing
at the point from which the sound had come. Perhaps they were trying to
persuade themselves the note was only fancy.

Robert laughed softly to himself. He was pleased, immensely pleased with
his experiment. His fantastic mood grew. He was a spirit of the woods
himself; one of those old fauns of the Greeks, and he was really there
to punish the evil invaders of his island. His body seemed to grow light
with his spirit and he slid away among the trees with astonishing ease,
as sure of foot and as noiseless as Tayoga himself. Then the owl gave
forth his long, lonely cry with increased volume and fervor. It was a
note filled with complaint and mourning, and it told of the desolation
that overspread a desolate world.

Robert knew now that the leader and his men were disturbed. He could
tell it by the anxious way in which they watched the woods, and, gliding
farther around the circle, he sent forth the cry a third time. He was
quite sure that he had made a further increase in its desolation and
menace, and he saw the swart leader and his men draw together as if they
were afraid.

The owl was not the only trick in Robert's trade. His ambition took a
wide sweep and fancy was fertile. He had aroused in these men the fear
of the supernatural, a dread that the ghosts of those whom they had
murdered had come back to haunt or punish them. He had been an apt pupil
of Tayoga before the slaver came to Albany, and now he meant to show the
ruffians that the owl was not the only spirit of fate hovering over
them.

The deep growl of a bear came from the thicket, not the growl of an
ordinary black bear, comedian of the forest, but the angry rumble of
some great ursine beast of which the black bear was only a dwarf cousin.
Then he moved swiftly to another point and repeated it.

He heard the leader cursing and trying to calm the fears of the men
while it was evident that his own too were aroused. The fellow suddenly
drew a pistol and fired a bullet into the forest. Robert heard it
cutting the leaves near him. But he merely lay down and laughed. His
fantastic impulse was succeeding in more brilliant fashion than he had
hoped.

Imitating their leader, six or eight of the men snatched out pistols and
fired at random into the woods. The cry of a panther, drawn out, long,
full of ferocity and woe, plaintive on its last note, like the haunting
lament of a woman, was their answer. He heard a gasp of fear from the
men, but the leader, of stauncher stuff, cowed them with his curses.

Robert moved back on his course, and then gave forth the shrill, fierce
yelp of the hungry wolf, dying into an angry snarl. It was, perhaps, a
more menacing note than that of the larger animals, and he plainly saw
the ruffians shiver. He was creating in them the state of mind that he
wanted, and his spirits flamed yet higher. All things seemed possible to
him in his present mood.

He moved once more and then lay flat in the dense bushes. He fancied
that the pirates would presently fire another volley into the shadows,
and, in a moment of desperate courage, might even come into the forest.
His first thought was correct, as the leader told off the steadier men,
and, walking up and down in front of the forest, they raked it for a
considerable distance with pistol shots. All of them, of course, passed
well over Robert's head, and as soon as they finished he went back to
his beginnings, giving forth the owl's lament.

He heard the leader curse more fiercely than ever before, and he saw
several of the men who had been pulling trigger retreat to the fire. It
was evident to him that the terror of the thing was entering their
souls. The night itself, as if admiring his plan, was lending him the
greatest possible aid. The crimson lightning never ceased to quiver and
the sullen rumble of the distant thunder was increasing. It was easy
enough for men, a natural prey to superstition, and, with the memories
of many crimes, to believe that the island was haunted, that the ghosts
of those they had slain were riding the lightning, and that demons,
taking the forms of animals, were waiting for them in the bushes.

But the swart leader was a man of courage and he still held his ruffians
together. He cursed them fiercely, told them to stand firm, to reload
their pistols and to be ready for any danger. Those who still slumbered
by the fire were kicked until they awoke, and, with something of a
commander's skill, the man drew up his besotted band against the mystic
dangers that threatened so closely.

But Robert produced a new menace. He was like one inspired that night.
The dramatic always appealed to him and his success stimulated him to
new histrionic efforts. He had planted in their minds the terror of
animals, now he would sow the yet greater terror of human beings,
knowing well that man's worst and most dreaded enemy was man.

He uttered a deep groan, a penetrating, terrible groan, the wail of a
soul condemned to wander between the here and the hereafter, a cry from
one who had been murdered, a cry that would doubtless appeal to every
one of the ruffians as the cry of his own particular victim. The effect
was startling. The men uttered a yell of fright, and started in a panic
run for the boats, but the leader threatened them with his leveled
pistol and stopped them, although the frightful groan came a second
time.

"There's nothing in the bush!" Robert heard him say. "There can't be!
The place has no people and we know there are no big wild animals on the
islands in these seas! It's some freak of the wind playing tricks with
us!"

He held his men, though they were still frightened, and to encourage
them and to prove that no enemy, natural or supernatural, was near, he
plunged suddenly into the bushes to see the origin of the terrifying
sounds. His action was wholly unexpected, and chance brought him to the
very point where Robert was. The lad leaped to his feet and the pirate
sprang back aghast, thinking perhaps that he had come face to face with
a ghost. Then with a snarl of malignant anger he leveled the pistol that
he held in his hand. But Robert struck instantly with his clubbed
rifle, and his instinctive impulse was so great that he smote with
tremendous force. The man was caught full and fair on the head, and,
reeling back from the edge of the bushes in which they stood, fell dead
in the open, where all his men could see.

It was enough. The demons, the ghosts that haunted them for their
crimes, were not very vocal, but they struck with fearful power. They
had smitten down the man who tried to keep them on their island, and
they were not going to stay one second longer. There was a combined yell
of horror, the rush of frightened feet, and, reaching their boats, they
rowed with all speed for the schooner, leaving behind them the body of
their dead comrade.

Robert, awed a little by his own success in demonology, watched until
they climbed on board the ship, drawing the boats after them. Then they
hoisted the anchor, made sail, and presently he saw the schooner tacking
in the wind, obviously intending to leave in all haste that terrible
place.

She became a ghost ship, a companion to the _Flying Dutchman_, outlined
in red by the crimson lightning that still played at swift intervals.
Now she turned to the color of blood, and the sea on which she swam was
a sea of blood. Robert watched her until at last, a dim, red haze, she
passed out of sight. Then he turned and looked at the body of the man
whom he had slain.

He shuddered. He had never intended to take the leader's life. Five
minutes before it occurred he would have said such a thing was
impossible. It was merely the powerful impulse of self-protection that
had caused him to strike with such deadly effect, and he was sorry. The
man, beyond all doubt, was a robber and murderer who had forfeited his
life a dozen times, and still he was sorry. It was a tragedy to him to
take the life of any one, no matter how evil the fallen might be.

He went back to the house, brought a shovel, one of the numerous ship's
stores, and buried the body at once high up the beach where the greatest
waves could not reach it and wash it away. He did his task to the rumble
of thunder and the flash of lightning, but, when he finished it, dawn
came and then the storm that had threatened but that had never burst
passed away. He felt, though, that it had not menaced him. To him it was
a good storm, kindly and protecting, and giving sufficient help in his
purpose that had succeeded so well.

It was a beautiful day, the air crisp with as much winter as the island
ever knew, and shot with the beams from a brilliant sun, but Robert was
exhausted. He had passed through a night of intense emotions, various,
every one of them poignant, and he had made physical and mental efforts
of his own that fairly consumed the nerves. He felt as if he could lie
down and sleep for a year, that it would take at least that long to
build up his body and mind as they were yesterday.

He dragged himself through the woods, forced his unwilling muscles to
cook a breakfast which he ate. Then he laid himself down on his bed, his
nerves now quiet, and fell asleep at once. When he awoke it was night
and he lay giving thanks for his great escape until he slept again. When
he awoke a second time day had returned, and, rising, he went about his
usual tasks with a light heart.




CHAPTER X

THE SLOOP OF WAR


Robert ate a light breakfast and went out to look at his domain, now
unsullied. What a fine, trim, clean island it was! And how desirable to
be alone on it, when the Gulf and the Caribbean produced only such
visitors as those who had come two nights before! He looked toward the
little bay, fearing to see the topmast of the schooner showing its tip
over the trees, but the sky there, an unbroken blue, was fouled by no
such presence. He was rid of the pirates--and forever he hoped.

It seemed to him that he had passed through an epic time, one of the
great periods of his life. He wondered now how he had been able to carry
out such a plan, how he had managed to summon up courage and resources
enough, and he felt that the good spirits of earth and air and water
must have been on his side. They had fought for him and they had won for
him the victory.

He shouldered his rifle and strolled through the woods toward the beach.
He had never noticed before what a fine forest it was. The trees were
not as magnificent as those of the northern wilderness, but they had a
beauty very peculiarly their own, and they were his. There was not a
single other claimant to them anywhere in the world.

It was a noble beach too, smooth, sloping, piled with white sand,
gleaming now in the sun, and the little frothy waves that ran up it and
lapped at his feet, like puppies nibbling, were just the friendliest
frothy little waves in the world. But there were the remains of the fire
left by the ruffians to defile it, and broken bottles and broken food
were scattered about. The litter hurt his eyes so much that he gathered
up every fragment, one by one, and threw them into the sea. When the
last vestige of the foul invasion was cleared away he felt that he had
his lonely, clean island back again, and he was happy.

He strolled up and down the glistening beach, feeling a great content.
After a while, he threw off his clothes and swam in the invigorating
sea, keeping well inside the white line of the breakers, in those waters
into which the sharks did not come. When he had sunned himself again on
the sand he went to the creek, took his dinghy from the bushes, where it
had been so well hidden, and rowed out to sea, partly to feel the spring
of the muscles in his arms, and partly to sit off at a distance and look
at his island. Surely if one had to be cast away that was the very
island on which he would choose to be cast! Not too big! Not too hot!
And not too cold! Without savage man or savage beasts, but with plenty
of wild cattle for the taking, and good fish in the lakes, and in the
seas about it. Plenty of stores of all kinds from the slaver's schooner,
even books to read. So far from being unfortunate he was one of the
lucky. A period of retirement from the companionship of his own kind
might be trying on the spirit, but it also meant meditation and mental
growth.

His joy over the departure of the pirates was so great and his
temperament was such that he felt a mighty revulsion of the spirits. He
had a period of extravagant elation. He took off his cap and saluted his
island. He made little speeches of glowing compliment to it, he called
it the pearl of its kind, the choicest gem of the Gulf or the Caribbean,
and, if pirates came again while he was there, he would drive them away
once more with the aid of the good spirits.

He rowed back, hid his boat in the old covert among the bushes at the
edge of the creek, and, rifle on shoulder, started through the forest
toward his peak of observation. On the way, he passed the lake and saw
the herd of wild cattle grazing there, the old bull at its head. The big
fellow, assured now by use and long immunity, cocked his head on one
side and regarded him with a friendly eye. But the bull had a terrible
surprise. He heard the sharp ping of a rifle and a fearful yell. Then he
saw a figure capering in wild gyrations, and thinking that this human
being whom he had learned to trust must have gone mad, he forgot to be
angry, but was very much frightened. Enemies he could fight, but mad
creatures he dreaded, and, bellowing hoarsely to his convoy, as a
signal, he took flight, all of them following him, their tails streaming
straight out behind them, so fast they ran.

Robert leaped and danced as long as one of them was in sight. When the
last streaming tail had disappeared in the bushes he sobered down. He
realized that he had given his friend, the bull, a great shock. In a
way, he had been guilty of a breach of faith, and he resolved to
apologize to him in some fashion the next time they met. Yet he had been
so exultant that it was impossible not to show it, and he was only a lad
in years.

When he reached the crest of his peak he scanned the sea on all sides.
Eagerly as he had looked before for a sail he now looked to see that
there was none. Around and around the circle of the horizon his eyes
traveled, and when he assured himself that no blur broke the bright line
of sea and sky his heart swelled with relief.

In a day or so, his mind became calm and his thoughts grew sober. Then
he settled down to his studies. The battle of life occupied only a small
portion of his time, and he resolved to put the hours to the best use.
He pored much over Shakespeare, the other Elizabethans and the King
James Bible, a copy of which was among the books. It was his intention
to become a lawyer, an orator, and if possible a statesman. He knew that
he had the gift of speech. His mind was full of thoughts and words
always crowded to his lips. It was easy enough for him to speak, but he
must speak right. The thoughts he wished to utter must be clothed in the
right kind of words arranged in the right way, and he resolved that it
should be so.

The way in which men thought and the way in which their thoughts were
put in the Bible and the great Elizabethans fascinated him. That was the
way in which he would try to think, and the way in which he would try to
put his thoughts. So he recited the noble passages over and over again,
he memorized many of them, and he listened carefully to himself as he
spoke them, alike for the sense and the music and power of the words.

It was then perhaps that he formed the great style for which he was so
famous in after years. His vocabulary became remarkable for its range,
flexibility and power, and he developed the art of selection. His rivals
even were used to say of him that he always chose the best word. He
learned there on the island that language was not given to man merely
that he might make a noise, but that he might use it as a great marksman
uses a rifle.

Work and study together filled his days. They kept far from him also any
feeling of despair. He had an abiding faith that a ship of the right
kind would come in time and take him away. He must not worry about it.
It was his task now to fit himself for the return, to prove to his
friends when he saw them once more that all the splendid opportunities
offered to him on the island had not been wasted.

Almost unconsciously, he began to reason more deeply, to look further
into the causes of things, and his mind turned particularly to the
present war. The more he thought about it the greater became his
conviction that England and the colonies were bound to win. Courage and
numbers, resources and tenacity must prevail even over great initial
mistakes. Duquesne and Ticonderoga would be brushed away as mere events
that had no control over destiny.

He remembered Bigot's ball in Quebec that Willet and Tayoga and he had
attended. It came before him again almost as vivid as reality. He
realized now in the light of greater age and experience how it typified
decadence. A power that was rotten at the top, where the brain should
be, could never defeat one that was full of youthful ardor and strength,
sound through and through, awkward and ill directed though that strength
might be. The young French leaders and their soldiers were valiant,
skillful and enduring--they had proved it again and again on sanguinary
fields--but they could not prevail when they had to receive orders from
a corrupt and reckless court at Versailles, and, above all when they had
to look to that court for help that never came.

His reading of the books in the slaver's chest told him that folly and
crime invariably paid the penalty, if not in one way then in another,
and he remembered too some of the ancient Greek plays, over which he had
toiled under the stern guidance of Master Alexander McLean. Their burden
was the certainty of fate. You could never escape, no matter how you
writhed, from what you did, and those old writers must have told the
truth, else men would not be reading and studying them two thousand
years after they were dead. Only truth could last twenty centuries.
Bigot, Cadet, Péan, and the others, stealing from France and Canada and
spending the money in debauchery, could not be victorious, despite all
the valor of Montcalm and St. Luc and De Levis and their comrades.

He remembered, too, the great contrast between Quebec and New York that
had struck him when he arrived at the port at the mouth of the Hudson
with the hunter and the Onondaga. The French capital in Canada was all
of the state; it was its creature. If the state declined, it declined,
there was little strength at the roots, little that sprang from the
soil, but in New York, which men already forecast as the metropolis of
the New World, there was strength everywhere. It might be a sprawling
town. There might be no courtliness to equal the courtliness at the
heart of Quebec, but there was vigor, vigor everywhere. The people were
eager, restless, curious, always they worked and looked ahead.

He saw all these things very clearly. Silence, loneliness and distance
gave a magnificent perspective. Facts that were obscured when he was
near at hand, now stood out sharp and true. His thoughts in this period
were often those of a man double his age. His iron health too remained.
His was most emphatically the sound mind in the sound body, each helping
the other, each stimulating the other to greater growth.

It was a fact, however, that the Onondaga belief, peopling the air and
all sorts of inanimate objects with spirits, grew upon him; perhaps it
is better to say that it was a feeling rather than a belief. According
to Tayoga the good spirits fought with the bad, and on his island the
good had prevailed. They had told him that a ship was coming, and then
they had warned him that it would be a ship of pirates. They had shown
him how to drive away the ruffians. His inspiration had not been his
own, it had come from them and he thankfully acknowledged it.

He told himself now as he went about his island that he heard the good
spirits singing among the leaves and he told it to himself so often that
he ended by believing it. It was such a pleasant and consoling belief
too. He listened to hear them say that he would leave the island when
the time was ripe and his imagination was now so extraordinarily vivid
that what he expected to hear he heard. The spirits assured him that
when the time came to go he would go. They did not tell him exactly when
he would go, but that could not be asked. No one must anticipate a
complete unveiling of the future. It was sufficient that intimations
came out of it now and then.

It was this feeling, amounting to a conviction, that bore him up on a
shield of steel. It soothed the natural impatience of his youth and
temperament. Why grieve over not going when he knew that he would go?
Yet, a long time passed and there was no sail upon the sea, though the
fact failed to shake his faith. Often he climbed his peak of observation
and studied the circling horizon through the glasses, only to find
nothing, but he was never discouraged. There was never any fall of the
spirits. No ship showed, but the ship that was coming might even then be
on the way. She had left some port, probably one in England, not
dreaming that it was a most important destiny and duty of hers to pick
up a lone lad cast away on an island in the Gulf or the Caribbean--at
least it was most important to him.

Now came a time of storms that seemed to him to portend a change in the
seasons. The island was swept by wind and rain, but he liked to be
lashed by both. He even went out in the dinghy in storms, though he kept
inside the reefs, and fought with wave and undertow and swell, until,
pleasantly exhausted, he retreated to the beach, drawing his little boat
after him, where he watched the sea, vainly struggling to reach the one
who had defied it. It was after such contests that he felt strongest of
the spirit, ready to challenge anything.

He plunged deeper and deeper into his studies, striving to understand
everything. The intensity of his application was possible only because
he was alone. Forced to probe, to examine and to ponder, his mind
acquired new strength. Many things which otherwise would have been
obscure to him became plain. Looking back upon his own eventful life
since that meeting with St. Luc and Tandakora in the forest, he was
better able to read motives and to understand men. The reason why Adrian
Van Zoon wished him to vanish must be money, because only money could be
powerful enough to make such a man risk a terrible crime. Well, he would
have a great score to settle with Van Zoon. He did not yet know just how
he would settle it, but he did not doubt that the day of reckoning would
come.

A cask of oil and several lanterns were among his treasures from the
ship, and, making use of them, he frequently read late at night, often
with the rain beating hard on walls and roof. Then it seemed to him that
his mind was clearest, and he resolved again and again that when he
returned to his own he would make full use of what he learned on the
island. It seemed to him sometimes that his being cast away was a piece
of luck and not a misfortune.

A clear day came, and, taking his rifle, he strolled toward his peak of
observation, passing on the way the herd of wild cattle with the old
bull at its head. The big fellow looked at him suspiciously, as if
fearing that his friend might be suffering from one of his mad spells
again. But Robert's conduct was quite correct. He walked by in a quiet
and dignified manner, and, reassured, the bull went back to his task of
reducing the visible grass supply.

He saw nothing from the peak except the green island and the blue sea
all about it, but there was a singing wind among the leaves and it was
easy for him to sit down on a rock and fall into a dreaming state. The
good spirits were abroad, and it was their voices that he heard among
the leaves. Their chant too was full of courage, hope and promise, and
his spirits lifted as he listened. They were watching over him, guarding
him from evil, and he felt, at last, that they were telling him
something.

It is not always easy to know the exact burden of a song, even if it is
uplifting, and Robert listened a long time, trying to decipher exactly
what the good spirits were saying to him. It was just such a song as
they sang to him before the pirate ship came, saving one strain and that
was most important. There was no underlying note of warning. Hunt for it
as he would, with his fullest power of hearing, he could detect no trace
of it. Then he became convinced. Another ship was coming, and this time
it was no pirate craft.

He roused himself from his dreaming state and shook his head, but the
vision did not depart. The ship was coming and it was for him to receive
it. The news of it had been written too deeply upon the sensitive plate
of his brain to be effaced, and, as he walked back toward the house, it
seemed to grow more vivid. He was too much excited to study that day,
and he spent the time building a great heap of wood upon the beach. Even
if one were helped by good spirits he must do his own part. They might
bring the ship to the horizon's rim, but it was for him to summon it
from there, and he would have a great bonfire ready.

The brilliance of the day departed in the afternoon, and it became
apparent that the season of rain and storm was not yet over. Clouds
marched up in grim battalions from the south and west, rain came in
swift puffs and then in long, heavy showers, the sea heaved, breaking
into great waves and the surf dashed fiercely on the sharp teeth of the
rocks.

Robert's spirits fell. This was not the way in which a rescuing ship
should come, under a somber sky and before driving winds. Perhaps he had
read the voices of the spirits wrong, or at least the ship, instead of
coming now, was coming at some later time, a month or two months away
maybe. He watched through the rest of the afternoon, hoping that the
clouds would leave, but they only thickened, and, long before the time
of sunset, it was almost as dark as night. He was compelled to remain in
the shelter of the house, and, in a state of deep depression, he ate his
supper without appetite.

The storm was one of the fiercest he had seen while on the island. The
rain drove in sheets, beating upon the walls and roof of the house like
hail, and the wind kept up a continuous whistling and screaming. All the
while the house trembled over him. Nor was there any human voice in the
wind. The good spirits, if such existed, would not dare the storm, but
had retreated to cover. All the illusion was gone, he was just a lonely
boy on a lonely island, listening to the wrath of a hurricane, a ship
might or might not come, most probably never, or if it did it would be
another pirate.

The storm did not seem to abate as the evening went on, perhaps it was
the climax of the season. Tired of hearing its noise he lay down on his
couch and at last fell asleep. He was awakened from slumber by an impact
upon the drum of his ear like a light blow, but, sitting up, he realized
that it was a sound. The storm had not abated. He heard the beat of wind
and rain as before, but he knew it was something else that had aroused
him. The noise of the storm was regular, it was going on when he fell
asleep, and it had never ceased while he slept. This was something
irregular, something out of tune with it, and rising above it. He
listened intently, every nerve and pulse alive, body and mind at the
high pitch of excitement, and then the sound came again, low but
distinct, and rising above the steady crash of the storm.

He knew the note. He had heard it often, too often on that terrible day
at Ticonderoga. It could be but one thing. It was the boom of a cannon,
and it could come only from a ship, a ship in danger, a ship driven by
the storm, knowing nothing of either sea or island, sending forth her
signal of distress which was also a cry for help.

It was his ship! The ship of rescue! But he must first rescue _it_! Now
he heard the voices of the good spirits, the voices that had been silent
all through the afternoon and evening, singing through the storm,
calling to him, summoning him to action. He had not taken off his
clothes and he leaped from the couch, snatched up a lighted lantern,
stuffed flint and steel in his pocket, and ran out into the wind and
rain, of which he was now scarcely conscious.

The boom came to his ears a second time, off to the east, and now
distinctly the report of a cannon. He waited a little, watching, and,
when the report came a third time, he saw dimly the flash of the gun,
but it was too dark for him to see anything of the ship. She was outside
the reefs, how far he could not tell, but he knew by the difference in
the three reports that she was driving toward the island.

It was for him to save the unknown vessel that was to save him, and in
the darkness and storm he felt equal to the task. His soul leaped within
him. His whole body seemed to expand. He knew what to do, and, quick as
lightning, he did it. He ran at full speed through the woods, his
lighted lantern swinging on his arm, and twice on the way he heard the
boom of the cannon, each time a little nearer. The reports merely made
him run faster. Time was precious, and in the moment of utmost need he
was not willing to lose a second.

He reached the great heap of wood that he had built up on the beach,
worked frantically with flint and steel, shielding the shavings at the
bottom with his body, and quickly set fire to them. The blaze crackled,
leaped and grew. He had built his pyramid so well, and he had selected
such inflammable material, that he knew, if the flames once took hold,
the wind would fan them so fiercely the rain could not put them out.

Higher sprang the blaze, running to the crest of the pyramid, roaring in
the wind and then sending out defiant hissing tongues at the rain. The
boom of the cannon came once more, and, then by the light of his
splendid bonfire, he looked. There was the ship outside the reefs which
his great pyramid of flame now enabled her to see. He shouted in his
joy, and threw on more wood. If he could only build that pyramid high
enough they would see the opening too and make for it.

He worked frantically, throwing on driftwood, the accumulation of many
years, and the flames biting into every fresh log, roared and leaped
higher. The ship ceased to fire her signal guns, and now he saw, with a
great surge of joy, that she was beating up in the storm and trying for
the opening in the reef, her only chance, the chance that he had given
her. He had done his part and he could do no more but feed the fire.

As he threw on wood he watched. His pyramid of flame roared and threw
out sparks in myriads. The ship, a sloop, was having a desperate
struggle with wind and wave, but his beacon was always there, showing
her the way, and he never doubted for a moment that she would make the
haven. He was sure of it. It was a terrible storm, and there was a
fierce sea beating on the reefs, but a master mind was on the sloop, the
mind of a great sailor, and that mind, responding to his signal of the
fire, the only one that could have been made, was steering the ship
straight for the opening in the reef.

His glasses were always in his pocket, and, remembering them now for the
first time, he clapped them to his eyes. The sloop and her tracery of
mast and spars became distinct. He saw guns on the deck and men, men in
uniform, and he could see well enough, a moment or two later, to tell
that they wore the uniform of Britain. His heart gave a wild throb. The
spirits in the air were good spirits, and the storm had never been able
to drive them away. They had been calling to him when he thought they
were silent, only he had not been able to hear them.

He gave a wild shout of joy that could be heard above the crash of the
storm. Triumph was assured. He was rescuing, and he would be rescued. He
did not realize until that instant how eager he was to be taken from the
island, how he longed, with all his soul, to rejoin his own kind, to see
his friends again and to take a part in the great events that were
shaking the world. He uttered his wild shout over and over, and, in
between, he laughed, laughed with a joy that he could not control.

The sloop entered the opening. It seemed to him that the rocks, those
fearful sharks' teeth, almost grazed her on either side, and his heart
stood still, but she went safely past them, drew into the little harbor
where she was safe from the wildest storm that ever blew, dropped
anchor, and was at rest.

Robert in his exultation had never permitted his fire to die down an
inch. Rather he had made it grow higher and higher until it was a vast
core of light, throwing a red glare over the beach and the adjacent
waves, and sending off vast showers of sparks. But when the ship cast
anchor in her port he stood still before it, a dark figure, a perfect
silhouette outlined against a blazing background, and watched, while a
boat was launched from the sloop.

He saw five figures descend into the boat. Four were sailors and one an
officer in uniform, and he knew well that they were coming to see him,
the human being by the fire who had saved them. Pride was mingled with
his joy. If he had not been there the sloop and probably all on board of
her would have perished. It was touch and go, only a brief opportunity
to save had been allowed him, but he had used it. So he raised himself
to his full height, straightened his clothes, for which he always had
respect despite the storm, and waited on. He had a full sense of drama,
and he felt that this was one of the most dramatic moments of his life.

The boat came up the beach on a wave, the men sprang out, held it as the
wave retreated, and then dragged it after them until it was beyond the
reach of invading water. Robert meanwhile never stirred, and the great
fire behind him enlarged his figure to heroic proportions.

The officer, young, handsome, in the British naval uniform, walked
forward, with the four sailors following in a close group behind, but he
stopped again, and looked at the strange figure before him. Evidently
something in its pose, in its whole appearance, in truth, made an
extraordinary impression upon him. He passed his hands before his eyes
as if to make sure that it was no blur of the vision, and then he went
forward again, the sailors keeping close behind, as if they were in fear
lest the figure prove to be supernatural.

"Who are you?" called the young officer.

"Robert Lennox, of Albany, the Province of New York, and the
wilderness," replied Robert. "Welcome to my island."

His sense of drama was still strong upon him, and he replied in his
fullest and clearest voice. The officer stared, and then said:

"You've saved the ship and all our lives."

"I think that's what I was here for, though it's likely that you've
saved me, too. What ship it that?"

"His Majesty's sloop of war, _Hawk_, Captain Stuart Whyte, from
Bridgetown in the Barbadoes, for Boston."

Robert thrilled when he heard the word "Boston." It was not New York,
but it was a port for home, nevertheless.

"Who are you?" continued the officer, on fire with curiosity. "You've
told me your name, but what are you? and where are the other people of
the island?"

"There are no other people. It's my island. I'm sole lord of the isle,
and you're most welcome."

"You heard our signal guns?"

"Aye, I heard 'em, but I knew before you fired a shot that you were
coming."

"'Tis impossible!"

"It's not! I knew it, though I can't explain how to you. Behold my
bonfire! Do you think I could have built such a pyramid of wood between
the firing of your first shot and your coming into my harbor? No, I was
ready and waiting for you."

"That's convincing."

"I repeat that I welcome you to Lennox Island. My house is but a short
distance inland in a beautiful forest. I should like to receive Captain
Whyte there as an honored guest, and you, too."

"Your house?"

"Aye, my house. And it's well built and well furnished. You'd be
surprised to know how much comfort it can offer."

The officer--a lieutenant--and the men, coming closer, inspected Robert
with the most minute curiosity. Lone men on desert islands were likely
to go insane, and it was a momentary thought of the officer that he was
dealing with some such unhappy creature, but Robert's sentences were too
crisp, and his figure too erect and trim for the thought to endure more
than a few seconds.

"It's raining heavily," he said, "and Captain Whyte will be glad to be a
guest at your home later. I'll admit that for a moment I doubted the
existence of your house, but I don't now. Are you willing to go on board
the _Hawk_ with us and meet Captain Whyte?"

"Gladly," replied Robert, who felt that his dramatic moment was being
prolonged. "The storm is dying now. Having done its worst against you,
and, having failed, it seems willing to pass away."

"But we don't forget that you saved us," said the officer. "My name is
Lanham, John Lanham, and I'm a lieutenant on the _Hawk_."

The storm was, in truth, whistling away to the westward and its rage, so
far as Robert's island was concerned, was fully spent. The waves were
sinking and the night was lightening fast. The sloop of war, heaving at
her anchorage, stood up sharp and clear, and it seemed to Robert that
there was something familiar in her lines. As he looked he was sure.
Coincidence now and then stretches forth her long arm, and she had
stretched it now.

The sailors, when the sea died yet more, relaunched the boat. Lanham and
Robert sprang in, and the men bent to the oars.




CHAPTER XI

BACK TO THE WORLD


Captain Stuart Whyte of His Majesty's gallant sloop of war, the _Hawk_,
was standing on his own quarterdeck, looking curiously at the scene
about him, and, taking it in, as well as he could, by the light of a
great bonfire blazing on the beach some distance away. He was a young
officer and his immense relief predominated over his curiosity. The
_Hawk_ was a fine sloop, and he loved her, but there had been a terrible
time that night when he thought she was lost and her crew and himself
with her.

He had seen more than one storm in these sudden seas, but this was
perhaps the worst. All bearings were gone, and then the signs showed
breakers. He was a brave man and he had brave officers, but every one of
them had despaired, until suddenly a light, a pillar of fire, rose in
the darkness and the storm, almost from the heart of the ocean, as if it
had been evoked by his own signal guns. Then, by this marvelous beacon,
they had scraped between the rocks and into safety. Clearly it was a
miracle, and young Captain Whyte felt a deep and devout gratitude. He
had then sent one of his best officers ashore to see the man who had
saved them, and, meanwhile, he had stood by, watching through his
glasses.

He saw the man of the island get into the boat with Lanham and approach
the sloop. The storm had now sunk much, and it was not difficult to come
aboard, but Captain Whyte, still intensely curious, but with a proper
sense of his own dignity, withdrew to his cabin where he might receive
the lord of the isle in state.

He rose politely, and then stared at the tall youth who came in with
Lieutenant Lanham, the water running from his clothes. Yet the stranger
had a dignity fully equal to his own, and there was also something very
uncommon about him, a look of strength and confidence extraordinary in
one so young.

"Won't you sit down?" said Captain Whyte.

Robert glanced at his clothes.

"I bring the storm with me," he said--he often spoke in the language
that he had unconsciously imbibed in much reading of the Elizabethans.

"Never mind that. Water won't hurt my cabin, and if it did you're
welcome just the same. I suppose you represent the people of the island,
to whom my crew and I owe so much."

"I am the people of the island."

"You mean that you're here alone?"

"Exactly that. But tell me, before we go any further, Captain, what
month this is."

"May."

"And the year?"

"1759."

"I wanted to be sure. I see that I've been on the island eight or nine
months, but I lost all count of time, and, now and then it seemed like
eight or nine years. As I've already told Lieutenant Lanham, I'm Robert
Lennox, of Albany, the Province of New York, and the wilderness. I was
kidnapped at Albany and carried down the Hudson and out to sea by a
slaver and pirate."

"'Tis an extraordinary tale, Mr. Lennox."

"But a true one, Captain Whyte."

"I meant no insinuation that it wasn't. Extraordinary things happen in
the world, and have been happening in these seas, ever since Columbus
first came into them."

"Still mine is such an unusual story that it needs proof, and I give it.
Did you not last autumn pretend that yours was a merchant ship, have a
sailor play the violin on deck while others danced about, and lure under
your guns a pirate with the black flag at her masthead?"

Captain Whyte stared in astonishment.

"How do you know that?" he exclaimed.

"Did you not shatter the pirate ship with your broadsides but lose her
afterwards in a great storm that came up suddenly?"

"Aye, so I did, and I've been looking for her many a time since then."

"You'll never find her, Captain. Your guns were aimed well enough, and
they took the life out of her. She couldn't weather the storm. Of all
the people who were aboard her then I'm the only survivor. Her captain
escaped with me to this island, but he died of wounds and I buried him.
I can show you his grave."

"How do I know that you, too, are not one of the pirates?"

"By taking me back on your ship to the colonies, and proving my tale. If
you don't find that every word I tell you is true you can hang me to
your own yardarm."

Captain Whyte laughed. It was a fair and frank offer, but he was a
reader of men, and he felt quite sure that the strange youth was telling
the absolute truth.

"He's given me, sir, quite correct accounts of events that happened in
the colonies last year," said Lanham. "He was at Ticonderoga and his
narrative of the battle agrees fully with the accounts that we
received."

And just at that moment coincidence stretched out her long arm again, as
she does so often.

"I had a cousin at Ticonderoga," said Captain Whyte. "A splendid young
fellow, name of Grosvenor. I've seen a letter from him in which he says
'twas a terrible fight, but that we threw away our chances before we
went upon the field."

"Grosvenor! Grosvenor!" exclaimed Robert eagerly. "Why, I knew him! He
was a friend of mine! We were in the forest together, in combat and
escape. His first name was Alfred. Did he say nothing in his letter of
Robert Lennox?"

"Of course he did! I was so much interested in you that I paid little
attention to your name, and it glided past me as if I'd not heard it. He
told of a friend of his, name of yours, who had been lost, murdered they
all believed by some spy."

"And did he say nothing also of Tayoga, a wonderful Onondaga Indian, and
of David Willet, a great hunter?"

"Aye, so he did. I recall those names too. Said the Indian was the most
marvelous trailer the world had ever known, could trace the flight of a
bird through the air, and a lot more that must have been pure romance."

"It's all true! every word of it. I'll see that you meet Tayoga, and
then you'll believe, and you must know Willet, too, one of the grandest
men that ever lived, soul of honor, true as steel, all those things."

"I believe you! Every word you say! But I can't keep you talking here
with the water dripping from you. We really couldn't question your
truth, either, after you'd saved our ship and all our lives. I see you
have a naval uniform of ours. Well, we'll give you a dry one in its
place. See that the best the _Hawk_ has is his, Lanham."

Robert was taken to a small cabin that was vacant and he exchanged into
dry clothing. He went back a little later to the captain's room with
Lanham, where they insisted upon his taking refreshment, and then
Captain Whyte sent him to bed.

"I've a million questions to ask you, Mr. Lennox," he said, "but I won't
ask 'em until to-morrow. You must sleep."

Robert's manner had been calm, but he found when he lay down that he was
surcharged with excitement. It was inside him and wanted to get it out,
but he kept it bottled up, and after an hour spent in quieting his
nerves he fell asleep. When he awoke, dressed and went on deck, all
trace of the storm had gone. The _Hawk_ swung quietly at anchor and to
him she seemed the very finest ship that had ever sailed on any sea from
the day of the galley to the day of the three-decker. He noticed with
pleasure how trim everything was, how clean was the wood, how polished
the brass, and how the flag of Britain snapped in the breeze overhead.
He noticed too the eighteen pounders and he knew these were what had
done the business for the slaver and pirate. Lanham gave him a hearty
welcome.

"It's half way to noon," he said, "and you slept long and well, as you
had a right to do, after saving His Majesty's twenty-two gun sloop,
_Hawk_, from the rocks. We had a boat's crew ashore this morning, not
because we doubted your word, but to see that everything was trim and
snug on your island, and they found your house. On my word, quite a
little castle, and well furnished. We didn't disturb a thing. It's
yours, you know."

"I merely inherited it," said Robert. "The slaver and pirate who
kidnapped me built it as a place for a refuge or a holiday, and he came
back here to die. He furnished it partly, and the rest came from his
wrecked ship."

After breakfast Robert went ashore also with the captain and Lanham, and
he showed them about the island. They even saw the old bull at the head
of his herd, and Robert waved him a friendly farewell. The house and its
contents they decided to leave exactly as they were.

"They may shelter some other castaway," said Robert.

"We'll even leave the guns and ammunition," said Captain Whyte. "We
don't need 'em. You rescued 'em from the ship and they belong to you.
The _Hawk_ has no claim on 'em."

"I'd like for 'em to stay here," said Robert. "Nobody may ever be cast
away on this island again, and on the other hand it might happen next
week. You can't tell. But it's been a good island to me, and, though I
say farewell, I won't forget it."

"You take the right view of it," said Captain Whyte, "and even if I
didn't feel your way about it, although I do, I'd be bound to give you
your wish since you saved us. You've also taken quite a burden off my
mind. It's always been a source of grief to me that the pirate eluded us
in the storm, but since you've shown me that we were really responsible
for her sinking I feel a lot better about it."

On the _Hawk_ Lanham told him what had been passing in the world.

"There's a great expedition out from England under that young general,
Wolfe, who distinguished himself at Louisbourg," he said. "It aims at
the taking of Quebec, and we're very hopeful. The rendezvous is
Louisbourg, on Cape Breton Island and army and navy, I suppose, are
already there. Your own Royal Americans will be in it, and what we lost
at Ticonderoga we propose to regain--and more--before Quebec. The _Hawk_
is bound for Louisbourg to join the fleet, but she puts in at Boston
first. If you choose to go on to Louisbourg with us you won't fare ill,
because the captain has taken a great fancy for you."

"I thank you much," said Robert, gratefully. "I'm almost tempted to join
the great expedition from Louisbourg into the St. Lawrence, but I feel
that I must leave the ship at Boston. I'm bound to hunt up Willet and
Tayoga, and we'll come by land. We'll meet you before the heights of
Quebec."

Everything seemed to favor the northward voyage of the _Hawk_. Good
winds drove her on, and Robert's heart leaped within him at the thought
that he would soon be back in his own country. Yet he made little
outward show of it. The gravity of mind and manner that he had acquired
on the island remained with him. Habits that he had formed there were
still very powerful. It was difficult for him to grow used to the
presence of other people, and at times he longed to go out on his peak
of observation, where he might sit alone for hours, with only the
rustling of the wind among the leaves in his ears. The sound of the
human voice was often strange and harsh, and now and then only his will
kept him from starting when he heard it, as one jumps at the snarl of a
wild animal in the bush.

But the friendship between him, Captain Whyte, Lieutenant Lanham and the
other young officers grew. People instinctively liked Robert Lennox.
Whether in his gay mood or his grave he had a charm of manner that few
could resist, and his story was so strange, so picturesque that it
invested him with compelling romance. He told all about his kidnapping
and his life upon the island, but he said nothing of Adrian Van Zoon. He
let it be thought that the motive of the slaver in seizing him was
merely to get a likely lad for sale on a West India plantation. But his
anger against Van Zoon grew. He was not one to cherish wrath, but on
this point it was concentrated, and he intended to have a settlement. It
was not meant that he should be lost, it was not meant that Adrian Van
Zoon should triumph. He had been seized and carried away twice, and each
time, when escape seemed impossible, a hand mightier than that of man
had intervened in his favor.

He spoke a little of his thought once or twice when he stood on the deck
of the _Hawk_ on moonlight nights with Captain Whyte and Lieutenant
Lanham.

"You can't live with the Indians as much as I have," he said,
"especially with such a high type of Indian as the Iroquois, without
acquiring some of their beliefs which, after all, are about the same as
our own Christian religion. The difference is only in name. They fill
the air with spirits, good and evil, and have 'em contending for the
mastery. Now, I felt when I was on the island and even before that I was
protected by the good spirits of the Iroquois, and that they were always
fighting for me with the bad."

"I take it," said Captain Whyte, "that the Indian beliefs, as you tell
them, are more like the mythology of the old Greeks and Romans. I'm a
little rusty on my classics, but they had spirits around everywhere,
good and bad, always struggling with one another, and their gods
themselves were mixtures of good and evil, just like human beings. But
I'm not prepared to say, Mr. Lennox, that you weren't watched over. It
seems strange that of all the human beings on the slaver you should have
been the only one saved and you the only one not stained with crime.
It's a fact I don't undertake to account for. And you never found out
the name of the pirate captain?"

"Neither his nor that of his ship. It had been effaced carefully from
the schooner and all her boats."

"I suppose it will remain one of the mysteries of the sea. But tell me
more about my cousin, Grosvenor. He was really becoming a trailer, a
forest runner?"

"He was making wonderful progress. I never saw anybody more keen or
eager."

"A fine lad, one of our best. I'm glad that you two met. I'd like to
meet too that Frenchman, St. Luc, of whom you've spoken so often. We
Englishmen and Frenchmen have been fighting one another for a thousand
years, and it seems odd, doesn't it, Mr. Lennox, that it should be so?
Why, the two countries can see each other across the Channel on clear
days, and neighbors ought to be the best of friends, instead of the most
deadly enemies. It seems that the farther a nation is from another the
better they get along together. What is there in propinquity, Mr.
Lennox, to cause hostility?"

"I don't know, but I suppose it's rivalry, the idea that if your
neighbor grows he grows at your expense. Your hostility carries over to
us in America also. We're your children and we imitate our parents. The
French in Canada hate the English in the Provinces and the English in
the Provinces hate the French in Canada, when there's so much of the
country of each that they're lost in it."

"It's a queer world, Mr. Lennox. In spite of what you say and which I
endorse, I'm going with an eager heart in the great expedition against
Quebec, and so will you. I'll be filled with joy if it succeeds and so
will you."

Robert admitted the fact.

"And I'd be delighted if we could meet a French sloop of about our own
size and armament," continued the captain. "Every man on board the
_Hawk_ would go into battle with her eagerly, and yet I don't hate the
French individually. They're a brave and gallant nation, and this St.
Luc, of whom you speak, seems to be the very flower of chivalry."

The captain's wish to meet a French sloop of war of his own size was not
granted. He had high hopes the fourth day when they saw a sail, but it
proved to be a schooner out of Newport returning from Jamaica with a
cargo of sugar and molasses. The _Hawk_ showed her heels in disgust, and
pursued her way northward.

As the time to reach Boston drew near, Robert's heart filled again. He
would be back in his own land, and his world would be before him once
more. He had already decided that he would go at once to Albany and
there pick up the thread of his old life. He was consumed, too, by
curiosity. What had happened since he was gone? His feeling that he had
been in the island eight or nine years instead of eight or nine months
remained. While it was his own world to which he was returning, it was
also a new world.

Came the day when the harbor lights of the port of Boston showed through
a haze and Robert, standing on the deck of the _Hawk_, watched the city
rise out of the sea. He was dressed in a good suit of civilian clothing
that he had found on the island, and he had some money that had never
been taken from him when he was kidnapped, enough to pay his way from
Boston to Albany. His kindly English friends wanted to lend him more,
but he declined it.

"You can pay us back in Quebec," said White.

"I don't need it," replied Robert, "but I'll keep the rendezvous there
with you both."

As the _Hawk_ was to stay two or three days in port in order to take on
supplies, they went ashore together, and the three were full of
curiosity when they entered, for the first time, the town of which they
had heard so much. Boston had already made such impress upon the
imagination that all the English colonists were generally known to the
French in Canada as Bostonnais. In England it had a great name, and
there were often apprehensions about it. It was the heart and soul of
the expedition when the New Englanders surprised the world by taking the
great French fortress of Louisbourg, and it had an individuality and a
personality which it has never lost.

"I don't know how I'm going to like it," said Captain Whyte, as they
left the sloop. "I hear that they're very superior here, and consider us
English a rather backward lot. Don't you think you'd better reconsider,
Lennox, and go on with us to Louisbourg?"

Robert laughed.

"I'm not afraid of the Bostonians," he said. "I met some very competent
ones on the shores of Lake George. There was one Elihu Strong, a colonel
of Massachusetts infantry, whom I like to remember. In truth, Captain,
what I see here arouses my admiration. You noticed the amount of
shipping in the port. The Bostonians are very keen traders, and they say
there are sharp differences in character between them and the people of
our southern provinces, but as I come from a middle province, New York,
I am, in a sense, neutral. The New Englanders have a great stake in the
present war. Their country has been ravaged for more than a century by
French and Indians from Canada, and this province of Massachusetts is
sending to it nearly every man, and nearly every dollar it has."

"We know of their valor and tenacity in England," said Captain Whyte,
"but we know also that they're men of their own minds."

"Why shouldn't they be? That's why they're English."

"Since you put it that way, you're right. But here we are."

The town, about the size of New York, looked like a great city to
Robert. He had come from a land that contained only one inhabitant,
himself, and it was hard for him now to realize there were so many
people in the world. The contrast put crowds everywhere, and, at times,
it was very confusing, though it was always interesting. The men were
mostly tall, thin, and with keen but composed eyes. They were of purer
British blood than those in New York, but it seemed to Robert that they
had departed something from type. They were more strenuous than the
English of Old England, and the New Yorkers, in character if not in
blood and appearance, were more nearly English than the Bostonians. He
also thought, and he was not judging now so much from a glimpse of
Boston as from the New England men whom he had met, that they were
critical both of themselves and others, and that they were a people who
meant to have their way at any cost.

But his attempts to estimate character and type were soon lost in his
huge delight at being back in his own country. Robert's mind was a
mirror. It always reflected his surroundings. Quickly adaptable, he
usually perceived the best of everything, and now busy and prosperous
Boston in its thin, crisp air, delighted him immeasurably. His feelings
were much as they had been when he visited New York. Here was a great
city, that is, great for his country and time, and it was destined to be
much greater.

As usual with sailors Captain Whyte and Lieutenant Lanham wished to go
to a coffee house, and Robert, nothing loath, accompanied them to one of
good quality to which they were directed near the water front. Here they
found numerous guests in the great common room and much talk going
forward, mostly talk of the war, as was natural. There was much
criticism of the British Government, not restrained at all, rather
increased, by the uniforms of the two naval officers.

"'Tis reported that the new expedition gathered at Louisbourg will go
the way of the one that was repulsed at Ticonderoga," said a thin,
elderly man. "I hear 'tis commanded by young Wolfe, who is sickly and
much given to complaint. Abercrombie, who led us at Ticonderoga, was
fat, old and slothful, and now Wolfe, who leads the new force is young,
sickly and fretful. It seems that England can't choose a middle course.
Why doesn't she send us a man?"

"That I can't tell you, Master Carver," said the man whom he was
addressing, "but I do know that if England would consult Massachusetts
more we'd fare better in this war. We should have marched over the
French army at Ticonderoga. I can't understand to this day how we lost
that battle."

"It seems that in very truth we lacked something there."

Robert was sitting not ten feet from them and their tone being so very
critical, he could not restrain a word or two.

"Your pardon, if I interrupt," he said, "but hearing you speak in a
somewhat slighting manner of Ticonderoga I'm bound to advise you that
you're wrong, since I was there. The English and Scotch troops, with our
own Americans, showed the very greatest valor on that sad occasion.
'Twas no fault of theirs. Our defeat was due to the lack of artillery,
the very skillful arrangements of the French commander, the Marquis de
Montcalm, and the extreme courage of the French army."

The two, who seemed to be merchants or shipping men, regarded him with
interest but with no appearance of resentment because of his
interference in their conversation. Apparently the criticism that they
permitted so freely to themselves they were willing also to allow to
others.

"But you are English," said the first who had spoken, "and 'tis most
natural for you to defend the generals who are sent out from the home
country."

"I am not English. I am a native of the Province of New York, and being
a colonial like yourselves, I think we allow too little credit to the
old country in the war. I speak as one who through the force of
circumstances has been an eye witness to many of the facts. My name is
Robert Lennox, sir, and my companions are Captain Stuart Whyte and
Lieutenant John Lanham of His Majesty's twenty-two gun sloop of war
_Hawk_, now in Boston harbor."

"And I, sir," responded the thin man with much courtesy, "am Samuel
Carver, wholesale dealer in cloth and leather, and my friend is Lemuel
Mason, owner of shipping plying principally to the West Indies. We're
pleased to meet His Majesty's officers and also you, Mr. Lennox, who we
can see is very young to have had so much experience in the wars. We
trust that all of you will pardon our freedom of criticism, but we're at
the heart of affairs here, and we see very clearly. It's not a freedom
that we'll give up."

Captain Whyte laughed easily.

"If what we hear in England of Boston is true," he said, "'tis a
privilege that nothing can make you give up. Perhaps 'tis as well. I'm
all for free speech myself. Through it affairs are well threshed out.
But I assure you you're wrong about General Wolfe. 'Tis true that he's
young and that he's sickly, but he's been chosen by Mr. Pitt for most
solid reasons. He has a great gift for arms. I've been fortunate enough
to meet him once or twice, and I can assure you that he makes a most
favorable impression. Moreover, the fact that he's been chosen by Mr.
Pitt is proof of his worth. Mr. Pitt is a very great man and he has that
highest of all talents, the ability to know other men and to direct
them."

Captain Whyte spoke with much warmth and his words carried conviction.

"I can well believe you, sir, when you speak so highly of Mr. Pitt,"
said Mr. Carver. "'Tis evident that he has the honor and glory of
England at heart and 'tis evident, too, that he does not mean to neglect
the interests of the colonies, a matter of the utmost importance. 'Tis
only Mr. Pitt among the home statesmen who have recognized our greatness
on this side of the ocean."

"Believe me, sir, I'm not blind to the growth and prosperity of the
colonies," said Captain Whyte. "I've seen your cities and I know how
much the Americans have done in the present war."

"Then 'tis a pity that England also doesn't know it," said Mr. Mason
somewhat sharply.

But Captain Whyte refused to be either angry or disconcerted.

"The width of our ocean always promotes ignorance, and
misunderstandings," he said. "And 'tis true too that the closest of kin
will quarrel, but families usually unite against an alien foe."

"'Tis so," admitted Mr. Mason, "and 'tis the business of statesmanship
to smooth down the quarrels that arise between the different parts of a
great kingdom. I trust that ours will always be equal to the task."

"Do you know a merchant of this city, Elihu Strong, who is also a
colonel of the Massachusetts infantry?" asked Robert. "I met him in a
strenuous business before Ticonderoga, where he also had a gallant
part."

"We could scarce be Bostonians and not know Elihu Strong," said Mr.
Carver. "One of the most active of our merchants, he has ships of his
own that ply between here and England, and he has also taken a very
zealous part in the war. The regiment that he commanded was equipped
partly at his expense."

"Commanded?" exclaimed Robert.

"I used the past tense, not because he has fallen, my young friend, but
Elihu was unfortunate enough to receive a severe wound in the leg some
months after Ticonderoga, and he is now recuperating at his own home
here near the Common. 'Tis not dangerous. He will not lose the leg, but
he will not be able to walk on it for some months yet. A great pity, say
I, that Elihu Strong is out of active service for a while, as His
Majesty's government might profit greatly by his advice and leadership
in the field."

"I've no doubt of it," said Captain Whyte with the greatest sincerity.
"I'm all for coöperation with the experienced men of the colonies, and
so is a far greater than I, the illustrious Mr. Pitt. They're on the
ground, they've lived their lives here and they ought to know."

"Our hope is in Mr. Pitt," said Mr. Carver. "You speak well of him,
Captain Whyte, and 'tis pleasing to our ears to hear you, because you
cannot know how his name inspires confidence in the colonies. Why, sir,
we look upon him as almost the half of England!"

It was so. And it was destined to remain so. Whatever happened between
England and America, the name of the elder Pitt, the great Englishman,
kept and keeps its place in the hearts of Americans, who in some
respects are the most sentimental and idealistic of all peoples.

Robert saw that the two young English officers and the two middle aged
Boston merchants were arriving at an understanding, that good relations
were established already, and he thought it wise to leave them together.

"I think," he said, "that I will visit Colonel Strong at his house, and
as my time in Boston must be short 'twill be best for me to go now."

Both Mr. Carver and Mr. Mason urged him to spend the night at their
houses, and Captain Whyte and Lieutenant Lanham were zealous for his
return with them to the _Hawk_, but he declined the offer, though saying
he would certainly visit the sloop before he left Boston. He judged that
it would be wise to leave the four together, in the coffee-house, and,
after receiving careful instructions how to reach the mansion of that
most respectable and worthy Bostonian, Colonel Elihu Strong, he went
into the street.

He found the Strong home to be a goodly house, one of the best in the
city, partly of brick and partly of wood, with columns in front, all
very spacious and pleasing. He knocked with a heavy brass knocker and a
trim colored maid responded.

"Is Colonel Strong at home?" he asked.

"He is, sir," she responded in English as good as his own, "though
confined to his chair with a wound in the leg which makes his temper a
trifle short at times."

"Naturally. So would mine be if I couldn't walk. I wish to see him."

"What name, sir, shall I say?"

"Tell him 'tis one who served with him in wilderness fighting, on the
eve of Ticonderoga."

She looked at him doubtfully, but her face cleared in a moment. Robert's
frank, open gaze invited everybody's confidence.

"Come into the hall, sir," she said, and then led the way from the hall
into a large room opening upon a lawn, well-shaded by many fine, large
trees. Elihu Strong sat in a chair before one of the windows, and his
wounded leg, swathed heavily, reposed in another chair.

Robert paused, and his heart beat rather hard. This was the first friend
of his old life that he had seen. Now, he was coming in reality back to
his world. He stood a few moments, irresolute, and then advancing
lightly he said:

"Good morning, Colonel Strong!"

The wounded man wheeled in his chair and looked at him, inquiry in his
face. Robert did not know what changes his life on the island had made
in his appearance, his expression rather, but he saw that Colonel Strong
did not know him, and it pleased him to play for a minute or so with the
fact.

"You did not receive this bullet, sir, when you saved us from St. Luc,"
he said. "It must have been much later, but I know it was a bad moment
for the Province of Massachusetts when the hostile lead struck you."

Colonel Strong stared.

"Who are you?" he exclaimed.

"There was a battle on the shores of Lake George, at a point where our
men had been building boats. They were besieged by a mixed force of
French and Indians, commanded by the great French partisan leader, St.
Luc. They beat off the attacks, but they would have been overcome in
time, if you had not hurried to their relief, with a strong force and
two brass cannon."

"That is true and if the Governor and Legislature of Massachusetts had
done their full duty we'd have had twice as many men and four, six, or
even eight cannon in place of two. But what do you know about those
things?"

"There were two boys, one Indian and one white, who came on the lake,
telling you of the plight of the boat builders. The Indian was Tayoga of
the Clan of the Bear, of the Nation Onondaga, of the Great League of the
Hodenosaunee, the finest trailer in the world. The white boy was Robert
Lennox, of the Province of New York."

"Aye, you speak truly. Full well do I remember them. How could I forget
them? Tayoga is back there now with the hunter Willet, doing some great
service in the war, what I know not, but it is something surely great.
The white boy, Robert Lennox, is dead. A great loss, too! A fine and
gallant lad."

"How do you know he is dead?"

"I had it in a letter from Master Benjamin Hardy of New York, with whom
I often transact affairs of business, and he, in turn, had it from one
Jacobus Huysman, a burgher of Albany in most excellent standing. Parts
of the matter are obscure, but the result is certain. It seems that the
lad was stalked by a spy, one Garay, and was murdered by him. His body,
they think, was thrown into the Hudson and was carried away. At least it
was never found. A most tragic business. I could have loved that lad as
if he had been my own son. It caused great grief to both Hardy and
Huysman,--and to me, too."

A lump came into Robert's throat. He did have friends, many and
powerful, and they mourned him. He seemed to have the faculty of
inspiring liking wherever he went. He had been standing in the shadow,
while the wounded man sat where the sunlight from the windows poured
upon him. He moved a little nearer where he could be more clearly seen,
and said:

"But what if I tell you that Robert Lennox is not dead, that he survived
a most nefarious plot against him, that he was, in truth, kidnapped and
carried far away to sea, but was rescued in a most remarkable manner and
has come back to his own land."

"'Tis impossible! 'Tis a wild tale, though God knows I wish it were
true, because he was a fine and gallant lad."

"'Tis a wild tale, sir, that I confess, but 'tis not impossible, for it
has happened. I am that Robert Lennox who came with Tayoga, the
Onondaga, in the canoe, through the fog on Lake George, to you, asking
that you hurry to the relief of the boat builders! You will remember,
sir, the fight at the ford, when they sought to ambush us, and how we
routed them with the cannon. You'll recall how St. Luc drew off when we
reached the boat builders. I've been away a long time, where every month
counted as a year, and perhaps I've changed greatly, but I'm that same
Robert Lennox to whom you said more than once that if the Governor and
Legislature of the Province of Massachusetts had done their full duty
your force would have been three or four times as strong."

"What? What? No stranger could know as much as you know! Come farther
into the light, boy! The voice is nearly the same as I remember it, but
the face has changed. You're older, graver, and there's a new look! But
the eyes are like his! On my soul I believe it's Robert Lennox! Aye, I
know 'tis Robert! Come, lad, and shake hands with me! I would go to you
but this wretched wound holds me in my chair! Aye, boy, yours is the
grasp of a strong and honest hand, and when I look into your eyes I know
'tis you, Robert, your very self. Sit you down and tell me how you have
risen from the grave, and why you've come to comfort an old man with
this most sudden and welcome news!"

The moisture rose in Robert's eyes. Truly he had friends, and not least
among them was this thin, shrewd Bostonian. He drew a chair close to the
colonel and spun the wonderful tale of his kidnapping, the sea fight,
the wreck, the island and his rescue by the _Hawk_. Colonel Strong
listened intently and seldom interrupted, but when Robert had finished
he said:

"'Tis clear, lad, that your belief in the good spirits was well placed.
We lose nothing by borrowing a little from the Iroquois beliefs. Their
good spirits are our angels. 'Tis all the same in the essence, only the
names are different. 'Tis clear, too, that they were watching over you.
And now this house is your home so long as you stay in Boston. We're
full of the great war, as you'll soon learn. Mr. Pitt has sent over a
new commander and a mighty attempt will be made on Quebec, though if the
King and Parliament of Britain did their full duty, the expedition would
be three times as large, and, if the Legislature and Governor of
Massachusetts also did their full duty, they would give three times as
much help."

"I'll stay gladly with you to-night, sir, but I must go in the morning.
I wish to reach Albany as soon as possible and show that I'm not dead.
You're the first, sir, of all my friends, to learn it. I must tell my
comrades of the _Hawk_ good-bye too. They've been very good to me, and
their ship is in your harbor."

"But you spend the night here. That's promised, and I can give you news
of some of your friends, those gallant lads who were with us in the
great adventure by the lake. The young Englishman, Grosvenor, the
Philadelphians, Colden, Wilton and Carson, and the Virginians, Stuart
and Cabell, have all been to see me. Grosvenor joins a regiment with
Wolfe, the Grenadiers, I think, and the Philadelphians and Virginians
are transferred to the Royal Americans, for the term of the war, at
least."

"I hope to see them all, sir, under the walls of Quebec. Captain Whyte
of the _Hawk_ offered to take me in his ship to the rendezvous at
Louisbourg, but I felt that I must go first to Albany and then join
Willet and Tayoga. We'll go by land and meet the army and fleet coming
down the St. Lawrence."

"A proper plan, and a proper ambition, my lad. I would that I could be
with you, but this wound may hold me here. As for going to Albany, I may
assist you in that matter. A company of Boston merchants are sending a
despatch, that is, a stage, to Albany to-morrow. I am one of that
company and I can provide a place for you."

"My very great thanks are yours, sir."

"Say no more about it. 'Tis just what I ought to do. 'Tis a long
journey, but 'tis a fine time of the year, and you'll have a pleasant
trip. Would that I had your youth and your unwounded leg and I'd be with
you under the walls of Quebec, whether we take the city or not."

His eyes sparkled and his thin cheeks flushed with his intense fire.
Robert knew that there was no more valiant soldier than the shrewd
Boston merchant, and he appreciated his intense earnestness.

"Perhaps, sir," he said, "your recovery will be in full time for the
campaign."

"I fear not, I'm sure not, Mr. Lennox, and yet I wish with all my soul
to be there. I foresee victory, because I think victory is due. 'Tis not
in nature for the French in Canada, who are few and who receive but
little help from their own country, to hold back forever the whole might
of Britain and her colonies. They have achieved the impossible already
in stemming the flood so long, and because it's about time for the
weight, in spite of everything, to break over the dam, I think that
victory is at hand. And then, Britain will be supreme on the North
American continent from the Spanish domains northward to the Pole."

"And that means a tremendous future, sir, for England and her colonies!"

The face of Elihu Strong clouded.

"I do not know," he cried. "I hope so, and yet, at times, I fear not.
You think only of united hearts in England and America and a long future
under one flag. I repeat that I wish it could be so and yet the old
always regard the new with patronage, and the new always look upon the
old with resentment. There are already differences between the English
and Americans, questions of army rank, disputes about credit in the
field, different points of view, created by the width of an ocean."

"But if we are victorious and overrun Canada, they will be settled."

"There lies the greatest danger, my lad. 'Tis the common peril that
holds us together for the time. When this shadow in the north which has
overhung us so long, is removed, the differences will grow the greater,
and each side will assert itself. 'Tis in our common blood. The English
are a free people and freedom brings diversities, differing opinions and
a strenuous expression of them. I see already great issues between the
colonies and the mother country, and I pray that temperate men may have
the handling of them. The wrong will not be all on one side, nor the
right either. But enough of an old man's forebodings! Why should I
poison your happy return from an adventure, in which your chance of
escape was not one in ten?"

Robert talked with him a while longer, and then he suggested that he go
to the _Hawk_ and tell his friends there good-bye, as they had probably
returned to the ship by this time.

"But be sure you're back here by nightfall," said Colonel Strong. "You
favor me, lad, by coming. It refreshes me to see you and to talk with
one who had a share with me in an eventful campaign. And have you money
enough for this trip to Albany? I take it that you were not accumulating
much treasure while you were on the island, and a loan may be timely."

Robert thanked him, but said he had enough for his needs. He promised
also to be back by nightfall, and, having said farewell to the officers
of the sloop, he returned to Colonel Strong's mansion at the appointed
time.




CHAPTER XII

THE WILDERNESS AGAIN


The full hospitality of Colonel Strong's house was for Robert, and he
sat late that night, listening to the talk of his host, merchant and
warrior, and politician too. There were many like him in the colonies,
keen men who had a vision for world affairs and who looked far into the
future. He was so engrossed in these matters that he did not notice that
he was doing nearly all the talking, but Robert was content to listen.

As Robert sat with Colonel Strong he felt to the full the reality of his
own world to which he had returned, and his long life on the island
became for the time a dream, something detached, that might have
happened on another planet. Yet its effects remained. His manner was
grave, and his thoughts were those of one much beyond his years. But
mingled with his gravity were an elation and a sanguine belief in his
future. He had survived so much that coming dangers could not daunt him.

The special coach departed the next morning and Robert sat upon the seat
with the driver. All things were auspicious. The company in the coach
was good, the driver was genial and the weather fine. It was a long trip
and they slept several nights in inns by the way, but Robert always had
pleasant memories of that journey. He was seeing his country under the
most favorable conditions, well cultivated, trim and in the full
freshness of spring.

They reached Albany and his heart beat hard once more. He realized now
that he was one risen from the dead. His reception by Colonel Strong had
shown him that, but he believed the joy of his friends would be great
when they saw him. The coach drew up at the George Inn, and, leaving it
there, he started through the streets, taking no baggage.

It was the same busy little city with its thrifty Dutch burghers. The
tide of war had brought added prosperity to Albany, and he saw about him
all the old signs of military preparations. It was yet a base for the
great campaigns to the northward. Evidently the fear of an attack by
Montcalm had passed, as he did not see apprehension or depression in the
faces of the people.

He went directly to the house of Master Jacobus Huysman, that staunch
friend of his and Tayoga's, and the solid red brick building with its
trim lawns and gardens looked as neat and comfortable as ever. It was
hard to believe that he had gone away, that he had been so long on an
island. Nothing had been changed except himself and he felt different,
much older.

He lifted the heavy brass knocker, and struck thrice. The sound of
footsteps came from within, and he knew at once that they were
Caterina's. Middle-aged, phlegmatic and solid she had loved both him and
Tayoga, despite tricks and teasing, but he knew her very phlegm would
keep her from being startled too much. Only an earthquake could shake
the poise of Caterina.

The door swung slowly open. The nature of Caterina was cautious and she
never opened a door quickly.

"Good-morning, Caterina," said Robert. "Is Master Jacobus in? I stayed
away a bit longer than I intended, and I wish to make my apologies to
him, if I've caused him any inconvenience."

The mouth of Caterina, a wide cleft, opened full as slowly as the door
and full as steadily, and her eyes seemed to swell at the same time. But
she did not utter a word. Words might be forming in her throat, though
they were not able to pass her lips. But Robert saw amazement and joy in
her eyes. She knew him. That was evident. It was equally evident that
she had been struck dumb, so he grasped her large and muscular hand and
said:

"I've come back, Caterina, a trifle late 'tis true, but as you see I'm
here. It's not my fault that I've been delayed a little. I hope that
Master Jacobus is well. I know he's in his study as the odor of his pipe
comes floating to me, a pleasant odor too, Caterina; I've missed it."

"Aye! Aye!" said Caterina. It was all she could manage to say, but
suddenly she seized his hand, and fell to kissing it.

"Don't do that, Caterina!" exclaimed Robert, pulling his hand away.
"You're glad to see me and I'm glad to see you. I'm no ghost. I'm solid
and substantial, at least ten pounds heavier than I was when I went away
suddenly at the invitation of others. And now, Caterina, since you've
lost your voice I'll go in and have a talk with Master Jacobus."

Caterina's mouth and eyes were still opening wider and wider, but as
Robert gave her an affectionate pat on the shoulder she managed to gasp:

"You haf come back! you wass dead, but you wouldn't stay dead."

"Yes, that's it, Caterina, I wouldn't stay dead, or rather I was lost,
but I wouldn't stay lost. I'll go in now and see Master Jacobus."

He walked past her toward the odor of the pipe that came from the study
and library of Mr. Huysman, and Caterina stood by the door, still
staring at him, her mouth opening wider and wider. No such extraordinary
thing had ever happened before in the life of Caterina, and yet it was a
happy marvel, one that filled her with gratitude.

The door of Mr. Huysman's room was open and Robert saw him very clearly
before he entered, seated in a great chair of mahogany and hair cloth,
smoking his long hooked pipe and looking thoughtfully now and then at
some closely written sheets of foolscap that he held in his hand. He was
a solid man of the most solid Dutch ancestry, solid physically and
mentally, and he looked it. Nothing could shake his calm soul, and it
was a waste of time to try to break anything to him gently. Good news or
bad news, it was well to be out with it, and Robert knew it. So he
stepped into the room, sat down in a chair near that of Mr. Huysman and
said:

"I hope, sir, that I've not caused you any inconvenience. I didn't mean
to keep you waiting so long."

Master Jacobus turned and regarded him thoughtfully. Then he took one
long puff at his pipe, removed it from his mouth, and blew the smoke in
spirals towards the ceiling.

"Robert," he said, after an inspection of a full minute, "why were you
in such a hurry about coming back? Are you sure you did everything you
should before you came? You wass sometimes a hasty lad."

"I can't recall, sir, anything that I've neglected. Also, I wiped my
shoes on the porch and I shut the door when I came in, as Caterina used
to bid me do."

"It iss well. It shows that you are learning at last. Caterina and I haf
had much trouble teaching manners to you and that young Onondaga scamp,
Tayoga."

"As we grow older, sir, we have more desire to learn. We're better able
to perceive the value of good advice."

Master Jacobus Huysman put the stem of his long pipe back in his mouth,
took the very longest draught upon it that he had ever drawn, removed it
again, sent the smoke rushing in another beautiful spear of spirals
toward the ceiling, and, then, for the first and last time in his life,
he lost all control over himself. Springing to his feet he seized Robert
by both hands and nearly wrung them off.

"Robert, my lost lad!" he exclaimed. "It iss you! it iss really you! I
knew that you wass dead, and, yet when you walked into the room, I knew
that it wass you alive! Your face iss changed! your look iss changed!
your manner iss changed! you are older, but I would have known you
anywhere and at the first glance! You do not understand how much you
took out of my life when you went, and you do not know how much you have
brought back when you come again! I do not ask why you left or where you
have been, you can tell it all when you are ready! It iss enough that
you are here!"

Tears rose in Robert's eyes and he was not ashamed of them. He knew that
his welcome would be warm, but it had been even warmer than he had
expected.

"I did not go away of my own accord, sir," he said. "I could not have
been so heartless as that. I've a wonderful tale to tell, and, as soon
as you give me all the news about my friends, I'll tell it."

"Take your time, Robert, take your time. Maybe you are hungry. The
kitchen iss full of good things. Let me call Caterina, and she will
bring you food."

The invitation of the good Mynheer Jacobus, a very natural thought with
him, eased the tension. Robert laughed.

"I thank you, sir," he said, "but I cannot eat now. Later I'll show you
that I haven't lost my ability at the trencher, but I'd like to hear now
about Tayoga and Dave."

"They're gone into the northern forests to take part in the great
expedition that's now arranging against Quebec. We hunted long, but we
could discover no trace of you, not a sign, and then there was no
conclusion left but the river. You had been murdered and thrown into the
Hudson. Your body could not disappear in any other way, and we wass sure
it must have been the spy Garay who did the foul deed. Only Tayoga kept
any hope. He said that you wass watched over by Manitou and by his own
patron saint, Tododaho, and though you might be gone long, Manitou and
Tododaho would bring you back again. But we thought it wass only a way
he had of trying to console himself for the loss of his friend. Willet
had no hope. I wass sorry, sorry in my soul for David. He loved you as a
son, Robert, and the blow wass one from which he could never have
recovered. When all hope wass gone he and Tayoga plunged into the
forest, partly I think to forget, and I suppose they have been risking
the hair on their heads every day in battle with the French and
Indians."

"It is certain that they won't shirk any combat," said Robert. "Valiant
and true! No one was ever more valiant and true than they are!"

"It iss so, and there wass another who took it hard, very hard. I speak
of Benjamin Hardy of New York. I wrote him the letter telling him all
that we knew, and I had a reply full of grief. He took it as hard as
Willet."

"It was almost worth it to be lost a while to discover what good and
powerful friends I have."

"You have them! You have them! And now I think, Robert, that the time
draws nigh for you to know who you are. No, not now! You must wait yet a
little longer. Believe me, Robert, it iss for good reasons."

"I know it, Mr. Huysman! I know it must be so! But I know also there is
one who will not rejoice because I've come back! I mean Adrian Van
Zoon!"

"Why, Robert, what do you know of Adrian Van Zoon?"

"I was told by a dying man to beware of him, and I've always heard that
dying men speak the truth. And this was a dying man who was in a
position to know. I'm sure his advice was meant well and was based on
knowledge. I think, Mr. Huysman, that I shall have a large score to
settle with Adrian Van Zoon."

"Well, maybe you have. But tell me, lad, how you were lost and how you
came back."

So, Robert told the long story again, as he had told it to Elihu Strong,
though he knew that he was telling it now to one who took a deeper and
more personal interest in him than Colonel Strong, good friend though
the latter was. Jacobus Huysman had settled back into his usual calm,
smoking his long pipe, and interrupting at rare intervals with a short
question or two.

"It iss a wonderful story," he said, when Robert finished, "and I can
see that your time on the island wass not wholly lost. You gained
something there, Robert, my lad. I cannot tell just what it iss, but I
can see it in you."

"I feel that way myself, sir."

"No time iss ever lost by the right kind of a man. We can put every hour
to some profit, even if it iss not the kind of profit we first intended.
But I will not preach to one who hass just risen from the dead. Are you
sure, Robert, you will not have a dinner now? We have some splendid fish
and venison and sausage and beef! Just a plate of each! It will do you
good!"

Robert declined again, but his heart was very full. He knew that Master
Jacobus felt deep emotion, despite his calmness of manner, and this was
a way he had of giving welcome. To offer food and to offer it often was
one of the highest tributes he could pay.

"I could wish," he said, "that you would go to New York and stay with
Benjamin Hardy, but as you will not do it, I will not ask it. I know
that nothing on earth can keep you from going into the woods and joining
Willet and Tayoga, and so I will help you to find them. Robert Rogers,
the ranger leader, will be here to-morrow, and he starts the next day
into the north with a force of his. He can find Willet and Tayoga, and
you can go with him."

"Nothing could be better, sir. I know him well. We've fought side by
side in the forest. Is he going to lead his rangers against Quebec?"

"I do not know. Maybe so, and maybe he will have some other duty, but in
any event he goes up by the lakes, and you're pretty sure to find Tayoga
and Willet in that direction. I know that you will go, Robert, but I
wish you would stay."

"I must go, and if you'll pardon me for saying it, sir, you won't wish
in your heart that I would stay. You'd be ashamed of me, if I were to do
so."

Mr. Huysman made no answer, but puffed a little harder on his pipe. Very
soon he sent for Master Alexander McLean, and that thin dry man, coming
at once, shook hands with Robert, released his hand, seized and shook it
a second and a third time with more energy than ever. Mr. McLean, an
undemonstrative man, had never been known to do such a thing before, and
he was never known to do it again. Master Jacobus regarded him with
staring eyes.

"Alexander iss stirred! He iss stirred mightily to make such a display
of emotion," he said under his breath.

"Robert hass been away on an island all by himself, eight or nine months
or more," he added, aloud.

"And of course," said Master McLean, who had recovered his usual calm,
"he forgot all his classical learning while he was there. I do not know
where his island is, but desert islands are not conducive to a noble
education."

"On the contrary, sir," said Robert, "I learned more about good
literature when I was there than I ever did anywhere else, save when I
sat under you."

"'Tis clearly impossible. In such a place you could make no advancement
in learning save by communing with yourself."

"Nevertheless, sir, happy chance gave me a supply of splendid books. I
had Shakespeare, Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher, translations of Homer
and of other great Greeks and Latins."

Mr. McLean's frosty eyes beamed.

"What a wonderful opportunity!" he said. "Eight or nine months on a
desert island with the best of the classics, and nobody to disturb you!
No such chance will ever come to me, I fear. Which book of the Iliad is
the finest, Robert?"

"The first, I think. 'Tis the noble opening, the solemn note of tragedy
that enchains the attention of us all."

"Well answered. But I wish to make a confession to you and Jacobus, one
that would shock nearly all scholars, yet I think that I must speak it
out, to you two at least, before I die. There are times when my heart
warms to the Odyssey more than it does to the Iliad. The personal appeal
is stronger in the Odyssey. There is more romance, more charm. The
interest is concentrated in Ulysses and does not scatter as it does in
the Iliad, where Hector is undoubtedly the most sympathetic figure. And
the coming home of Ulysses arouses emotion more than anything in the
Iliad. Now, I have made my confession--I suppose there is something in
the life of every man that he ought to hide--but be the consequences
what they may I am glad I have made it."

Mr. McLean rose from his chair and then sat down again. Twice that day
he had been shaken by emotion as never before, once by the return of the
lad whom he loved, risen from the dead, and once by the confession of a
terrible secret that had haunted him for years.

"When I was on the island I reread both books in excellent
translations," said Robert, the utmost sympathy showing in his voice,
"and I confess, sir, though my opinion is a poor one, that it agrees
with yours. Moreover, sir, you have said it ahead of me. I shall
maintain it, whenever and wherever it is challenged."

Mr. McLean's frosty blue eyes gleamed again, and his sharp strong chin
set itself at a firm defiant angle. It was clear that he was relieved
greatly.

"Have a pipe, Alexander," said Master Jacobus. "A good pipe is a
splendid fortifier of both body and soul, after a great crisis."

Mr. McLean accepted a pipe and smoked it with methodical calm. Robert
saw that a great content was settling upon both him and Mr. Huysman,
and, presently, the burgher began to tell him news of vital importance,
news that they had not known even in Boston when he left. It seemed that
the Albany men had channels through Canada itself, by which they learned
quickly of great events in the enemy's camp.

"Wolfe with his fleet and army will be in the Gulf of St. Lawrence very
soon," said Master Jacobus, "and by autumn they will certainly appear
before Quebec. Whatever happens there it will not be another Duquesne,
nor yet a Ticonderoga. You must know, Robert, that the great merchants
of the great ports get the best of information from England and from
France too, because it is to their interest to do so. Mr. Pitt iss a
great minister, the greatest that England hass had in centuries, a very
great man."

"Colonel Strong said the same, sir."

"Colonel Strong hass the same information that we have. He iss one of
our group. And the new general, Wolfe, iss a great man too. Young and
sickly though he may be, he hass the fire, the genius, the will to
conquer, to overcome everything that a successful general must have. I
feel sure that he will be more than a match for Montcalm, and so does
Alexander. As you know, Robert, Wolfe iss not untried. He was the soul
of the Louisbourg attack last year. People said the taking of the place
was due mostly to him, and they've called him the 'Hero of Louisbourg.'"

"You almost make me wish, sir, that I had accepted the offer of Captain
Whyte and had gone on to Louisbourg."

"Do not worry yourself. If you find Willet and Tayoga, as you will, you
can reach Quebec long before Wolfe can achieve much. He hass yet to
gather his forces and go up the St. Lawrence. Armies and fleets are not
moved in a day."

"Do you know what Rogers' immediate duties are?"

"I do not, but I think he iss to help the movement that General Amherst
is going to conduct with a strong force against Ticonderoga and Crown
Point. Oh, Mr. Pitt hass a great plan as becomes a great man, and Canada
will be assailed on all sides. I hear talk too that Rogers will also be
sent to punish the St. Francis Indians who have ravaged the border."

They talked a while longer, and Robert listened, intent, eager. The
burgher and the schoolmaster had the vision of statesmen. They were
confident that England and the colonies would achieve complete success,
that all defeats and humiliations would be wiped away by an overwhelming
triumph. Their confidence in Pitt was wonderful. That sanguine and
mighty mind had sent waves of energy and enthusiasm to the farthest
limits of the British body politic, whether on one side of the Atlantic
or the other, and it was a singular, but true, fact, that the wisest
were those who believed in him most.

Mr. McLean went away, after a while, and Robert took a walk in the town,
renewing old acquaintances and showing to them how one could really rise
from the dead, a very pleasant task. Yet he longed with all his soul for
the forest, and his comrades of the trail. His condition of life on the
island had been mostly mental. It had been easy there to subsist. His
physical activities had not been great, save when he chose to make them
so, and now he swung to the other extreme. He wished to think less and
to act more, and he shared with Mr. Huysman and Mr. McLean the belief
that the coming campaign would win for England and her colonies a
complete triumph.

He too thrilled at the name of Pitt. The very sound of the four letters
seemed to carry magic everywhere, with the young English officers on the
ship, in Boston, in Albany, and he had noticed too that it inspired the
same confidence at the little towns at which they stopped on their way
across Massachusetts. Like a blast on the horn of the mighty Roland, the
call of Pitt was summoning the English-speaking world to arms. Robert
little dreamed then, despite the words of Colonel Strong, that the great
cleavage would come, and that the call would not be repeated until more
than a century and a half had passed, though then it would sound around
the world summoning new English-speaking nations not then born.

Rogers, the famous ranger, upon whom Tayoga had bestowed the name
Mountain Wolf, arrived the next day, bringing with him fifty men whom he
supplied with ammunition for one of his great raids. The rest of his
band was waiting for him near the southern end of Lake George, and he
could stay only a few hours in Albany. He gave Robert a warm welcome.

"I remember you well, Mr. Lennox," he said. "We've had some hard
fighting together around Lake George against St. Luc, Tandakora and the
others, but I think the battle line will shift far northward now.
Amherst is going to swoop down on Ticonderoga and Crown Point, and Sir
William Johnson, well of his wound, is to march against Niagara. I'll
punish the St. Regis Indians for all their barbarities. Oh, it's to be a
great campaign, and I'll tell you a secret too."

"What is it?" asked Robert.

"We're to have St. Luc against us near the lakes once more. Could you
ask for a better antagonist?"

Robert smiled at the man's eagerness, but his heart throbbed, as always,
at the mention of the great French chevalier's name.

"He'll give us all we can do," he said.

"That's why I want to meet him," said Rogers. "The whole northern
frontier is going to be ablaze."

Robert left that very day with Rogers and his men. Mr. Huysman purchased
for him a splendid equipment which he forced him to accept, and he and
Mr. McLean bade him good-by, while Caterina wept in her apron.

"Don't fear for me," said Robert, who was much moved. "Mr. Pitt will
bring us all victory. His first efforts failed at Ticonderoga, as we
know, but now he has all his forces moving on all fronts, and he's bound
to succeed. You've said that yourselves."

"So we have, Robert," said Mr. Huysman, "and we shall watch for your
return, confident that you'll come."

The next day the rangers, Robert with them, were far to the north of
Albany, and then they plunged into the deep woods. Robert rejoiced at
the breath of the forest now in its freshest green, not yet faded by
summer heats. He had grown to love his island, but it was not like the
mighty wilderness of North America, in which he had spent so much of his
life. He kept at the head of the column, side by side with the Mountain
Wolf, and his step was so strong and elastic that Rogers took approving
notice.

"You like the woods, Robert," he said. "Well, so do I. It's the only
place where a man can live a free life."

"I like the woods and the towns too," said Robert. "Each in its place.
Where do we camp to-night?"

"By a little lake, a few miles farther on, and as we're not yet in the
Indian country we'll make it a fire camp."

The lake covered only two or three acres, but it was set in high hills,
and it was as clear as crystal. A great fire was built near the shore,
two or three of the rangers caught plenty of fish for all, and they were
broiled over the coals. Game had become so plentiful, owing to the
ravages of the war, that a fat deer was shot near the water, and, when
they added coffee and samp from their own stores, they had a feast.

Robert ate with a tremendous appetite, and then, wrapping himself in his
blanket, lay down under a tree. But he did not go to sleep for a long
time. He was full of excitement. All the omens and signs told him that
he was coming into the thick of events once more, and he felt also that
he would soon see Willet and Tayoga again. He would encounter many
perils, but for the present at least he did not fear them. Much of his
vivid youth was returning to him.

He saw the surface of the lake from where he lay, a beautiful silver in
the clear moonlight, and he could even perceive wild fowl swimming at
the far edge, unfrightened by the presence of man, or by the fires that
he built. The skies were a great silver curve, in which floated a
magnificent moon and noble stars in myriads. There was the one on which
Tayoga's Tododaho lived, and so powerful was Robert's fancy that he
believed he could see the great Onondaga sage with the wise snakes in
his hair. And there too was the star upon which Hayowentha lived and the
Onondaga and the Mohawk undoubtedly talked across space as they looked
down on their people.

Out of the forest came the calls of night birds, and Robert saw one
shoot down upon the lake and then rise with a fish in its talons. He
almost expected to see the dusky figure of Tandakora creep from the
bush, and he knew at least that the Ojibway chief would be somewhere
near the lakes. Beyond a doubt they would encounter him and his warriors
as they pressed into the north. Rogers, noticing that he was not asleep,
sat down beside him and said:

"I suppose, Mr. Lennox, when you find Tayoga and Willet that you'll go
with Amherst's army against Ticonderoga and Crown Point. A great force
has gathered to take those places."

"I'm not sure," said Robert, "I think it depends largely upon what
Tayoga and Dave have planned, but I want to go against Quebec, and I
think they will too. Still, I'd like to see our defeat at Ticonderoga
atoned for. It's a place that we ought to have, and Crown Point too."

"A scout that I sent out has come in," said Rogers, "and he says he's
seen an Indian trail, not big enough to be of any danger to us, but it
shows we'll have 'em to deal with before long, though this is south of
their usual range. I hear an owl hooting now, and if I didn't know it
was a real owl I could think it was Tandakora himself."

"I hear it too," said Robert, "and I'm not so sure that it's a real owl.
Do you think that any band will try to cut us off before we reach
Amherst and the lake?"

"I can't say, but my faith in the owl, Robert, is beginning to shake
too. It may be an Indian belonging to the band that the scout told
about, but I still don't think we're in any danger of attack. We're in
too small force to try it down here, but they might cut off a
straggler."

"I'd like to help keep the watch."

"We won't need you to-night, but I may call on you to-morrow night, so
it's my advice to you to sleep now."

The Mountain Wolf walked away to look at his outposts--he was not one
ever to neglect any precaution--and Robert, knowing that his advice was
good, closed his eyes, trying to sleep. But his hearing then became more
acute, and the long, lonesome note of the owl came with startling
dreams. Its cry was in the west, and after a while another owl in the
north answered it. Robert wished that Tayoga was with him. He would
know, but as for himself he could not tell whether or no the owls were
real. They might be Indians, and if so they would probably, when they
gathered sufficient force, throw themselves across the path of the
rangers and offer battle. This presence too indicated that Tayoga and
Willet might be near, because it was against just such bands that they
guarded, and once more his heart beat fast.

He opened his eyes to find that the beauty of the night had deepened, if
that were possible. The little lake was molten silver, and the forest
seemed silver too under silver skies. The moon, large and benignant,
smiled down on the earth, not meant, so Robert thought, for battle. But
the two owls were still calling to each other, and now he was convinced
that they were Indians and not owls. He was really back in the
wilderness, where there was no such thing as peace, the wilderness that
had seldom ever known peace. But believing with Rogers that the force
was too strong to be attacked he fell asleep, at last, and awoke to
another bright summer day.

They resumed the advance with great caution. Rogers did not go directly
toward the force of Amherst, but bore more toward the west, thinking it
likely that he would have to meet the force of Sir William Johnson who
was to coöperate with Prideaux in the attack on Niagara.

"Sir William has entirely recovered from the wound he received at the
Battle of Lake George," Rogers said to Robert, "and he's again taking a
big part in the war. We have Louisbourg and Duquesne, and now, if we
take Niagara and Ticonderoga and Crown Point, we can advance in great
force on Quebec and Montreal."

"So we can," said Robert, "but there are those owls again, hooting in
the daytime, and I'm quite sure now they're Indians."

"I think so too, and it begins to look as if they meant an attack. Every
mile here brings us rapidly nearer to dangerous country. I'll send out
two more scouts."

Two of his best men were dispatched, one on either flank, but both came
in very soon with reports of imminent danger. Trails were seen, and they
had grown in size. One found the trace of a gigantic moccasin, and it
was believed to be that of Tandakora. Many scouts knew his footstep.
There was no other so large in the north. Rogers' face was grave.

"I think they're going to try to cut us off before we reach the bigger
part of my force," he said. "If so, we'll give 'em a fight. You'll be in
the thick of it much earlier than you expected, Robert."

Robert also was inclined to that opinion, but he was still confident
they could not be menaced by any very large party, and he remained in
that belief the next night, when they made their camp on a little hill,
covered with bushes, but with open country on every side, an excellent
site for defense. They ate another plentiful supper, then put out their
fire, posted sentinels and waited.

Robert was among the sentinels, and Rogers, who had made him second in
command until he was reunited with his main force, stood by him in the
first hour while they waited. There was again a splendid moon and plenty
of fine stars, shedding a brilliant glow over the forest, and they
believed they could see any enemy who tried to approach, especially as
the hill was surrounded on all sides by a stretch of open.

"It's a good place for a camp," said the Mountain Wolf, looking around
with approval. "I believe they'll scarce venture to attack us here."

"But there are the owls," said Robert. "They're at least thinking about
it."

The long mournful cry came from the depths of the forest, and then it
was repeated a second and a third time at other points.

"The owls that send forth those calls," said Robert, "don't sit on the
boughs of trees."

"No," said Rogers; "it's the warriors, not a doubt of it, and they'll be
stealing in on us before long."

But several hours passed before there was any stir in the forest beyond
the open. Then a rifle cracked there, but no one heard the impact of the
bullet. Rogers laughed scornfully.

"Their lead fell short," he said. "How could they expect to hit any of
us at such a range, and they not the best of marksmen even in the
daylight. They can't hope to do any more than to keep us awake."

The rangers made no reply to the shot, they would not deign it with such
notice, but the guard was doubled, while the others remained in their
blankets. A half hour more passed, and a second shot came, but from a
point much nearer.

"They're trying to steal forward through the grass that grows tall down
there," said Rogers. "They're more bent on battle than I thought they'd
be. It seems that they mean to stalk us, so we'll just stalk 'em back."

Four of the rangers, fine sharpshooters, edged their way along the
slope, and, when the warriors among the trees fired, pulled trigger by
the flash of their rifles. It was difficult to hit any one in such a
manner, and more than twenty shots were fired by the two sides, before a
death shout was uttered. Then it came from the forest, and Robert knew
that one warrior was gone. He was taking no present part in the battle
himself, held like the bulk of the force in reserve, but he was an
intent observer. Rogers, the daring leader of the rangers, still
standing by his side, took it all as a part of his daily work, which in
truth it was.

"I think it was Thayer who brought down that warrior," he said. "Thayer
is one of the bravest men I ever saw, and a great scout and trailer.
He'd be worthy to go with Willet and Tayoga and you. Ah, there goes a
second death shout! Any one who seeks a brush with these boys of mine
does it at his own risk."

He spoke proudly, but one of his own men came creeping back presently
with a wound in his shoulder. Rogers himself bound it up and the man lay
down in his blanket, confident that in a week he could resume his place
in the campaign. Those who lived the life he did had, of necessity,
bodies as hard as iron.

The deadly skirmishing died down repeatedly, but, after a little while,
it was always renewed. Though the warriors were getting the worst of it,
they persisted in the attack, and Robert knew they must have some
motive, not yet evident.

"Either they hope to frighten us back, or they mean to hold us until a
much bigger force comes up," he said.

"One or the other," said Rogers, "but I don't believe any big band would
venture down here. The hope to frighten us seems the more likely."

The combat, drawn out long and with so little result, annoyed Robert
intensely. As he saw it, it could have no decisive effect upon anything
and was more than futile, it was insensate folly. The original time set
for his watch was over long since and he wanted to roll himself in his
blanket and find slumber, but those ferocious warriors would not let
him. Despite their losses, they still hung around the hill, and, giving
up the attempt to stalk the defenders through the grass, fired long
shots from the cover of the forest. Another ranger was wounded by a
chance bullet, but Rogers, skillful and cautious, refused to be drawn
from the shelter of the bushes on the hill.

Thus the fitful and distant combat was waged until dawn. But with the
rise of a brilliant sun, throwing a clear light over the whole
wilderness, the warriors drew off and the rangers resumed their march.




CHAPTER XIII

THE REUNION


Willet, the hunter, and Tayoga, the great young Onondaga trailer, were
walking through the northern woods, examining forest and bush very
cautiously as they advanced, knowing that the danger from ambushed
warriors was always present. Willet was sadder and sterner than of old,
while the countenance of the Onondaga was as grave and inscrutable as
ever, though he looked older, more mature, more the mighty forest
runner.

"Think you, Tayoga," said the hunter, "that Tandakora and his men have
dared to come into this region again?"

"Tandakora will dare much," replied the Onondaga. "Though he is full of
evil, we know that well. The French still hold Ticonderoga, and he can
use it as a base for bands much farther south."

"True, but I don't think they'll have Ticonderoga, or Crown Point,
either, long. Amherst is gathering too big an army and there is no
Montcalm to defend them. The Marquis will have his hands full and
overflowing, defending Quebec against Wolfe. We've held both Duquesne
and Louisbourg a long while now. We've smashed the French line at both
ends, and Mr. Pitt is going to see that it's cut in the center too. How
I wish that Robert were alive to see the taking of Ticonderoga! He saw
all the great defeat there and he was entitled to this recompense."

He sighed deeply.

"It may be, Great Bear," said Tayoga, "that Dagaeoga will see the taking
of Ticonderoga. No one has ever looked upon his dead body. How then do
we know that he is dead?"

Willet shook his head.

"'Tis no use, Tayoga," he said. "The lad was murdered by Garay and the
river took his body away. Why, it will be a year this coming autumn
since he disappeared, and think you if he were alive he couldn't have
come back in that time! 'Tis the part of youth to hope, and it does you
credit, but the matter is past hope now. We've all given up except you."

"When only one hopes, Great Bear, though all others have failed, there
is still hope left. Last night I saw Tododaho on his star very clearly.
He looked down at me, smiled and seemed to speak. I could not hear his
words, but at the time I was thinking of Dagaeoga. Since Tododaho sits
with the great gods, and is one of them, he knew my thoughts, and, if he
smiled when I was thinking of Dagaeoga, he meant to give me hope."

The hunter again shook his head sadly.

"You thought you saw it, because you wished it so much," he said, "or
maybe the promise of Tododaho was for the future, the hereafter."

"For the hereafter we need no special promise, Great Bear. That has
always been made to all of us by Manitou himself, but I was thinking of
Dagaeoga alive, present with us in this life, when Tododaho smiled down
on me. I hold it in my heart, Great Bear, as a sign, a promise."

Willet shook his head for the third time, and with increasing sadness,
but said nothing more. If Tayoga cherished such a hope it was a
consolation, a beautiful thing, and he was not one to destroy anybody's
faith.

"Do you know this region?" he asked.

"I was through here once with the Mohawk chief, Daganoweda," replied
Tayoga. "It is mostly in heavy forest, and, since the war has gone on so
long and the settlers have gone away, there has been a great increase in
the game."

"Aye, I know there'll be no trouble on that point. If our own supplies
give out it won't take long to find a deer or a bear. It's a grand
country in here, Tayoga, and sometimes it seems a pity to one that it
should ever be settled by white people, or, for that matter, by red
either. Let it remain a wilderness, and let men come in, just a little
while every year, to hunt."

"Great Bear talks wisdom, but it will not be done his way. Men have been
coming here a long time now to fight and not to hunt. See, Great Bear,
here is a footprint now to show that some one has passed!"

"'Twas made by the moccasin of a warrior. A chance hunter."

"Suppose we follow it, Great Bear. It is our business to keep guard and
carry word to Amherst."

"Good enough. Lead and I'll follow."

"It is not the step of a warrior hunting," said Tayoga, as they pursued
the traces. "The paces are even, regular and long. He goes swiftly, not
looking for anything as he goes, but because he wishes to reach a
destination as soon as possible. Ah, now he stopped and he leaned
against this bush, two of the stems of which are broken! I do not know
what he stopped for, Great Bear, but it may have been to give a signal,
though that is but a surmise. Now he goes on, again walking straight and
swift. Ah, another trail coming from the west joining his and the two
warriors walk together!"

The two followed the double trail a mile or more in silence, and then it
was joined by the traces of three more warriors. The five evidently had
stood there, talking a little while, after which they had scattered.

"Now, what does that mean?" exclaimed the hunter.

"I think if we follow every one of the five trails," said Tayoga, "we
will find that the men lay down in the bush. It is certain in my mind,
Great Bear, that they were preparing for a battle, and they were but a
part of a much larger force hidden in these thickets."

"Now, that's interesting, Tayoga. Let's look around and see if we can
find where more of the warriors lay."

They circled to the right, and presently they came upon traces where
three men had knelt behind bushes. The imprints of both knees and toes
were plain.

"They were here a long time," said Tayoga, "because they have moved
about much within a little space. In places the ground is kneaded by
their knees. And lo! Great Bear, here on the bush several of the young
leaves are burned. Now, you and I know well what alone would do that at
such a time."

"It was done by the flash from a big musket, such a musket as those
French Indians carry."

"It could have been nothing else. I think if we go still farther around
the curve we will find other bushes behind which other warriors kneeled
and fired, and maybe other leaves scorched by the flash of big muskets."

A hundred yards more and they saw that for which they looked. The signs
were just the same as at the other places.

"Now, it is quite clear to you and me, Great Bear," said the Onondaga,
"that these men, posted along a curving line, were firing at something.
They were here a long time, as the numerous and crowded footprints at
every place show. They could not have been firing at game, because there
were too many of them, and the game would not have stayed to be fired at
so long. Therefore, Great Bear, and you know it as well as I, they must
have been in battle. All the points of ambush to which we have come are
at an almost equal distance from some other point."

"Which, Tayoga, is that hill yonder, crowned with bushes, but with bare
slopes, a good place for a defense, and just about a long rifle or
musket shot from the forest here."

"So it is, Great Bear. It could be nothing else. The defenders lay among
the bushes on top of the hill, and the battle was fought in the night,
because those who attacked were not numerous enough to push a combat in
the day. The defenders must have been white men, as we know from the
footprints here that the assailants were warriors. Ah, here are other
traces, Great Bear, and here are more, all trodden about in the same
manner, indicating a long stay, and all at about an equal distance from
the hill! I think the warriors lay in the forest all night firing upon
the hill, and probably doing little damage. But they suffered more hurt
themselves. See, here are faint traces of blood, yet staining the grass,
and here is a trail leading out of the bushes and into the grass that
lines the slopes of the hill. The trail goes forward, and then it comes
back. It is quite clear to both of us, Dagaeoga, that a warrior,
creeping through the long grass, tried to stalk the hill, but met a
bullet instead. Those who lay upon the hill and defended themselves were
not asleep. They could detect warriors who tried to steal forward and
secure good shots at them. And they could fire at long range and hit
their targets. Now, soldiers know too little of the forest to do that,
and so it must have been scouts or rangers."

"Perhaps some of the rangers belonging to Rogers. We know that he's
operating in this region."

"It was in my thought too, Great Bear, that the rangers of the Mountain
Wolf lay on the hill. See, here is a second trace of blood, and it also
came from a warrior who tried to stalk the hill, but who had to come
back again after he had been kissed by a bullet. The men up there among
the bushes never slept, and they allowed no one of their enemies to come
near enough for a good shot with a musket. The chances are ninety-nine
out of a hundred that they were rangers, Great Bear, and we may speak of
them as rangers. Now, we come to a spot where at least a dozen warriors
lay, and, since their largest force was here, it is probable that their
chief stayed at this spot. See, the small bones of the deer picked clean
are lying among the bushes. I draw from it the opinion, and so do you,
Great Bear, that the warriors kept up the siege of the hill until dawn,
because at dawn they would be most likely to eat their breakfast, and
these little bones of the deer prove that they did eat this breakfast
here. Now, it is very probable that they went away, since they could win
nothing from the defenders of the hill."

"Here's their broad trail leading directly from the hill."

They followed the trail a little distance, finding those of other
warriors joining, until the total was about forty. Willet laughed with
quiet satisfaction.

"They had all they wanted of the hill," he said, "and they're off
swiftly to see if they can't find easier prey elsewhere."

"And you and I, Great Bear, will go back and see what happened on the
hill, besides discovering somewhat more about the identity of the
defenders."

"Long words, Tayoga, but good ones upon which we can act. I'm anxious
about the top of that hill myself."

They went back and walked slowly up the hill. They knew quite well that
nobody was there now. The entire forest scene had vanished, so far as
the actors were concerned, but few things disappear completely. The
actors could go, but they could not do so without leaving traces which
the two great scouts were able to read.

"How long ago do you think all this happened, Tayoga?" asked Willet.

"Not many hours since," replied the Onondaga. "It is mid-morning now,
and we know that the warriors departed at dawn. The people on the hill
would stay but a little while after their enemies had gone, and since
they were rangers they would not long remain blind to the fact that they
had gone."

They pushed into the bushes, and were soon among the traces left by the
defenders.

"Here is where the guard knelt," said Tayoga, as they walked around the
circle of the bushes, "and behind them is where the men slept in their
blankets. That is farther proof that they were rangers. They had so much
experience, and they felt so little alarm that most of them slept
placidly, although they knew warriors were watching below seeking to
shoot them down. The character of the footprints indicates that all of
the defenders were white men. Here is a trail that I have seen many
times before, so many times that I would know it anywhere. It is that of
the Mountain Wolf. He probably had a small part of his rangers here and
was on his way to join his main force, to act either with Amherst or
Waraiyageh (Sir William Johnson). Of course he would depart with speed
as soon as his enemy was beaten off."

"Altogether reasonable, Tayoga, and I'm glad Rogers is in these parts
again with his rangers. Our generals will need him."

"The Mountain Wolf stood here a long time," said Tayoga. "He walked now
and then to the right, and also to the left, but he always came back to
this place. He stood here, because it is a little knoll, and from it he
could see better than from anywhere else into the forest that hid the
enemy below. The Mountain Wolf is a wise man, a great forest fighter,
and a great trailer, but he was not alone when he stood here."

"I suppose he had a lieutenant of course, a good man whom he could
trust. Every leader has such a helper."

The Onondaga knelt and examined the traces minutely. When he rose his
eyes were blazing.

"He did have a good helper, an able assistant, O Great Bear!" he said.
"He had one whom he trusted, one whom I could trust, one whom you could
trust. The Mountain Wolf stood by this bush and talked often with one
whom we shall be very glad to see, O Great Bear, one whom the Mountain
Wolf himself was both surprised and glad to see."

"Your meaning is beyond me, Tayoga."

"It will not be beyond you very long, O Great Bear! When Tododaho,
reading my thoughts, looked down on me last night from the great star on
which he has lived four hundred years, and smiled upon me, his smile
meant what it said. The Hodenosaunee are the children of Todohado and
Hayowentha, and they never make sport of them, nor of any one of them."

"I'm still in the dark of the matter, Tayoga!"

"Does not Great Bear remember what I was thinking about when Todohado
smiled? What I said and always believed is true, O Great Bear! I
believed it against all the world and I was right. Look at the traces
beside those of the Mountain Wolf! They are light and faint, but look
well at them, O Great Bear! I would know them anywhere! I have seen them
thousands of times, and so has the Great Bear! Dagaeoga has come back!
He stood here beside the Mountain Wolf! He was on this hill among the
bushes all through the night, while the rangers fought the warriors
among the trees below! He and the Mountain Wolf talked together and
consulted while they looked at the forest! Lo! my brother Dagaeoga has
come back out of the mists and vapors into which he went nearly a year
ago, for he is my brother, though my skin is red and his is white, and
he has been my brother ever since we were little children together! Lo!
Great Bear, Dagaeoga has come back as I told you, as I alone told you he
would, and my heart sings a song of joy within me, because I have loved
my brother! Look! look, Great Bear, and see where the living Dagaeoga
has walked, not six hours since!"

Willet knelt and examined the traces. He too was a great trailer, but he
did not possess the superhuman instinct that had come down through the
generations to the Onondaga. He merely saw traces, lighter than those
made by Rogers. But if his eyes could not, his mind did tell him that
Tayoga was right. The ring of conviction was so strong in the voice of
the Onondaga that Willet's faith was carried with it.

"It must be as you tell me, Tayoga," he said. "I do not doubt it. Robert
has been here with Rogers. He has come back out of the mists and vapors
that you tell about, and he walked this hill in the living flesh only a
few hours ago. Where could he have been? How has it happened?"

"That does not concern us just now, Great Bear. It is enough to know
that he is alive, and we rejoice in it. Before many hours we shall speak
with him, and then he can tell his tale. I know it will be a strange and
wonderful one, and unless Degaeoga has lost his gift of words, which I
think impossible, it will lose no color in the telling."

"Let him spin what yarn he pleases, I care not. All I ask is to put eyes
on the lad again. It seems, when I think of it in cold blood, that it
can scarce be true, Tayoga. You're sure you made no mistake about the
footsteps?"

"None, Great Bear. It is impossible. I know as truly that the living
Dagaeoga stood on this hill six hours ago as I know that you stand
before me now."

"Then lead on, Tayoga, and we'll follow the trail of the rangers. We
ought to overtake 'em by noon or soon after."

The broad path, left by the rangers, was like the trail of an army to
Tayoga, and they followed it at great speed, keeping a wary eye for a
possible ambush on either side. The traces grew fresher and fresher, and
Tayoga read them with an eager eye.

"The Mountain Wolf, Dagaeoga and the rangers are walking rapidly," he
said. "I think it likely that they are going to join Amherst in his
advance on Ticonderoga or Crown Point, or maybe they will turn west and
help Waraiyageh, but, in either case, they do not feel any alarm about
the warriors with whom they fought last night. Now and then the trail of
a scout branches off from their main trail, but it soon comes back
again. They feel quite sure that the warriors were only a roving band,
and will not attack them again. The Mountain Wolf and Dagaeoga walk side
by side, and we can surmise, Great Bear, that they talk much together.
Perhaps Dagaeoga was telling the Mountain Wolf where he has been these
many months, why he went away, and why he chose to come back when he did
out of the mists and vapors. Dagaeoga is strong and well. Look how his
footprints show the length of his stride and how steady and even it is!
He walks stride for stride with the Mountain Wolf, who as we know is six
feet tall. Dagaeoga has grown since he went away. He was strong before
he left, but he is stronger now. I think we shall find, Great Bear, that
while Dagaeoga was absent his time was not lost. It may be that he
gained by it."

"I'm not thinking whether he has or not, Tayoga. I'm glad enough to get
the lad back on any terms. We're making great speed now, and I think we
ought to overtake 'em before long. The trail appears to grow a lot
fresher."

"In an hour, Great Bear, we can signal to them. It will be best to send
forth a call, since one does not approach in the forest, in war, without
sending word ahead that he is a friend, else he may be met by a bullet."

"That's good and solid truth, Tayoga. We couldn't have our meeting with
Robert spoiled at the last moment by a shot. But it's much too early yet
to send out a call."

"So it is, Great Bear. I think, too, the rangers have increased their
speed. Their stride has lengthened, but, as before, the Mountain Wolf
and Dagaeoga keep together. They are great friends. You will recall that
they fought side by side on the shores of Andiatarocte."

"I remember it well enough, Tayoga. Nobody could keep from liking
Robert. 'Tis a gallant spirit he has."

"It is so, Great Bear. He carries light wherever he goes. Such as he are
needed among us. Because of that I never believed that Manitou had yet
taken him to himself. The rangers stopped here, sat on these fallen
logs, and ate food at noonday. There are little bones that they threw
away, and the birds, seeking shreds of food, are still hopping about."

"That's clear, Tayoga, and since they would probably stay about fifteen
minutes we ought to come within earshot of them in another half hour."

They pressed on at speed, and, within the appointed time, they sank down
in a dense clump of bushes, where Tayoga sent forth the mellow,
beautiful song of a bird, a note that penetrated a remarkable distance
in the still day.

"It is a call that Dagaeoga knows," he said. "We have used it often in
the forest."

In a few minutes the reply, exactly the same, faint but clear, came back
from the north. When the sound died away, Tayoga imitated the bird
again, and the second reply came as before.

"Now we will go forward and shake the hand of Dagaeoga," said the
Onondaga.

Rising from the bush, the two walked boldly in the direction whence the
reply had come, and they found a tall, straight young figure advancing
to meet them.

"Robert, my lad!" exclaimed Willet.

"Dagaeoga!" said the Onondaga.

Each seized a hand of Robert and shook it. Their meeting was not
especially demonstrative, but their emotions were very deep. They were
bound together by no common ties.

"You've changed, Robert," said Willet, merely as a sort of relief to his
feelings.

"And you haven't, Dave," said Robert, with the same purpose in view.
"And you, Tayoga, you're the great Onondaga chief you always were."

"I hope to be a chief some day," said Tayoga simply, "and then, when I
am old enough, to be a sachem too, but that rests with Tododaho and
Manitou. Dagaeoga has been away a long time, and we do not know where he
went, but since he has come back out of the mists and vapors, it is
well."

"I understood your call at once," said Robert, "and as you know I gave
the reply. I came from Albany with Rogers to find you, and I found you
quicker than I had hoped. We had a meeting with hostile warriors last
night, but we beat 'em off, and we've been pushing on since then."

"Your encounter last night was what enabled us to find you so quickly,"
said Willet. "Tayoga read on the ground the whole story of the combat.
He understood every trace. He recognized the footprints of Rogers and
then your own. He always believed that you'd come back, but nobody else
did. He was right, and everybody else was wrong. You're bigger, Robert,
and you're graver than you were when you went away."

"I've been where I had a chance to become both, Dave. I'll tell you all
about it later, for here's Rogers now, waiting to shake hands with you
too."

"Welcome, old friend," said Rogers, grasping the hunter's powerful hand
in his own, almost as powerful, "and you too Tayoga. If there's a finer
lad in the wilderness anywhere, I don't know it."

They said little more at present, joining the group of rangers and going
on steadily until nightfall. On the way Robert gave Willet and Tayoga an
outline of what had happened to him, not neglecting the dying words of
the slaver.

"It was the hand of Van Zoon," he said.

"Aye, it was Van Zoon," said the hunter. "It was his hand too that was
raised against you that time in New York. I've feared him on your
account, Robert. It's one reason why we've been so much in the forest.
You wonder why Huysman or Hardy or I don't tell you about him, but all
in good time. If we don't tell you now it's for powerful reasons."

"The others have told me so too," said Robert, "and I'm not asking to
know anything I oughtn't to know now. If you put off such knowledge,
Dave, I'm sure it ought to be put off."

They overtook the main body of the rangers that night, and Rogers now
had a force of more than two hundred men, but information from his
second in command decided him to join in the great movement of Sir
William Johnson and Prideaux against Niagara. The duties of Willet and
Tayoga called them to Amherst, and of course Robert went with them. So
the next morning they parted from Rogers.

"I think there'll be big things to tell the next time we meet," said
Willet to Rogers. "Mr. Pitt doesn't make his plans for nothing. He not
only makes big plans, but he prepares big armies and fleets to carry 'em
out."

"We have faith in him everywhere here," said Rogers, "and I hear they've
the same faith in him on the other side of the Atlantic. The failure
before Ticonderoga didn't seem to weaken it a particle. Take care of
yourselves, my friends."

It was a sincere farewell on both sides, but quickly over, and the three
pressed on to Amherst's camp, in the valley near the head of Lake
George, that had already seen so many warlike gatherings. Here a
numerous and powerful army, bent upon taking Ticonderoga and Crown
Point, was being trained already, and Robert, after visiting it, looked
once more and with emotion upon the shores of Andiatarocte.

Fate was continually calling him back to this lake and Champlain, around
which so much of American story is wrapped. The mighty drama known as
the Seven Years' War, that involved nearly all the civilized world,
found many of its springs and also much of its culmination here. The
efforts made by the young British colonies, and by the mother country,
England, were colossal, and the battles were great for the time. To the
colonies, and to those in Canada as well, the campaigns were a matter of
life or death. For the English colonies the war, despite valor and
heroic endurance, had been going badly in the main, but now almost all
felt that a change was coming, and it seemed to be due chiefly to one
man, Pitt. It was Napoleon who said later that "Men are nothing, a man
is everything," but America, as well as England, knew that in the Seven
Years' War Pitt, in himself, was more than an army--he was a host. And
America as well as England has known ever since that there was never a
greater Englishman, and that he was an architect who built mightily for
both.

The future was not wholly veiled to Robert as he looked down anew upon
the glittering waters of Andiatarocte. He had come in contact with the
great forces that were at work, he had vision anew and greater vision,
and he knew the gigantic character of the stakes for which men played.
If the French triumphed here in America, then the old Bourbon monarchy,
which Willet told him was so diseased and corrupt, would appear
triumphant to all the world. It would invent new tyrannies, the cause
of liberty and growth would be set back generations, and nobody would be
trodden under the heel more than the French people themselves. Robert
liked the French, and sometimes the thought occurred to him that the
English and Americans were fighting not only their own battle but that
of the French as well.

He knew as he stood with Willet and Tayoga looking at Lake George that
the great crisis of the war was at hand. All that had gone before was
mere preparation. He had felt the difference at once when he came back
from his island. The old indecision, doubt and despondency were gone;
now there was a mighty upward surge. Everybody was full of hope, and the
evidence of one's own eyes showed that the Anglo-American line was
moving forward at all points. A great army would soon be converging on
Ticonderoga, where a great army had been defeated the year before, but
now there would be no Montcalm to meet. He must be in Quebec to defend
the very citadel and heart of New France against the army and fleet of
Wolfe. The French in Canada were being assailed on all sides, and the
decaying Bourbon monarchy could or would send no help. Robert's
occasional thought, that the English and Americans might be fighting for
the French as well as themselves, did not project itself far enough to
foresee that out of the ashes left by the fall of Canada might spring
another and far stronger France.

"I'm glad I'm back here to join in the new advance on Ticonderoga," said
Robert. "As I was with Montcalm and saw our army defeated when it ought
not to have been, I think it only a just decree of fate that I should be
here when it wins."

"We'll take Ticonderoga this time, Robert. Never fear," said Willet.
"We'll advance with our artillery, and the French have no force there
that can stop us. Amherst is building a fort that he calls Edward, but
we'll never need it. He's very cautious, but it's as well, our curse in
this war has been the lack of caution, lack of caution by both English
and Americans. Still, that over-confidence has a certain strength in it.
You've noticed how we endure disaster. We've had heavy defeats, but we
rise after every fall, and go into the combat once more, stronger than
we went before."

The three spent some time with Amherst, and saw his great force continue
its preparation and drilling, until at last the general thought they
were fit to cope with anything that lay before them. Then, a year
lacking but a few days after Abercrombie embarked with his great army
for the conquest of Ticonderoga, Amherst with another army, mostly
Americans, embarked upon the same waters, and upon the same errand.

Robert, Tayoga and Willet were in a canoe in the van of the fleet. They
were roving scouts, held by the orders of nobody, and they could do as
they pleased, but for the present they pleased to go forward with the
army. Robert and Tayoga were paddling with powerful strokes, while
Willet watched the shores, the lake and the long procession. The sun was
brilliant, but there was a strong wind off the mountains and the boats
rocked heavily in the waves. Nevertheless, the fleet, carrying its
artillery with it, bore steadily on.

"The French have as big a force at Ticonderoga as they had when Montcalm
defeated Abercrombie," said the hunter, "and it's commanded by
Bourlamaque."

"A brave and skillful man," said Robert. "I saw him when I was a
prisoner of the French."

"But he knows Amherst will not make the mistake Abercrombie did," said
Willet. "Our big guns will talk for us, and they'll say things that
wooden walls can't listen to long. I'm thinking that Bourlamaque won't
stand. I've heard that he'll retreat to the outlet of Lake Champlain and
make a last desperate defense at Isle-aux-noix. If he's wise, and I
think he is, he'll do it."

"Do you know whether St. Luc is with him or if he has gone to Quebec
with Montcalm?" asked Robert.

"I haven't heard, but I think it's likely that he's here, because he has
so much influence with the Indians, who are far more useful in the woods
than in a fortress like Quebec. It's probable that we'll hear from him
in the morning when we try a landing."

"You mean we'll spend the night on the lake?"

"Aye, lad. It's blowing harder, and we've a rough sea here, though 'tis
a mountain lake. We make way but slowly, and we must be full of caution,
or risk a shipwreck, with land in sight on both sides of us."

Night drew on, dark and blowy, with the army still on the water, as
Willet had predicted, and much of it seasick. The lofty shores, green by
day, were clothed in mists and vapor, and the three saw no trace of the
French or the Indians, but they were quite sure they were watching from
the high forests. Robert believed now that St. Luc was there, and that
once again they would come into conflict.

"Do you think we'd better try the shore to-night?" he asked.

Willet shook his head.

"'Twould be too risky," he replied, "and, even if we succeeded, 'twould
do no good. We'll find out in the morning all we want to know."

They tied their canoe to one of the long boats, and, going on board the
latter, slept a little. But slumber could not claim Robert long. All
about, it was a battle-ground to him, whether land or water. Armies had
been passing and repassing, and fighting here from the beginning. It was
the center of the world to him, and in the morning they would be in
battle again. If St. Luc held the shore they would not land unscorched.
He tried to see signals on the mountain, but the French did not have to
talk to one another. They and their red allies lay silent and unseen in
the dark woods and waited.

Dawn came, and the three were back in their canoe. The wind had died,
and the fleet, bearing the army, moved forward to the landing. Officers
searched the woods with their strongest glasses, while the scouts in
their canoes, daring every peril, shot forward and leaped upon the
shore. Then a sheet of musketry and rifle fire burst from the woods. Men
fell from the boats into the water, but others held on to the land that
they had gained.

Robert, Tayoga and Willet among the first fired at dusky figures in the
woods, and once or twice they caught the gleam of French uniforms.

"It is surely St. Luc," said Robert, when he heard the notes of a silver
whistle, "but he can't keep us from landing."

"Aye, it's he," said Willet, "and he's making a game fight of it against
overwhelming forces."

Cannon from the boats also swept the forest with grape and round shot,
and the troops began to debark. It was evident that the French and
Indians were not in sufficient numbers to hold them back. Not all the
skill of St. Luc could avail. The three soon had evidence that the
formidable Ojibway chief was there also. Tayoga saw a huge trace in the
earth, and called the attention of Willet and Robert to it.

"Tandakora is in the bush," he said. "Sharp Sword does not like him, but
Manitou has willed that they must often be allies. Now the battle
thickens, but the end is sure."

The shores of Lake George, so often the scene of fierce strife, blazed
with the fury of the combat. The mountains gave back the thunder of guns
on the big boats, and muskets and rifles crackled in the forest. Now and
then the shouts of the French and the Indian yell rose, but the
triumphant American cheer always replied. The troops poured ashore and
the odds against St. Luc rose steadily.

"The Chevalier can't hold us back many minutes longer," said Willet. "If
he doesn't give ground, he'll be destroyed."

A few minutes more of resolute fighting and they heard the long, clear
call of the silver whistle. Then the forces in front of them vanished
suddenly, and not a rifle replied to their fire. French, Canadians and
Indians were gone, as completely as if they had never been, but, when
the Americans advanced a little farther, they saw the dead, whom St. Luc
had not found time to take away. Although the combat had been short, it
had been resolute and fierce, and it left its proofs behind.

"Here went Tandakora," said Tayoga. "His great footsteps are far apart,
which shows that he was running. Perhaps he hopes to lay an ambush later
on. The heart of the Ojibway was full of rage because he could not
withstand us."

"And I imagine that the heart of the Chevalier de St. Luc is also
heavy," said Robert. "He knows that General Amherst is bringing his
artillery with him. When I was at Ticonderoga last year and General
Abercrombie advanced, the French, considering the smallness of their
forces, were in doubt a long time about standing, and I know from what I
heard that they finally decided to defend the place because we did not
bring up our guns. We're making no such mistake now; we're not
underrating the enemy in that way. It's glorious, Dave, to come back
over the ground where you were beaten and retrieve your errors."

"So it is, Robert. We'll soon see this famous Ticonderoga again."

Robert's heart beat hard once more. All the country about him was
familiar. So much had been concentrated here, and now it seemed to him
that the climax was approaching. Many of the actors in last year's great
drama were now on another stage, but Bourlamaque and St. Luc were at
hand, and Tandakora had come too with his savages. He looked around it
the splendid landscape of lake and mountain and green forest, and the
pulses in his temples throbbed fast.

"Aye, Dagaeoga," said Tayoga, who was looking at him, "it is a great day
that has come."

"I think so," said Robert, "and what pleases me most is the sight of the
big guns. Look how they come off the boats! They'll smash down that
wooden wall against which so many good men hurled themselves to death
last year. We've got a general who may not be the greatest genius in the
world, but he'll have neither a Braddock's defeat nor a Ticonderoga
disaster."

Caution, supreme caution, was evident to them all as they moved slowly
forward, with the bristling guns at the front. Robert's faith in the
cannon was supreme. He looked upon them as their protectors. They were
to be the match for Ticonderoga.

On they went, winding through the forest and valleys, but they met
nothing. The green woods were silent and deserted, though much was there
for Tayoga to read.

"Here still goes Tandakora," he said, "and his heart is as angry as
ever. He is bitter against the French, too, because he fears now that he
has taken the wrong side. He sees the power of his enemies growing and
growing, and Montcalm is not here to lead the French. I do not think
Tandakora will go into the fort with St. Luc and Bourlamaque. His place
is not inside the walls. He wants the great forest to roam in."

"In that Tandakora is right," said Willet; "he acts according to his
lights. A fortress is no place for an Indian."

"Tandakora is now going more slowly," resumed the Onondaga. "His paces
shorten. It may be that he will stop to talk with some one. Ah! he does,
and it is no less a man than Sharp Sword himself. I have looked upon
Sharp Sword's footprints so often that I know them at a glance. He and
Tandakora stood here, facing each other, and talked. Neither moved from
his tracks while he spoke, and so I think it was not a friendly
conference. It is likely that the Ojibway spoke of the defeat of the
French, and Sharp Sword replied that in defeat as well as victory true
allies stand together. Moreover, he said that defeat might be followed
by victory and one must always hope. But Tandakora was not convinced. It
is the custom of the Indian to run away when he knows that his enemy is
too strong for him, and it may be wise. Now Tandakora turns from the
course and goes toward the west. And, lo! his warriors all fall in
behind him! Here is their great trail. Sharp Sword heads in another
direction. He is going with the French and Canadians to the fortress."

The army, under the shadow of its great guns, moved slowly on, and
presently they came upon the terrible field of the year before. Before
them lay the wall, stronger than ever with earth and logs, but not a man
held it. The French and Canadians were in the fortress, and the
Americans and English were free to use the intrenchments as a shelter
for themselves if they chose.

"It's going to be a siege," said Willet.

The cannon of Ticonderoga soon opened, and Amherst's guns replied, the
cautious general moving his great force forward in a manner that
betokened a sure triumph, though it might be slow. But on the following
night the whole French army, save a few hundred men under Hebecourt,
left to make a last desperate stand, stole away and made for
Isle-aux-Noix. Hebecourt replied to Amherst's artillery with the
numerous guns of the fort for three days. Amherst still would not allow
his army to move forward for the assault, having in mind the terrible
losses of last year and knowing that he was bound to win.

The brave Hebecourt and his soldiers also left the fort at last,
escaping in boats, and leaving a match burning in the magazine. One of
the bastions of Ticonderoga blew up with a tremendous explosion, and
then the victorious army marched in. Ticonderoga, such a looming and
tremendous name in America, a fortress for which so much blood had been
shed, had fallen at last. Robert did not dream that in another war, less
than twenty years away, it would change hands three times.

They found, a little later, that Crown Point, the great fortress upon
which the French king had spent untold millions, had been abandoned also
and was there for the Anglo-American army to take whenever it chose.
Then Amherst talked of going on into Canada and coöperating with Wolfe,
but, true to his cautious soul, he began to build forts and arrange for
the mastery of Lake Champlain.

Robert, Tayoga and Willet grew impatient as the days passed. The news
came that Prideaux had been killed before Niagara, but Sir William
Johnson, the Waraiyageh of the Mohawks, assuming command in his stead,
had taken the place, winning a great victory. After the long night the
dawn had come. Everything seemed to favor the English and Americans, and
now the eyes of the three turned upon Quebec. It was evident that the
war would be won or lost there, and they could bear the delays no
longer. Saying farewell to their comrades of Amherst's army, they
plunged into the northern wilderness, taking an almost direct course for
Quebec.

They were entering a region haunted by warriors, and still ranged by
daring French partisans, but they had no fear. Robert believed that the
surpassing woodcraft of the hunter and the Onondaga would carry them
safely through, and he longed for Quebec, upon which the eyes of both
the New World and the Old now turned. They had heard that Wolfe had
suffered a defeat at the Montmorency River, due largely to the
impetuosity of his men, but that he was hanging on and controlled most
of the country about Quebec. But Montcalm on the great rock was as
defiant as ever, and it seemed impossible to get at him.

"We'll be there in ample time to see the result, whatever it is," said
Willet.

"And we may find the trail of Sharp Sword and Tandakora who go ahead of
us," said Tayoga.

"But the Ojibway turned away at Ticonderoga," said Robert. "Why do you
think he'll go to Quebec?"

"Because he thinks he will get profit out of it, whatever the event. If
our army is defeated, he may have a great scalping, such as there was at
Fort William Henry; if the French are beaten, it will be easy enough for
him to get away in time. But as long as the issue hangs in the balance,
Tandakora means to be present."

"Sound reasoning," said the hunter, "and we'll watch for the trail of
both St. Luc and the Ojibway. And now, lads, with eyes and ears open,
we'll make speed."

And northward they went at a great rate, watching on all sides for the
perils that were never absent from the woods and peaks.




CHAPTER XIV

BEFORE QUEBEC


True to the predictions of Tayoga, they struck the trail of St. Luc and
Tandakora far up in the province of New York and west of Lake Champlain.
Ever since the white man came, hostile forces had been going north or
south along well-defined passes in these regions, and, doubtless, bands
of Indians had been traveling the same course from time immemorial; so
it was not hard for them to come upon the traces of French and Indians
going to Quebec to make the great stand against Wolfe and his fleet.

"It is a broad trail because many Frenchmen and Indians make it," said
the Onondaga. "As I have said, Sharp Sword and Tandakora do not like
each other, but circumstances make them allies. They have rejoined and
they go together to Quebec. Here is the trail of at least three hundred
men, perhaps two hundred Frenchmen and a hundred warriors. The footsteps
of Sharp Sword are unmistakable, and so are those of Tandakora. Behold
their great size, Dagaeoga; and here are the prints of boots which
belong to De Courcelles and Jumonville. I have seen them often before,
Dagaeoga. How could you believe they might have been left by somebody
else?"

"I see nothing but some faint traces in the earth," said Robert. "If you
didn't tell me, I wouldn't be even sure that they were made by a man."

"But they are plain to us who were born in the woods, and whose
ancestors have lived in the woods since the beginning of the world. It
is where we are superior to the white man, much as the white man thinks
of his wisdom, though there be those, like the Great Bear, the Mountain
Wolf and Black Rifle, who know much. But the feet of the two Frenchmen
who love not Dagaeoga have passed here."

"It is true they do not love me, Tayoga. I wounded one of them last
year, shortly before Ticonderoga, as you know, and I fancy that I'd
receive short shrift from either if I fell into his hands."

"That is so. But Dagaeoga will not let himself be captured again. He has
been captured often enough now."

"I don't seem to be any the worse for it," said Robert, laughing.
"You're right, though, Tayoga. For me to be captured once more would be
once too much. As St. Luc doesn't like Tandakora, I imagine you don't
see him walking with them."

"I do not, Dagaeoga. Sharp Sword keeps by himself, and now De Courcelles
and Jumonville walk with the Ojibway chief. Here are their three trails,
that of Tandakora between the other two. Doubtless the two Frenchmen are
trying to make him their friend, and it is equally sure that they speak
ill to him of St. Luc. But Sharp Sword does not care. He expects little
from Tandakora and his warriors. He is thinking of Quebec and the great
fight that Montcalm must make there against Wolfe. He is eager to arrive
at Stadacona, which you call Quebec, and help Montcalm. He knows that it
is all over here on Andiatarocte and Oneadatote, that Ticonderoga is
lost forever, that Crown Point is lost forever, and that Isle-aux-Noix
must go in time, but he hopes for Stadacona. Yet Sharp Sword is
depressed. He does not walk with his usual spring and courage. His paces
are shorter, and they are shorter because his footsteps drag. Truly, it
was a dagger in the heart of Sharp Sword to give up Ticonderoga and
Crown Point."

"I can believe you, Tayoga," said Willet. "It's bitter to lose such
lakes and such a land, and the French have fought well for them. Do you
think there's any danger of our running into an ambush? It would be like
Tandakora to lie in wait for pursuers."

"I am not sure, Great Bear. He, like the Frenchman, is in a great hurry
to reach Stadacona."

An hour or two later they came to a dead campfire of St. Luc's force,
and, a little farther on, a new trail, coming from the west, joined the
Chevalier's. They surmised that it had been made by a band from Niagara
or some other fallen French fort in that direction, and that everywhere
along the border Montcalm was drawing in his lines that he might
concentrate his full strength at Quebec to meet the daring challenge of
Wolfe.

"But I take it that the drawing in of the French won't keep down
scalping parties of the warriors," said Willet. "If they can find
anything on the border to raid, they'll raid it."

"It is so," said Tayoga. "It may be that Tandakora and his warriors will
turn aside soon to see if they cannot ambush somebody."

"In that case it will be wise for us to watch out for ourselves. You
think Tandakora may leave St. Luc and lie in wait, perhaps, for us?"

"For any one who may come. He does not yet know that it is the Great
Bear, Dagaeoga and I who follow. Suppose we go on a while longer and see
if he leaves the main trail. Is it the wish of Great Bear and Dagaeoga?"

"It is," they replied together.

They advanced several hours, and then the great trail split, or rather
it threw off a stem that curved to the west.

"It is made by about twenty warriors," said Tayoga, "and here are the
huge footsteps of Tandakora in the very center of it. I think they will
go northwest a while, and then come back toward the main trail, hoping
to trap any one who may be rash enough to follow Sharp Sword. But, if
the Great Bear and Dagaeoga wish it, we will pursue Tandakora himself
and ambush him when he is expecting to ambush others."

The dark eyes of the Onondaga gleamed.

"I can see, Tayoga, that you're hoping for a chance to settle that score
between you and the Ojibway," said the hunter. "Maybe you'll get it this
time, and maybe you won't, but I'm willing to take the trail after him,
and so is Robert here. We may stop a lot of mischief."

It was then about two o'clock in the afternoon, and, as Tayoga said that
Tandakora's trail was not more than a few hours old, they pushed on
rapidly, hoping to stalk his camp that very night. The traces soon
curved back toward St. Luc's and they knew they were right in their
surmise that an ambush was being laid by the Ojibway. He and his
warriors would halt in the dense bush beside the great trail and shoot
down any who followed.

"We'll shatter his innocent little plan," said Willet, his spirits
mounting at the prospect.

"Tandakora will not build a fire to-night," said Tayoga. "He will wait
in the darkness beside Sharp Sword's path, hoping that some one will
come. He will lie in the forest like a panther waiting to spring on its
prey."

"And we'll just disturb that panther a little," said Robert,
appreciating the merit of their enterprise, which now seemed to all
three a kind of great game.

"Aye, we'll make Tandakora think all the spirits of earth and air are
after him," said Willet.

They now moved with great caution as the trail was growing quite fresh.

"We will soon be back to Sharp Sword's line of march," said Tayoga, "and
I think we will find Tandakora and his warriors lying in the bushes not
more than a mile ahead."

They redoubled their caution, and, when they approached a dense thicket,
Robert and Willet lay down and Tayoga went on, creeping on hands and
knees. In a half hour he came back and said that Tandakora and his band
were in the thicket watching the great trail left by St. Luc.

"The Ojibway does not dream that he himself is being watched," said the
Onondaga, "and now I think we would better eat a little food from our
knapsacks and wait until the dark night that is promised has fully
come."

Tayoga's report was wholly true. Tandakora and twenty fierce warriors
lay in the thicket, waiting to fall upon those who might follow the
trail of St. Luc. He had no doubt that a force of some kind would come.
The Bostonnais and the English always followed a retreating enemy, and
experience never kept them from walking into an ambush. Tandakora was
already counting the scalps he would take, and his savage heart was
filled with delight. He had been aghast when Bourlamaque abandoned
Ticonderoga and Crown Point. Throughout the region over which he had
been roaming for three or four years the Bostonnais would be triumphant.
Andiatarocte and Oneadatote would pass into their possession forever.
The Ojibway chief belonged far to the westward, to the west of the Great
Lakes, but the great war had called him, like so many others of the
savage tribes, into the east, and he had been there so long that he had
grown to look upon the country as his own, or at least held by him and
his like in partnership with the French, a belief confirmed by the great
victories at Duquesne and Oswego, William Henry and Ticonderoga.

Now Tandakora's whole world was overthrown. The French were withdrawing
into Canada. St. Luc, whom he did not like, but whom he knew to be a
great warrior, was retreating in haste, and the invincible Montcalm was
beleaguered in Quebec. He would have to go too, but he meant to take
scalps with him. Bostonnais were sure to appear on the trail, and they
would come in the night, pursuing St. Luc. It was a good night for such
work as his, heavy with clouds and very dark. He would creep close and
strike before his presence was even suspected.

Tandakora lay quiet with his warriors, while night came and its darkness
grew, and he listened for the sound of men on the trail. Instead he
heard the weird, desolate cry of an owl to his left, and then the
equally lone and desolate cry of another to his right. But the warriors
still lay quiet. They had heard owls often and were not afraid of them.
Then the cry came from the north, and now it was repeated from the
south. There was a surfeit of owls, very much too many of them, and they
called to one another too much. Tandakora did not like it. It was almost
like a visitation of evil spirits. Those weird, long-drawn cries,
singularly piercing on a still night, were bad omens. Some of his
warriors stirred and became uneasy, but Tandakora quieted them sternly
and promised that the Bostonnais would soon be along. Hope aroused
again, the men plucked up courage and resumed their patient waiting.

Then the cry of the panther, long drawn, wailing like the shriek of a
woman, came from the east and the west, and presently from the north and
the south also, followed soon by the dreadful hooting of the owls, and
then by the fierce growls of the bear. Tandakora, in spite of himself,
in spite of his undoubted courage, in spite of his vast experience in
the forest, shuddered. The darkness was certainly full of wicked
spirits, and they were seeking prey. So many owls and bears and panthers
could not be abroad at once in a circle about him. But Tandakora shook
himself and resolved to stand fast. He encouraged his warriors, who were
already showing signs of fright, and refused to let any one go.

But the forest chorus grew. Tandakora heard the gobble of the wild
turkey as he used to hear it in his native west, only he was sure that
the gobble now was made by a spirit and not by a real turkey. Then the
owl hooted, the panther shrieked and the bear growled. The cry of a
moose, not any moose at all, as Tandakora well knew, but the foul
emanation of a wicked spirit, came, merely to be succeeded by the weird
cries of night birds which the Ojibway chief had never seen, and of
which he had never dreamed. He knew, though, that they must be hideous,
misshapen creatures. But he still stood fast, although all of his
warriors were eager to go, and the demon chorus came nearer and nearer,
multiplying its cries, and adding to the strange notes of birds the
equally strange notes of animals, worse even than the growl of bear or
shriek of panther.

Tandakora knew now that the wicked spirits of earth and air were abroad
in greater numbers than he had ever known before. They fairly swarmed
all about him and his warriors, continually coming closer and closer and
making dire threats. The night was particularly suited to them. The
heavy black clouds floating before the moon and stars were met by thick
mists and vapors that fairly oozed out of the damp earth. It was an evil
night, full of spells and magic, and the moment came when the chief
wished he was in his own hunting grounds far to the west by the greatest
of the Great Lakes.

The darkness was not too great for him to see several of his warriors
trembling and he rebuked them fiercely, though his own nerves, tough as
they were, were becoming frayed and uneasy. He forgot to watch the trail
and listen for the sound of footsteps. All his attention was centered
upon that horrible and circling chorus of sound. The Bostonnais might
come and pass and he would not see them. He went into the forest a
little way, trying to persuade himself that they were really persecuted
by animals. He would find one of these annoying panthers or bears and
shoot it, or he would not even hesitate to send a bullet through an owl
on a bough, but he saw nothing, and, as he went back to his warriors, a
hideous snapping and barking of wolves followed him.

The note of the wolf had not been present hitherto in the demon chorus,
but now it predominated. What it lacked in the earliness of coming it
made up in the vigor of arrival. It had in it all the human qualities,
that is, the wicked or menacing ones--hunger, derision, revenge, desire
for blood and threat of death. Tandakora, veteran of a hundred battles,
one of the fiercest warriors that ever ranged the woods, shook. His
blood turned to water, ice water at that, and the bones of his gigantic
frame seemed to crumble. He knew, as all the Indians knew, that the
souls of dead warriors, usually those who had been wicked in life,
dwelled for a while in the bodies of animals, preferably those of
wolves, and the wolves about him were certainly inhabited by the worst
warriors that had ever lived. In every growl and snap and bark there was
a threat. He could hear it, and he knew it was meant for him. But what
he feared most of all was the deadly whine with which growl, snap and
bark alike ended. Perspiration stood out on his face, but he could not
afford to show fear to his men, and, retreating slowly, he rejoined
them. He would make no more explorations in the haunted wood that lay
all about them.

As the chief went back to his men the snarling and snapping of the demon
wolves distinctly expressed laughter, derision of the most sinister
kind. They were not only threatening him, they were laughing at him, and
his bones continued to crumble through sheer weakness and fear. It was
not worth while for him to fire at any of the sounds. The bullet might
go through a wolf, but it would not hurt him, it would merely increase
his ferocity and make him all the more hungry for the blood of
Tandakora.

The band pressed close together as the wolves growled and snapped all
about them, but the warriors still saw nothing. How could they see
anything when such wolves had the power of making themselves invisible?
But their claws would tear and their teeth would rend just the same when
they sprang upon their victims, and now they were coming so close that
they might make a spring, the prodigious kind of spring that a demon
wolf could make.

It was more than Tandakora and his warriors could stand. Human beings,
white or red, they would fight, but not the wicked and powerful spirits
of earth and air which were now closing down upon them. The chief could
resist no longer. He uttered a great howl of fear, which was taken up
and repeated in a huge chorus by his warriors. Then, and by the same
impulse, they burst from the thicket, rushed into St. Luc's trail and
sped northward at an amazing pace.

Tayoga, Willet and Robert emerged from the woods, lay down in the trail
and panted for breath.

"Well, that's the easiest victory we ever gained," said Robert. "Even
easier than one somewhat like it that I won on the island."

"I don't know about that," gasped Willet. "It's hard work being an owl
and a bear and a panther and a wolf and trying, too, to be in three or
four places at the same time. I worked hardest as a wolf toward the
last; every muscle in me is tired, and I think my throat is the most
tired of all. I must lie by for a day."

"Great Bear is a splendid animal," said Tayoga in his precise, book
English, "nor is he wanting as a bird, either. I think he turned himself
into birds that were never seen in this world, and they were very
dreadful birds, too. But he excelled most as a wolf. His growling and
snapping and whining were better than that of ninety-nine out of a
hundred wolves, only a master wolf could have equaled it, and when I
stood beside him I was often in fear lest he turn and tear me to pieces
with tooth and claw."

"Tandakora was in mortal terror," said Robert, who was not as tired as
the others, who had done most of the work in the demon chorus. "I caught
a glimpse of his big back, and I don't think I ever saw anybody run
faster. He'll not stop this side of the St. Lawrence, and you'll have to
postpone your vengeance a while, Tayoga."

"I could have shot him down as he stood in the woods, shaking with
fear," said the Onondaga, "but that never would have done. That would
have spoiled our plan, and I must wait, as you say, Dagaeoga, to settle
the score with the Ojibway."

"I think we'd better go into the bushes and sleep," said the hunter.
"Being a demon is hard work, and there is no further danger from the
warriors."

But Robert, who was comparatively fresh, insisted on keeping the watch,
and the other two, lying down on their blankets, were soon in deep
slumber. The next day they shot a young bear, and had a feast in the
woods, a reward to which they thought themselves entitled after the
great and inspired effort they had made the night before. As they sat
around their cooking fire, eating the juicy steaks, they planned how
they should enter Canada and join Wolfe, still keeping their
independence as scouts and skirmishers.

"Most of the country around the city is held by the English, or at least
they overrun it from time to time," said Willet, "and we ought to get
past the French villages in a single night. Then we can join whatever
part of the force we wish. I think it likely that we can be of most use
with the New England rangers, who are doing a lot of the scouting and
skirmishing for Wolfe."

"But I want to see the Royal Americans first," said Robert. "I heard in
Boston that Colden, Wilton, Carson, Stuart and Cabell had gone on with
them, and I know that Grosvenor is there with his regiment. I should
like to see them all again."

"And so would I," said the hunter. "A lot of fine lads. I hope that all
of them will come through the campaign alive."

They traveled the whole of the following night and remained in the
forest through the day, and following this plan they arrived before
Quebec without adventure, finding the army of Wolfe posted along the St.
Lawrence, his fleet commanding the river, but the army of Montcalm
holding Quebec and all the French elated over the victory of the
Montmorency River. Robert went at once to the camp of the Royal
Americans, where Colden was the first of his friends whom he saw. The
Philadelphian, like all the others, was astounded and delighted.

"Lennox!" he exclaimed, grasping his hand. "I heard that you were dead,
killed by a spy named Garay, and your body thrown into the Hudson, where
it was lost! Now, I know that reports are generally lies! And you're no
ghost. 'Tis a solid hand that I hold in mine!"

"I'm no ghost, though I did vanish from the world for a while," said
Robert. "But, as you see, I've come back and I mean to have a part in
the taking of Quebec."

Wilton and Carson, Stuart and Cabell soon came, and then Grosvenor, and
every one in his turn welcomed Robert back from the dead, after which he
gave to them collectively a rapid outline of his story.

"'Tis a strange tale, a romance," said Grosvenor. "It's evident that
it's not intended you shall lose your life in this war, Lennox. What has
become of that wonderful Onondaga Indian, Tayoga, and the great hunter,
Willet?"

"They're both here. You shall see them before the day is over. But what
is the feeling in the army?"

"We're depressed and the French are elated. It's because we lost the
Montmorency battle. The Royal Americans and the Grenadiers were too
impulsive. We tried to rush slopes damp and slippery from rain, and we
were cut up. I received a wound there, and so did Wilton, but neither
amounts to anything, and I want to tell you, Lennox, that, although
we're depressed, we're not withdrawing. Our general is sick a good deal,
but the sicker he grows the braver he grows. We hang on. The French say
we can continue hanging on, and then the winter will drive us away. You
know what the Quebec winter is. But we'll see. Maybe something will
happen before winter comes."

As Robert turned away from the little group he came face to face with a
tall young officer dressed with scrupulousness and very careful of his
dignity.

"Charteris!"[A] he exclaimed.

"Lennox!"

They shook hands with the greatest surprise and pleasure.

"When I last saw you at Ticonderoga you were a prisoner of the French,"
said Robert.

"And so were you."

"But I escaped in a day or two."

"I escaped also, though not in a day or two. I was held a prisoner in
Quebec all through the winter and spring and much befell me, but at last
I escaped to General Wolfe and rejoined my old command, the Royal
Americans."

"And he took part in the battle of Montmorency, a brave part too," said
Colden.

"No braver than the others. No more than you yourself, Colden,"
protested Charteris.

"And 'tis said that, though he left Quebec in the night, he left his
heart there in the possession of a very lovely lady who speaks French
better than she speaks English," said Colden.

"'Tis not a subject of which you have definite information," rejoined
Charteris, flushing very red and then laughing.

But Colden, suspecting that his jest was truth rather, had too much
delicacy to pursue the subject. Later in the day Robert returned with
Willet and Tayoga and they had a reunion.

"When we take Quebec," said Tayoga to Grosvenor, "Red Coat must go back
with us into the wilderness and learn to become a great warrior. We can
go beyond the Great Lakes and stay two or three years."

"I wish I could," laughed Grosvenor, "but that is one of the things I
must deny myself. If the war should be finished, I shall have to return
to England."

"St. Luc is in Quebec," said Willet. "We followed his trail a long
distance."

"Which means that our task here will be the harder," said Colden.

Robert went with Willet, Charteris and Tayoga the next day to Monckton's
camp at Point Levis, whence the English batteries had poured destruction
upon the lower town of Quebec, firing across the St. Lawrence, that most
magnificent of all rivers, where its channel was narrow. He could see
the houses lying in ashes or ruins, but above them the French flag
floated defiantly over the upper city.

"Montcalm and his lieutenants made great preparations to receive General
Wolfe," said Charteris. "As I was in Quebec then, I know something
about them, and I've learned more since I escaped. They threw up
earthworks, bastions and redoubts almost all the way from Quebec to
Montcalm's camp at Beauport. Over there at Beauport the Marquis' first
headquarters were located in a big stone house. Across the mouth of the
St. Charles they put a great boom of logs, fastened together by chains,
and strengthened further by two cut-down ships on which they mounted
batteries. Forces passing between the city and the Beauport camp crossed
the St. Charles on a bridge of boats, and each entrance of the bridge
was guarded by earthworks. In the city they closed and fortified every
gate, except the Palace Gate, through which they passed to the bridge or
from it. They had more than a hundred cannon on the walls, a floating
battery carried twelve more guns, and big ones too, and they had a lot
of gun-boats and fire ships and fire rafts. They gathered about fifteen
thousand men in the Beauport camp, besides Indians, with the regulars in
the center, and the militia on the flank. In addition to these there
were a couple of thousand in the city itself under De Ramesay, and I
think Montcalm had, all told, near to twenty thousand men, about double
our force, though 'tis true many of theirs are militia and we have a
powerful fleet. I suppose their numbers have not decreased, and it's a
great task we've undertaken, though I think we'll achieve it."

Robert looked again and with great emotion upon Quebec, that heart and
soul of the French power in North America. Truly much water had flowed
down the St. Lawrence since he was there before. He could not forget the
thrill with which he had first approached it, nor could he forget those
gallant young Frenchmen who had given him a welcome, although he was
already, in effect, an official enemy. And then, too, he had seen Bigot,
Péan, Cadet and their corrupt group who were doing so much to wreck the
fortunes of New France. Not all the valor of Montcalm, De Levis,
Bourlamaque, St. Luc and the others could stay the work of their
destructive hands.

The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small. It was
true! The years had passed. The French victories in North America had
been numerous. Again and again they had hurled back the English and
Americans, and year after year they had dammed the flood. They had
struck terrible blows at Duquesne and Oswego, at William Henry and at
Ticonderoga. But the mills of God ground on, and here at last was the
might of Britain before Quebec, and Robert's heart, loyal as he was to
the mother country, always throbbed with pride when he recalled that his
own Americans were there too, the New England rangers and the staunch
regiment of Royal Americans, the bravest of the brave, who had already
given so much of their blood at Montmorency. In these world-shaking
events the Americans played their splendid part beside their English
kin, as they were destined to do one hundred and fifty-nine years later
upon the soil of Europe itself, closing up forever, as most of us hope,
the cleavage between nations of the same language and same ideals.

Robert looked long at Quebec on its heights, gleaming now in the sun
which turned it into a magic city, increasing its size, heightening the
splendor of the buildings and heightening, too, the formidable obstacles
over which Wolfe must prevail. Nature here had done wonders for the
defense. With its mighty river and mighty cliffs it seemed that a
capable general and a capable army could hold the city forever.

"Aye, it's strong, Lennox," said Charteris, who read his thoughts.
"General Wolfe, as I know, has written back to England that it's the
strongest place in the world, and he may be right, but we've had some
successes here, mingled with some failures. Aside from the Battle of
Montmorency most of the land fighting has been in our favor, and our
command of the river through our fleet is a powerful factor in our
favor. Yet, the short Quebec summer draws to a close, and if we take the
city we must take it soon. General Wolfe is lying ill again in a farm
house, but his spirit is not quenched and all our operations are
directed from his sick bed."

As Charteris spoke, the batteries on the Heights of Levis opened again,
pouring round shot, grape and canister upon the Lower Town. Fragments of
buildings crashed to the earth, and other fragments burst into flames.
Cannon on the frigates in the river also fired upon the devoted city and
from the great rock cannon replied. Coils of smoke arose, and, uniting
into a huge cloud, floated westward on the wind. It was a great
spectacle and Robert's heart throbbed. But he was sad too. He had much
pity for the people of Quebec, exposed to that terrible siege and the
rain of death.

"We've ravaged a good deal of the country around Quebec," continued
Charteris. "It's hard, but we're trying to cut off the subsistence of
the French army, and, on the other hand, bands of their Indian allies
raid our outposts and take scalps. It's the New England rangers mostly
that deal with these war parties, in which the French and Canadians
themselves take a part."

"Then Tandakora will find plenty of employment here," said Willet.
"Nothing will give him more joy than to steal upon a sentinel in the
dark and cut him down."

"And while Tandakora hunts our people," said Tayoga, "we will hunt him.
What better work can we do, Great Bear, than to meet these raiding
parties?"

"That's our task, Tayoga," replied the hunter.

As they turned away from the Heights of Levis the batteries were still
thundering, pouring their terrible flood of destruction upon the Lower
Town, and far up on the cliffs cannon were firing at the ships in the
river. Robert looked back and his heart leaped as before. The eyes of
the world he knew were on Quebec, and well it deserved the gaze of the
nations. It was fitting that the mighty drama should be played out
there, on that incomparable stage, where earth rose up to make a fitting
channel for its most magnificent river.

"It's all that you think it is," said Charteris, again reading his
thoughts; "a prize worth the efforts of the most warlike nations."

"The Quebec of the English and French," said Tayoga, "but the lost
Stadacona of the Mohawks, lost to them forever. Whatever the issue of
the war the Mohawks will not regain their own."

The others were silent, not knowing what to say. A little later a tall,
lank youth to whom Charteris gave a warm welcome met them.

"Been taking a look at the town, Leftenant?" he said.

"Aye, Zeb," replied Charteris. "I've been showing it to some friends of
mine who, however, have seen it before, though not under the same
conditions. These gentlemen are David Willet, Robert Lennox and Tayoga,
the Onondaga, and this is Zebedee Crane,[B] a wonderful scout to whom I
owe my escape from Quebec."

Willet seized the lank lad's hand and gave it a warm grasp.

"I've heard of you, Zeb Crane," he said. "You're from the Mohawk Valley
and you're one of the best scouts and trailers in the whole Province of
New York, or anywhere, for that matter."

"And I've heard uv all three uv you," said the boy, looking at them
appreciatively. "I wuz at Ticonderogy, an' two uv you at least wuz thar.
I didn't git to see you, but I heard uv you. You're a great hunter, Mr.
Willet, whom the Iroquois call the Great Bear, an' ez fur Tayoga I know
that he belongs to the Clan of the Bear uv the nation Onondaga, an' that
he's the grandest trailer the world hez ever seed."

Tayoga actually blushed under his bronze.

"The flattery of my friends should be received at a heavy discount," he
said in his prim, precise English.

"It ain't no flattery," said Zebedee. "It's the squar' an' solid truth.
I've heard tales uv you that are plum' impossible, but I know that they
hev happened all the same. Ef they wuz to tell me that you had tracked
the wild goose through the air or the leapin' salmon through the water
I'd believe 'em."

"It would be very little exaggeration," said Robert, earnestly. "Be
quiet, Tayoga! If we want to sing your praises we'll sing 'em and you
can't help it."

The five recrossed the river together, and went to Wolfe's camp below
the town facing the Montmorency, Charteris going back into camp with the
Royal Americans to whom he belonged, and the others going as free lances
with the New England rangers. Robert also resumed his acquaintance with
Captain Whyte and Lieutenant Lanhan of the _Hawk_, who were delighted to
meet him again.

Soon they found that there was much for them to do. Robert's heart bled
at the sight of the devastated country. Houses and farms were in ruins
and their people fled. Everywhere war had blazed a red path. Nor was it
safe for the rangers unless they were in strong parties. Ferocious
Indians roamed about and cut off all stragglers, sometimes those of
their own French or Canadian allies. Once they came upon the trail of
Tandakora. They found the dead bodies of four English soldiers lying
beside an abandoned farm house, and Tayoga, looking at the traces in the
earth, told the tale as truly as if he had been there.

"Tandakora and his warriors stood behind these vines," he said, going to
a little arbor. "See their traces and in the center of them the prints
left by the gigantic footsteps of the Ojibway chief. The house had been
plundered by some one, maybe by the warriors themselves, before the
soldiers came. Then the Ojibway and his band hid here and waited. It was
easy for them. The soldiers knew nothing of wilderness war, and they
came up to the house, unsuspecting. They were at the front door, when
Tandakora and his men fired. Three of them fell dead where they lie. The
fourth was wounded and tried to escape. Tandakora ran from behind the
vines. Here goes his trail and here he stopped, balanced himself and
threw his tomahawk."

"And it clove the wounded soldier's head," said Robert. "Here he lies,
telling the rest of the tale."

They buried the four, but they found new tragedies. Thus the month of
August with its successes and failures, its attacks and counter-attacks
dragged on, as the great siege of Quebec waged by Phipps and the New
Englanders nearly three-quarters of a century before had dragged.


    [A] The story of Edward Charteris is told in the author's novel, "A
        Soldier of Manhattan."

    [B] The story of Zeb Crane and his remarkable achievements is
        contained in the author's novel, "A Soldier of Manhattan."




CHAPTER XV

THE LONE CHÂTEAU


Despite his courage and the new resolution that he had acquired during
his long months on the island, Robert's heart often sank. They seemed to
make no progress with the siege of Quebec. Just so far had they gone and
they could go no farther. The fortress of France in the New World
appeared impregnable. There it was, cut clear against the sky, the light
shining on its stone buildings, proud and defiant, saying with every new
day to those who attacked it that it could not be taken, while Montcalm,
De Levis, Bougainville, St. Luc and the others showed all their old
skill in defense. They heard too that Bourlamaque after his retreat from
Ticonderoga and Crown Point was sitting securely within his lines and
intrenchments at Isle-aux-Noix and that the cautious Amherst would delay
longer and yet longer.

It was now certain that no help could be expected from Amherst and his
strong army that year. The most that he would do would be to keep
Bourlamaque and his men from coming to the relief of Quebec. So far as
the capital of New France was concerned the issue must be fought out by
the forces now gathered there for the defense and the offense, the
French and the Indians against the English and the Americans.

Robert realized more keenly every day that the time was short and
becoming shorter. Hot summer days were passing, nights came on crisp and
cool, the foliage along the king of rivers and its tributaries began to
glow with the intense colors of decay, there was more than a touch of
autumn in the air. They must be up and doing before the fierce winter
came down on Quebec. Military operations would be impossible then.

In this depressing time Robert drew much courage from Charteris, who had
been a prisoner a long time in Quebec, and who understood even more
thoroughly than young Lennox the hollowness of the French power in North
America.

"It is upheld by a few brave and skillful men and a small but heroic
army," he said. "In effect, New France has been deserted by the Bourbon
monarchy. If it were not for the extraordinary situation of Quebec,
adapted so splendidly to purposes of defense, we could crush the Marquis
de Montcalm in a short time. The French regulars are as good as any
troops in the world and they will fight to the last, but the Canadian
militia is not disciplined well, and is likely to break under a fierce
attack. You know, Lennox, what militiamen always are, no matter to what
nation they belong. They may fight and die like heroes at one time, and,
at another time, they may run away at the first fire, struck with panic.
What we want is a fair chance at the French army in the open. General
Wolfe himself, though cursed by much illness, never loses hope. I've had
occasion to talk with him more than once owing to my knowledge of Quebec
and the surrounding country, and there's a spirit for you, Lennox. It's
in an ugly body but no man was ever animated by a finer temper and
courage."

Robert and Charteris formed a great friendship, a true friendship that
lasted all their long lives. But then Robert had a singular faculty for
making friends. Charteris interested him vastly. He had a proud,
reserved and somewhat haughty nature. Many people thought him exclusive,
but Robert soon learned that his fastidiousness was due to a certain shy
quality, and a natural taste for the best in everything. Under his
apparent coldness lay a brave and staunch nature and an absolute
integrity.

Robert's interest in Charteris was heightened by the delicate cloud of
romance that floated about him, a cloud that rose from the hints thrown
forth now and then by Zebedee Crane. The young French lady in Quebec who
loved him was as beautiful as the dawn and she had the spirit of a
queen. Charteris lived in the hope that they might take Quebec and her
with it. But Robert was far too fine of feeling ever to allude to such
an affair of the heart to Charteris, or in truth to any one else.

It was a period of waiting and yet it was a period of activity. The
partisans were incessant in their ways. Robert heard that his old
friend, Langlade, was leading a numerous band against the English, and
the evidences of Tandakora's murderous ferocity multiplied. Nor were the
outlying French themselves safe from him. News arrived that he intended
an attack upon a château called Chatillard farther up the river but
within the English lines. A band of the New England rangers, led by
Willet, was sent to drive him off, and to destroy the Ojibway pest, if
possible. Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went with him.

They arrived at the château just before twilight. It was a solid stone
building overlooking the St. Lawrence, and the lands about it had a
narrow frontage on the river, but it ran back miles after the old French
custom in making such grants, in order that every estate might have a
river landing. Willet's troops numbered about forty men, and, respecting
the aged M. de Chatillard, who was quite ill and in bed, they did not
for the present go into the house, eating their own supper on the long,
narrow lawn, which was thick with dwarfed and clipped pines and other
shrubbery.

But they lighted no fires, and they kept very quiet, since they wished
for Tandakora to walk into an ambush. The information, most of which had
been obtained by Zeb Crane, was to the effect that Tandakora believed a
guard of English soldiers was in the house. After his custom he would
swoop down upon them, slaughter them, and then be up and away. It was a
trick in which the savage heart of the Ojibway delighted, and he had
achieved it more than once.

The August night came down thick and dark. A few lights shone in the
Château de Chatillard, but Willet and his rangers stood in black gloom.
Almost at their feet the great St. Lawrence flowed in its mighty
channel, a dim blue under the dusky sky. Nothing was visible there save
the slow stream, majestic, an incalculable weight of water. Nothing
appeared upon its surface, and the far shore was lost in the night. It
seemed to Robert, despite the stone walls of the château by their side,
that they were back in the wilderness. It was a northern wilderness too.
The light wind off the river made him shiver.

The front door of the house opened and a figure outlined against the
light appeared. It was an old man in a black robe, tall, thin and
ascetic, and Robert seeing him so clearly in the light of a lamp that he
held in his hand recognized him at once. It was Father Philibert
Drouillard, the same whom he had defeated in the test of oratory in the
vale of Onondaga before the wise sachems, when so much depended on
victory.

"Father Drouillard!" he exclaimed impulsively, stepping forward out of
the shadows.

"Who is it who speaks?" asked the priest, holding the lamp a little
higher.

"Father Drouillard, don't you know me?" exclaimed Robert, advancing
within the circle of light.

"Ah, it is young Lennox!" said the priest. "What a meeting! And under
what circumstances!"

"And there are others here whom you know," said Robert. "Look, this is
David Willet who commands us, and here also is Tayoga, whom you remember
in the vale of Onondaga."

Father Drouillard saluted them gravely.

"You are the enemies of my country," he said, "but I will not deny that
I am glad to see you here. I understand that the savage, Tandakora,
means to attack this house to-night, thinking that it holds a British
garrison. Well, it seems that he will not be far wrong in his thought."

A ghost of a smile flickered over the priest's pale face.

"A garrison but not the garrison that he expects to destroy," said
Willet. "Tandakora fights nominally under the flag of France, but as you
know, Father, he fights chiefly to gratify his own cruel desires."

"I know it too well. Come inside. M. de Chatillard wishes to see you."

Willet, Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went in, and were shown into the
bedroom where the Seigneur Louis Henri Anatole de Chatillard, past
ninety years of age, lay upon his last bed. He was a large, handsome old
man, fair like so many of the Northern French, and his dying eyes were
full of fire. Two women of middle years, his granddaughters, knelt
weeping by each side of his bed, and two servants, tears on their faces,
stood at the foot. Willet and his comrades halted respectfully at the
door.

"Step closer," said the old man, "that I may see you well."

The four entered and stood within the light shed by two tall candles.
The old man gazed at them a long time in silence, but finally he said:

"And so the English have come at last."

"We're not English, M. de Chatillard," said Willet, "we're Americans,
Bostonnais, as you call us."

"It is the same. You are but the children of the English and you fight
together against us. You increase too fast in the south. You thrive in
your towns and in the woods, and you send greater and greater numbers
against us. But you cannot take Quebec. The capital of New France is
inviolate."

Willet said nothing. How could he argue with a man past ninety who lay
upon his dying bed?

"You cannot take Quebec," repeated M. de Chatillard, rising, strength
showing in his voice. "The Bostonnais have come before. It was in
Frontenac's time nearly three-quarters of a century ago, when Phipps and
his armada from New England arrived before Quebec. I was but a lad then
newly come from France, but the great governor, Frontenac, made ready
for them. We had batteries in the Sault-au-Matelot on Palace Hill, on
Mount Carmel, before the Jesuits' college, in the Lower Town and
everywhere. Three-quarters of a century ago did I say? No, it was
yesterday! I remember how we fought. Frontenac was a great man as
Montcalm is!"

"Peace, M. de Chatillard," said Father Drouillard soothingly. "You speak
of old, old times and old, old things!"

"They were the days of my youth," said the old man, "and they are not
old to me. It was a great siege, but the valor of France and Canada were
not to be overcome. The armies and ships of the Bostonnais went back
whence they came, and the new invasion of the Bostonnais will have no
better fate."

Willet was still silent. He saw that the old siege of Quebec was much
more in M. de Chatillard's mind than the present one, and if he could
pass away in the odor of triumph the hunter would not willingly change
it.

"Who is the youth who stands near you?" said M. de Chatillard, looking
at Robert.

"He is Robert Lennox of the Province of New York," replied Father
Drouillard, speaking for Willet. "One of the Bostonnais, but a good
youth."

"One of the Bostonnais! Then I do not know him! I thought for a moment
that I saw in him the look of some one else, but maybe I was mistaken.
An old man cheats himself with fancies. Lad, come thou farther into the
light and let me see thee more clearly."

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 glass, 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 château 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 analysis 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 pass 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 passed 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, passed, 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 Château 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 François 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 nobody.
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 François 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."

"And my men shall help you," said Willet.

They carried the body of Jumonville into the château and put it on a
bench, while the servants, remarkably composed, used as they were to
scenes of violence, began at once to array it for the grave.

"Come into the Seigneur's room," said Father Drouillard, and Robert and
Willet followed him into the old man's chamber. M. de Chatillard lay
silent and rigid. He, too, had gone on the longest of all journeys.

"His soul fled," said Father Drouillard, "when the battle outside was at
its height, but his mind then was not here. It was far back in the past,
three-quarters of a century since when Frontenac and Phipps fought
before Quebec, and he was little more than a lad in the thick of the
combat. I heard him say aloud: 'The Bostonnais are going. Quebec remains
ours!' and in that happy moment his soul fled."

"A good ending," said Willet gravely, "and I, one of the Bostonnais, am
far from grudging him that felicity. Can my men help you with the
burial, Father? We remain here for the rest of the night at least."

"If you will," said Father Drouillard.

Zeb Crane touched Robert on the arm a little later.

"Tayoga has come back," he said.

"I didn't know he'd gone away," said Robert surprised.

"He pursued Tandakora into the dark. Mebbe he thought Tododaho was wrong
and that the time for him to settle score with the Ojibway had re'lly
come. Any way he wuz off after him like an arrer from the bow."

Robert went outside and found Tayoga standing quietly by the front door.

"Did you overtake him?" he asked.

"No," replied the Onondaga. "I knew that I could not, because Tododaho
had not whispered to me that the time was at hand, but, since I had seen
him and he was running away, I felt bound to pursue him. The legs of
Tandakora are long, and he fled with incredible speed. I followed him to
the landing of the next château, where he ran down the slope, leaped
into a canoe, and disappeared into the mists and vapors that hang so
heavily over the river. His time is not yet."

"It seems not, but at any rate we inflicted a very thorough defeat upon
him to-night. His band is annihilated."

The bodies of all the fallen warriors were buried the next day, and
decent burial was also given to Jumonville. But that of the Seigneur de
Chatillard was still lying in state when Willet and the rangers left.

"If you wish," said the hunter to Father Drouillard, "I can procure you
a pass through our lines, and you can return that way to the city. We
don't make war on priests."

"I thank you," said Father Drouillard, "but I do not need it. It is easy
for me to go into Quebec, whenever I choose, but, for a day or two, my
duty will lie here. To-morrow we bury the Seigneur, and after that must
put this household in order. Though one of the Bostonnais, you are a
good man, David Willet. Take care of yourself, and of the lad, Robert
Lennox."

The hunter promised and, saying farewell to the priest, they went back
to Wolfe's camp, east of the Montmorency, across which stream De Levis
lay facing them. During their absence a party of skirmishers had been
cut off by St. Luc, and the whole British army had been disturbed by the
activities of the daring Chevalier. But, on the other hand, Wolfe was
recovering from a serious illness. The sound mind was finding for itself
a sounder body, and he was full of ideas, all of the boldest kind, to
take Quebec. If one plan failed he devised another. He thought of
fording the Montmorency several miles above its mouth, and of attacking
Montcalm in his Beauport camp while another force made a simultaneous
attack upon him in front. He had a second scheme to cross the river,
march along the edge of the St. Lawrence, and then scale the rock of
Quebec, and a third for a general attack upon Montcalm's army in its
Beauport intrenchments. And he had two or three more that were
variations of the first three, but his generals, Murray, Monckton and
Townshend, would not agree to any one of them, and he searched his
fertile mind for still another.

But a brave general, even, might well have despaired. The siege made no
apparent progress. Nothing could diminish the tremendous strength that
nature had given to the position of Quebec, and the skill of Montcalm,
Bougainville, and St. Luc met every emergency. Most ominous of all, the
summer was waning. The colors that betoken autumn were deepening. Wolfe
realized anew that the time for taking Quebec was shortening fast. The
deep red appearing in the leaves spoke a language that could not be
denied.

Robert, about this time, received an important letter from Benjamin
Hardy. It came by way of Boston, Louisbourg and the St. Lawrence. It
told him in the polite phrase of the day how glad he had been to hear
from Master Jacobus Huysman that he was not dead, although Robert read
easily between the lines and saw how genuine and deep was his joy. Mr.
Hardy saw in his escape from so many dangers the hand of providence, a
direct interposition in his behalf. He said, from motives of prudence,
no mention of Robert's return from the grave had been made to his
acquaintances in New York, and Master Jacobus Huysman in Albany had been
cautioned to say as little about it as possible. He deemed this wise,
for the present, because those who had made the attempts upon his life
would know nothing of their failure and so he would have nothing to fear
from them. He was glad too, since he was sure to return to some field of
the war, that he had joined the expedition against Quebec. The risk of
battle there would be great, but it was likely that in so remote a
theater of action he would be safe from his unknown enemies.

Mr. Hardy added that great hopes were centered on Wolfe's daring siege.
All the campaigns elsewhere were going well, at last. The full strength
of the colonies was being exerted and England was making a mighty
effort. Success must come. Everybody had confidence in Mr. Pitt, and in
New York they were hopeful that the shadow, hovering so long in the
north, would soon be dispelled forever.

In closing he said that when the campaign was over Robert must come to
him in New York at once, and that Willet must come with him. His wild
life in the woods must cease. Ample provision for his future would be
made and he must develop the talents with which he was so obviously
endowed.

The water was in Robert's eyes when he finished the letter. Aye, he read
between the lines, and he read well. The old thought that he had
friends, powerful friends, came to him with renewed strength. It was
obvious that the New York merchant had a deep affection for him and was
watching over him. It was true of Willet too, and also of Mr. Huysman.
His mind, as ever, turned to the problem of himself, and once more he
felt that the solution was not far away.

The next day after he had received the letter Zeb Crane returned from
Quebec, into which he had stolen as a spy, and he told Robert and
Charteris that the people there, though suffering from privation, were
now in great spirits. They were confident that Montcalm, the
fortifications and the natural strength of the city would hold off the
invader until winter, soon to come, should drive him away forever.

August was now gone and Wolfe wrote to the great Pitt a letter destined
to be his last official dispatch, a strange mixture of despondency and
resolution. He spoke of the help for Montcalm that had been thrown into
Quebec, of his own illness, of the decline in his army's strength
through the operations already carried out, of the fact that practically
the whole force of Canada was now against him, but, in closing, he
assured the minister that the little time left to the campaign should be
used to the utmost.

While plan after plan presented itself to the mind of Wolfe, to be
discarded as futile, Robert saw incessant activity with the rangers and
fought in many skirmishes with the French, the Canadians and Indians.
Tandakora had gathered a new band and was as great a danger as ever.
They came upon his ruthless trail repeatedly, but they were not able to
bring him to battle again. Once they revisited the Château de
Chatillard, and found the life there going on peacefully within the
English lines. Father Drouillard had returned to Quebec.

Another shade of color was added to the leaves and then Robert saw a
great movement in Wolfe's camp before the Montmorency. The whole army
seemed to be leaving the position and to be going on board the fleet. At
first he thought the siege was to be abandoned utterly and his heart
sank. But Charteris, whom he saw just before he went on his ship with
the Royal Americans, reassured him.

"I think," he said, "that the die is cast at last. The general has some
great plan in his head, I know not what, but I feel in every bone that
we're about to attack Quebec."

Robert now felt that way, too. The army merely concentrated its strength
on the Heights of Levis and Orleans on the other side, then took ship
again, and in the darkness of night, heavily armed and provisioned, ran
by the batteries of the city, dropping anchor at Cap Rouge, above
Quebec.

Throughout these movements on the water Robert was in a long boat with
Willet, Tayoga and a small body of rangers. In the darkness he watched
the great St. Lawrence and the lights of the town far above them. What
they would do next he did not know, and he no longer asked. He believed
that Charteris was right, and that the issue was at hand.




CHAPTER XVI

THE RECKONING


Robert's belief that the issue was at hand was so strong that it was not
shaken at all, while they hovered about the town for a while. He heard
through Charteris that Wolfe was again ill, that he had suffered a
terrible night, but that day had found him better, and, despite his
wasted frame and weakness, he was among the troops, kindling their
courage anew, and stimulating them to greater efforts.

"A soul of fire in an invalid's frame," said Charteris, and Robert
agreed with him.

Through Zeb Crane's amazing powers as a spy, he heard that the French
were in the greatest anxiety over Wolfe's movements. They had thought at
first that he was abandoning the siege, and then that he meditated an
attack at some new point. Montcalm below the town and Bougainville above
it were watching incessantly. Their doubts were increased by the fierce
bombardments of the British fleet, which poured heavy shot into the
Lower Town and the French camp. The French cannon replied, and the hills
echoed with the roar, while great clouds of smoke drifted along the
river.

Then an afternoon came when Robert felt that the next night and day
would tell a mighty tale. It was in the air. Everybody showed a tense
excitement. The army was being stripped for battle. He knew that the
troops on the Heights of Levis and at Orleans had been ordered to march
along the south shore of the St. Lawrence and join the others. The fleet
was ready, as always, and the army was to embark. This concentration
could not be for nothing. Before the twilight he saw Charteris and they
shook hands, which was both a salute and a farewell.

"We take ship after dark," said Charteris, "and I know as surely as I'm
standing here that we make some great attempt to-night. The omens and
presages are all about us."

"I feel that way, too," said Robert.

"Tododaho will soon appear on his star," said Tayoga, who was with
Robert, "but, though I cannot see him, I hear his whisper already."

"What does it say?" asked Robert.

"The whisper of Tododaho tells me that the time has come. We shall meet
the enemy in a great battle, but he does not say who will win."

"I believe that, if we can bring Montcalm to battle, we can gain the
victory," said Charteris. "I for one, Tayoga, thank you for the
prophecy."

"And I," said Robert. "But we'll be together to the end."

"Aye, Dagaeoga, and together we shall see what happens."

Robert also saw the Philadelphians and the Virginians, and he shook
hands with them in turn, every one of them giving a silent toast to
victory or death. He found Grosvenor with his own regiment, the
Grenadiers.

"We may meet somewhere to-morrow, Grosvenor," he said, "but neither of
us knows where, nor under what circumstances."

"Just so we meet after victory, that's enough," said Grosvenor.

"Aye, so it is."

The boom of a cannon came from down the river, it was followed by
another and another and then by many, singularly clear in the September
twilight. A powerful British fleet ranged up in front of the Beauport
shore and opened a fierce fire on the French redoubts. It seemed as if
Wolfe were trying to force a landing there, and the French guns replied.
In the distance, with the thunder of the cannonade and the flashes of
fire, it looked as if a great battle were raging.

"It is nothing," said Willet to Robert, "or rather it is only a feint.
It will make Montcalm below the town think he is going to be attacked,
and it will make Bougainville above it rest more easily. The French are
already worn down by their efforts in racing back and forth to meet us.
Our command over the water is a wonderful thing, and it alone makes
victory possible."

Robert, Willet and Tayoga with a dozen rangers went into a long boat,
whence they looked up at the tall ships that carried the army, and
waited as patiently as they could for the order to move.

"See the big fellow over there," said Willet, pointing to one of the
ships.

Robert nodded.

"That's the _Sutherland_, and she carries General Wolfe. Like the boat
of Cæsar, she bears our fortunes."

"Truly 'tis so," said Robert.

A good breeze was blowing down the river, and, at that moment, the stars
were out.

"I see Tododaho with the wise snakes in his hair," said Tayoga in an
awed whisper, "and he looks directly down at me. His eyes speak more
plainly than his whisper that I heard in the twilight. Now, I know that
some mighty event is going to happen, and that the dawn will be heavy
with the fate of men."

The sullen boom of a cannon came from a point far down the river, and
then the sullen boom of another replying. Quebec, on its rock, lay dark
and silent. Robert was shaken by a kind of shiver, and a thrill of
tremendous anticipation shot through him. He too knew instinctively that
they were upon the threshold of some mighty event. Whatever happened, he
could say, if he lived, that he was there, and, if he fell, he would at
least die a glorious death. His was the thrill of youth, and it was
wholly true.

It was two hours past midnight and the ebb tide set in. The good wind
was still blowing down the river. Two lanterns went aloft in the rigging
of the _Sutherland_, and the signal for one of the great adventures of
history was given. All the troops had gone into boats earlier in the
evening, and now they pulled silently down the stream, Wolfe in one of
the foremost.

Robert sat beside Tayoga, and Willet was just in front of them. Some of
the stars were still out, but there was no moon and the night was dark.
It seemed that all things had agreed finally to favor Wolfe's supreme
and last effort. The boats carrying the army were invisible from the
lofty cliffs and no spying canoes were on the stream to tell that they
were there. Robert gazed up at the black heights, and wondered where
were the French.

"Are we going directly against Quebec?" he whispered to Willet. "'Tis
impossible to storm it upon its heights."

"Nay, lad, nothing is impossible. As you see, we go toward Quebec and I
think we land in the rear of it. 'Tis young men who lead us, the boldest
of young men, and they will dare anything. But I tell you, Robert, our
coming to Quebec is very different from what it was when we came here
with a message from the Governor of the Province of New York."

"And our reception is like to be different, too. What was that? It
sounded like the splash of a paddle ahead of us."

"It was only a great fish leaping out of the water and then falling back
again," said Tayoga. "There is no enemy on the stream. Truly Manitou
to-night has blinded the French and the warriors, their allies. Montcalm
is a great leader, and so is St. Luc, but they do not know what is
coming. We shall meet them in the morning. Tododaho has said so to me."

The boats passed on in their slow drifting with the tide. Once near to a
lofty headland, they were hailed by a French sentinel, who heard the
creaking of the boats, and who saw dim outlines in the dark, but a
Scotch officer, who spoke good French, made a satisfactory reply. The
boats drifted on, and the sentinel went back to his dreams, perhaps of
the girl that he had left in France.

"Did I not tell you that Manitou had blinded the French and the
warriors, their allies, to-night?" whispered Tayoga to Robert.
"Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the sentinel would have asked more,
or he would have insisted upon seeing more in the dark, but Manitou
dulled his senses. The good spirits are abroad, and they work for us."

"Truly, I believe it is so, Tayoga," said Robert.

"The French don't lack in vigilance, but they must be worn out," said
Willet. "It's one thing to sail on ships up and down a river, but it's
quite another for an army racing along lofty, rough and curving shores
to keep pace with it."

They were challenged from another point of vantage by a sentinel and
they saw him running down to the St. Lawrence, pistol in hand, to make
good his question. But the same Scotch officer who had answered the
first placated him, telling him that theirs were boats loaded with
provisions, and not to make a noise or the English would hear him. Again
was French vigilance lulled, and they passed on around the headland
above Anse du Foulon.

"The omens are ours," whispered Tayoga, with deep conviction. "Now, I
know that we shall arrive at the place to which we want to go. Unless
Manitou wishes us to go there, he would not have twice dulled the senses
of French sentinels who could have brought a French army down upon us
while we are yet in the river. And, lo! here where we are going to land
there is no sentinel!"

"Under heaven, I believe you're right, Tayoga!" exclaimed Willet, with
intense earnestness.

The boats swung in to the narrow beach at the foot of the lofty cliff
and the men disembarked rapidly. Then, hanging to rocks and shrubs, they
began to climb. There was still no alarm, and Robert held his breath in
suspense, and in amazement too. He did not know just where they were,
but they could not be very far from Quebec, and General Wolfe was
literally putting his head in the lion's mouth. He knew, and every one
around him knew, that it was now victory or death. He felt again that
tremendous thrill. Whatever happened, he would be in it. He kept
repeating that fact to himself and the thought of death was not with
him.

"The dawn will soon be at hand," he said; "I feel it coming. If we can
have only a half hour more! Only a half hour!"

"It will come with clouds," said Tayoga. "Manitou still favors us. He
wills that we shall reach the top."

Robert made another pull and surmounted the crest. Everywhere the
soldiers were pouring over the top. A small body of French sentinels was
taken by surprise. Some of them were captured, and the others escaped in
the dusk to carry the alarm to the city, to Montcalm and to
Bougainville. But Wolfe was on the heights before Quebec. From points
farther up the river came the crash of cannon. It was the French
batteries firing upon the last of the boats, and upon the ships bringing
down the rest of the troops. But it was too late to stop the British
army, which included Americans, who were then British too.

"The dawn is here," said Tayoga.

The east was breaking slowly into dull light. Heavy clouds were floating
up from the west, and the air was damp with the promise of rain. The
British army was forming rapidly into line of battle, but no army was in
front of it. The daring enterprise of the night was a complete success,
and Montcalm had been surprised. He was yet to know that his enemy had
scaled the heights and was before Quebec.

"We've gained a field of battle for ourselves," said Willet, "and it's
now for us to win the battle itself."

The mind of Wolfe was at its supreme activity. A detachment, sent
swiftly, seized the battery at Samos that was firing upon the ships and
boats. Another battery, farther away at Sillery, was taken also, and the
landing of additional troops was covered. A party of Canadians who came
out of the town to see who these intrusive strangers might be, were
driven back in a hurry, and then Wolfe and his officers advanced to
choose their ground, the rangers hovering on the flanks of the regulars.

Where the plateau was only a mile wide and before Quebec, the general
took his stand with the lofty cliffs of the St. Lawrence on the south
and the meadows of the St. Charles on the north. The field, the famous
Plains of Abraham, was fairly level with corn fields and bushes here and
there. A battalion of the Royal Americans was placed to guard the ford
of the St. Charles, but Robert saw the others, his friends among them,
formed up in the front ranks, where the brunt of the battle would fall.
Another regiment was in reserve. The rangers, with Robert, Tayoga and
Willet, still hovered on the flanks.

Robert felt intense excitement. He always believed afterward that he
understood even at that instant the greatness of the cloudy dawn that
had come, and the momentous nature of the approaching conflict, holding
in its issue results far greater than those of many a battle in which
ten times the numbers were engaged.

"How far away is Quebec?" he asked.

"Over there about a mile," replied Willet. "We can't see it because the
ridge that the French call the Buttes-a-Neveu comes in between."

"But look!" exclaimed Robert. "See, what is on the ridge!"

The stretch of broken ground was suddenly covered with white uniforms.
They were French soldiers, the battalion of Guienne, aroused in their
camp near the St. Charles River by the firing, and come swiftly to see
what was the matter. There they stood, staring at the scarlet ranks,
drawn up in battle before them, unable to credit their eyes at first,
many of them believing for the moment that it was some vision of the
cloudy dawn.

"I think that Montcalm's army will soon come," said Willet to Robert.
"You see, we're literally between three fires. We're facing the garrison
of Quebec, while we have Montcalm on one side of us and Bougainville on
the other. The question is which will it be, Bougainville or Montcalm,
but I think it will be Montcalm."

"I know it will be Montcalm," said Robert, "and I know too that when he
comes St. Luc will be with him."

"Aye, St. Luc will be with him. That's sure."

It was even so. Montcalm was already on his way. The valiant general of
France, troubled by the hovering armies and fleets of Britain, uncertain
where they intended to strike or whether they meant to strike at all,
had passed a sleepless night. At dawn the distant boom of the cannon,
firing at the English ships above the town, had come to his ears. An
officer sent for news to the headquarters of the Marquis de Vaudreuil,
the Governor-General of New France, much nearer to the town, had not
returned, and, mounting, he galloped swiftly with one of his aides to
learn the cause of the firing. Near the Governor-General's house they
caught a distant gleam of the scarlet ranks of Wolfe's army, nearly two
miles away.

When Montcalm saw that red flash his agitation and excitement became
intense. It is likely that he understood at once the full danger, that
he knew the crisis for Canada and France was at hand. But he dispatched
immediately the orders that would bring his army upon the scene. The
Governor-General, already alarmed, came out of his house and they
exchanged a few words. Then Montcalm galloped over the bridge across the
St. Charles and toward the British army. It is stated of him that during
this ride his face was set and that he never spoke once to his aides.

Behind Montcalm came his army, hurrying to the battle-field, and, taking
the quickest course, it passed through Quebec, entering at the Palace
Gate and passing out through those of St. Louis and St. John, hastening,
always hastening, to join the battalion of Guienne, which already stood
in its white uniforms and beneath its banners on the Buttes-a-Neveu.

Montcalm's army included the veterans of many victories. Through long
years they had fought valiantly for France in North America. At
Ticonderoga they had shown how they could triumph over great odds, over
men as brave as themselves, and, as they pressed through the narrow
streets of the quaint old town, they did not doubt that they were going
to another victory. With them, too, were the swart Canadians fighting
for their homes, their flag and, as they believed then, for their
religion, animated, too, by confidence in their courage, and belief in
the skill of their leaders who had so seldom failed.

Behind the French and the Canadians were the Indians who had been drawn
so freely to Montcalm's banner by his success, thinking anew of
slaughter and untold spoil, such as they had known at William Henry and
such as they might have had at Ticonderoga. The gigantic Tandakora,
painted hideously, led them, and in all that motley array there was no
soul more eager than his for the battle.

On that eventful morning, which the vast numbers of later wars cannot
dim, the councils of France were divided. Vaudreuil, fearing an attack
on the Beauport shore, did not give the valiant Montcalm all the help
that he could spare, nor did De Ramesay, commanding the garrison of
Quebec, send the artillery that the Marquis asked.

But Montcalm was resolute. His soul was full of fire. He looked at the
ranks of Wolfe's army drawn up before him on the Plains of Abraham, and
he did not hesitate to attack. He would not wait for Bougainville, nor
would he hold back for the garrison of Quebec. He saw that the gauge of
battle had been flung down to him and he knew that he must march at once
upon the British--and the Americans. Mounted on a black horse, he rode
up and down the lines, waving or pointing his sword, his dark face alive
with energy.

Montcalm now formed his men in three divisions. M. de Senezergues led
the left wing made up of the regiments of Guienne and Royal Roussillon,
supported by Canadian militia. M. de Saint Ours took the right wing with
the battalion of La Sarre and more Canadian militia. Montcalm was in the
center with the regiment of Languedoc and the battalion of Béarn. On
both flanks were Canadians and numerous Indians.

Robert from his position on a little knoll with Willet and Tayoga
watched all these movements, and he was scarcely conscious of the
passage of time. There was a shifting in the British army also, as it
perfected its alignment, and the bagpipes of the Scotchmen were already
screaming defiance, but his eyes were mainly for the French before him.
He recognized Montcalm as he rode up and down the lines, raising his
sword, and presently he saw another gallant figure on horseback that he
knew. It was St. Luc, and the old thrill shot through him: St. Luc for
whom the ancient M. de Chatillard had taken him, St. Luc with whom he
must have some blood tie.

Though it was now far beyond the time for the rising of the sun, the day
was still dark, heavy with clouds, and now and then a puff of rain was
blown in the faces of the waiting men, though few took notice. The wait
and the preparations had to Robert all the aspects of a duel, and the
incessant shrill screaming of the Scotch bagpipes put a fever in his
blood, setting all the little pulses in his head and body to beating.
Ever after he maintained that the call of the bagpipes was the most
martial music in the world.

The crackle of firing broke out on the flanks. The Canadian and Indian
sharpshooters, from the shelter of houses, bushes and knolls, had opened
fire. Now and then a man in scarlet fell, but the army of Wolfe neither
moved nor replied, though some of the New England rangers, stealing
forward, began to send bullets at their targets.

"I see Tandakora," said Tayoga, "and, in an hour, the score between us
will be settled. Tododaho told me so last night, but it is still
uncertain which shall be the victor."

"Can't you get a shot at him?" asked Robert.

"It is not yet time, Dagaeoga. Tododaho will say when the moment comes
for me to pull trigger on the Ojibway."

Then Robert's gaze shifted back to the figure of St. Luc. The chevalier
rode a white horse, and he was helping Montcalm to form the lines in the
best order for the attack. He too held in his hand a sword, the small
sword that Robert had seen before, but he seldom waved it.

"Are they ever coming?" asked Robert, who felt as if he had been
standing on the field many hours.

"We've not long to wait now, lad," replied Willet. "Our own army is
ready and I think the fate of America will soon be decided here on this
cloudy morning."

Another light puff of rain struck Robert in the face, but as before he
did not notice it. The crackling fire of the sharpshooters increased.
They were stinging the British flanks and more men in scarlet fell, but
the army of Wolfe remained immovable, waiting, always waiting. It was
for Montcalm now to act. French field pieces added their roar to the
crackle of rifles and muskets, and now and then the fierce yell of the
Indians rose above both. Robert thought he saw a general movement in the
French lines, and his thought was Willet's also.

"The moment has come! Steady, lads! Steady!" said the hunter.

The whole French army suddenly began to advance, the veterans and the
militia together, uttering great shouts, while the Indians on the flanks
gave forth the war whoop without ceasing. Robert remained motionless.
The steadfastness of soul that he had acquired on the island controlled
him now. Inwardly he was in a fever, but outwardly he showed no emotion.
He glanced at Montcalm on the black horse, and St. Luc on the white, and
then at the scarlet and silent ranks of Wolfe's army. But the French
were coming fast, and he knew that silence would soon burst into sudden
and terrible action.

"The French lines are being thrown into confusion by the unevenness of
the ground and the rapidity of their advance," said Willet. "Their
surprise at our being here is so great that it has unsteadied them. Now
they are about to open fire!"

The front of the charging French burst into flame and the bullets sang
in the scarlet ranks. Wolfe's army suddenly began to move forward, but
still it did not fire, although the battle of the skirmishers on the
flanks was rapidly increasing in ferocity. The rangers were busy now,
replying to the Indians and Canadians, but Robert still took rapid
glances and he looked oftenest toward the Americans, where his friends
stood. The advance of the French became almost a run, and he saw all the
muskets and rifles of his own army go up.

A tremendous volley burst from the scarlet ranks, so loud and so close
together that it sounded like one vast cannon shot. It was succeeded
presently by another, and then by an irregular but fierce fire, which
died in its turn to let the smoke lift.

Robert saw a terrible sight. The ground where the French army had stood
was literally covered with dead and wounded. The two volleys fired at
close range had mowed them down like grain. The French army, smitten
unto death, was reeling back, and the British, seizing the moment,
rushed forward with bayonet and drawn sword. The Highlanders, as they
charged with the broadsword, uttered a tremendous yell, and Robert saw
his own Americans in the front of the rush. He caught one glimpse of the
tall figure of Charteris and he saw Colden near him. Then they were all
lost in the smoke as they attacked.

But Wolfe had fallen. Struck by three bullets, the last time in the
breast, he staggered and sat down. Men rushed to his aid, but he lived
just long enough to know that he had won the victory. Before the firing
died away, he was dead. Montcalm, still on horseback, was shot through
the body, but he was taken into the city, where he died the night of the
next day. Senezergues, his second in command, was also mortally wounded,
and Monckton, who was second to Wolfe, fell badly wounded too.

But Robert did not yet know any of these facts. He was conscious only of
victory. He heard the triumphant cheers of Wolfe's army and he saw that
the French had stopped, then that they were breaking. He felt again that
powerful thrill, but now it was the thrill of victory.

"We win! We win!" he cried.

"Aye, so we do," said Willet, "but here are the Canadians and Indians
trying to wipe out us rangers."

The fire in front of them from the knolls and bushes redoubled, but the
rangers, adept at such combats, pressed forward, pouring in their
bullets. The Canadians and Indians gave ground and the rangers, circling
about, attacked them on the flank. Tayoga suddenly uttered a fierce
shout and, dropping his rifle, leaped into the open.

"Now, O Tandakora!" he cried. "The time has come and thou hast given me
the chance!"

The gigantic figure of Tandakora emerged from the smoke, and the two,
tomahawk in hand, faced each other.

"It is you, Tayoga, of the clan of the Bear, of the nation Onondaga, of
the league of the Hodenosaunee," said the chief. "So you have come at
last that I may spit upon your dead body. I have long sought this
moment."

"Not longer than I, Ojibway savage!" replied Tayoga. "Now you shall know
what it is to strike an Onondaga in the mouth, when he is bound and
helpless."

The huge warrior threw back his head and laughed.

"Look your last at the skies, Onondaga," he said, "because you will soon
pass into silence and darkness. It is not for a great chief to be slain
by a mere boy."

Tayoga said no more, but gazed steadily into the eyes of the Ojibway.
Then the two circled slowly, each intently watching every movement of
the other. The great body of Tandakora was poised like that of a
panther, the huge muscles rippling under his bronze skin. But the
slender figure of Tayoga was instinct also with strength, and with an
incomparable grace and lightness. He seemed to move without effort, like
a beam of light.

Tandakora crouched as he moved slowly toward the right. Then his arm
suddenly shot back and he hurled his tomahawk with incredible force. The
Onondaga threw his head to one side and the glittering blade, flying on,
clove a ranger to the chin. Then Tayoga threw his own weapon, but
Tandakora, with a quick shift evading it, drew his knife and, rushing
in, cried:

"Now I have you, dog of an Onondaga!"

Not in vain was Tayoga as swift as a beam of light. Not in vain was that
light figure made of wrought steel. Leaping to one side, he drew his own
knife and struck with all his might at the heart of that huge, rushing
figure. The blade went true, and so tremendous was the blow that
Tandakora, falling in a heap, gave up his fierce and savage soul.

"They run! They run!" cried Robert. "The whole French army is running!"

It was true. The entire French force was pouring back toward the gates
of the city, their leaders vainly trying to rally the soldiers. The
skirmishers fell back with them. A figure, darting from a bush, turned
to pull trigger on Robert, and then uttered a cry of terror.

"A ghost! It is a ghost!" he exclaimed in French.

But a second look told Achille Garay that it was no ghost. It may have
been a miracle, but it was Robert Lennox come back in the flesh, and his
finger returned to the trigger. Another was quicker. The hunter saw him.

"That for you, Garay!" he cried, and sent a bullet through the spy's
heart. Then, drawing the two lads with him, he rushed forward in
pursuit.

The confusion in the French army was increasing. Its defeat was fast
becoming a rout, but some of the officers still strove to stay the
panic. Robert saw one on a white horse gallop before a huddle of fleeing
men. But the soldiers, swerving, ran on. A bullet struck the horse and
he fell. The man leaped clear, but looked around in a dazed manner. Then
a bullet struck him too, and he staggered. Robert with a cry rushed
forward, and received into his arms the falling figure of St. Luc.

He eased the Chevalier to the ground and rested his head upon his knee.

"He isn't dead!" he exclaimed. "He's only shot through the shoulder!"

"Now, this is in truth the hand of Providence," said Willet gravely,
"when you are here in the height of a great battle to break the fall of
your own uncle!"

"My uncle!" exclaimed Robert.

The Chevalier Raymond Louis de St. Luc smiled wanly.

"Yes, my nephew," he said, "your own uncle, though wounded grievously,
on this the saddest of all days for France, son of my dear, dead sister,
Gabrielle."

Then he fainted dead away from loss of blood, and the Canadian, Dubois,
appearing suddenly, helped them to revive him. Robert hung over him with
irrepressible anxiety.

"The brother of my mother!" he exclaimed. "I always felt there was a
powerful tie, a blood tie, uniting us! That was why he spared me so
often! That was why he told me how to escape at Ticonderoga! He will not
die, Dave? He will not die?"

"No, he will not die," replied Willet. "The Marquis de Clermont can
receive a greater wound than that, and yet live and flourish."

"The Marquis de Clermont!"

"Aye, the Chevalier de St. Luc is head of one of the greatest families
of France and you're his next of kin."

"And so I'm half a Frenchman!"

"Aye, half a Frenchman, half an Englishman, and all an American."

"And so I am!" said Robert.

"Truly it is a great morning," said Tayoga gravely. "Tododaho has given
to me the triumph, and Tandakora has gone to his hereafter, wherever it
may be; the soul of Garay is sped too, France has lost Canada, and
Dagaeoga has found the brother of his mother."

"It's true," said Willet in a whimsical tone. "When things begin to
happen they happen fast. The battle is almost over."

But the victorious army, as it advanced, was subjected to a severe fire
on the flank from ambushed Canadians. Many of the French threw
themselves into the thickets on the Coté Ste.-Genevieve, and poured a
hail of bullets into the ranks of the advancing Highlanders. Vaudreuil
came up from Beauport and was all in terror, but Bougainville and
others, arriving, showed a firmer spirit. The gates of Quebec were shut,
and it seemed to show defiance, while the English and Americans, still
in the presence of forces greater than their own, intrenched on the
field where they had won the victory, a victory that remains one of the
decisive battles of the world, mighty and far-reaching in its
consequences.

A night of mixed triumph and grief came, grief for the loss of Wolfe and
so many brave men, triumph that a daring chance had brought such a
brilliant success. Robert found Charteris, Grosvenor, Colden and the
Virginians unharmed. Wilton was wounded severely, but ultimately
recovered his full strength. Carson was wounded also, but was as well as
ever in a month, while Robert himself, Tayoga, Willet and Zeb Crane were
not touched.

But his greatest interest that night was in the Chevalier de St. Luc,
Marquis de Clermont. They had made him a pallet in a tent and one of the
best army surgeons was attending so famous and gallant an enemy. But he
seemed easiest when Robert was by.

"My boy," he said, "I always tried to save you. Whenever I looked upon
you I saw in your face my sister Gabrielle."

"But why did you not tell me?" asked Robert. "Why did not some one of
the others who seemed to know tell me?"

"There were excellent reasons," replied the wounded man. "Gabrielle
loved one of the Bostonnais, a young man whom she met in Paris. He was
brave, gallant and true, was your father, Richard Lennox. I have nothing
to say against him, but our family did not consider it wise for her to
marry a foreigner, a member of another race. They eloped and were
married in a little hamlet on the wild coast of Brittany. Then they fled
to America, where you were born, and when you were a year old they
undertook to return to France, seeking forgiveness. But it was only a
start. The ship was driven on the rocks of Maine and they were lost,
your brave, handsome father and my beautiful sister--but you were saved.
Willet came and took you into the wilderness with him. He has stood in
the place of your own father."

"But why did not they tell me?" repeated Robert. "Why was I left so long
in ignorance?"

"There was a flaw. The priest who performed the marriage was dead. The
records were lost. The evil said there had been no marriage, and that
you were no rightful member of the great family of De Clermont. We could
not prove the marriage then and so you were left for the time with
Willet."

"Why did Willet take me?"

Raymond Louis de St. Luc turned to Willet, who sat on the other side of
the pallet, and smiled.

"I will answer you, Robert," said the hunter. "I was one of those who
loved your mother. How could any one help loving her? As beautiful as a
dream, and a soul of pure gold. She married another, but when she was
lost at sea something went out of my life that could never be replaced
in this world. You have replaced it partly, Robert, but not wholly. It
seemed fitting to the others that, being what I was, and loving
Gabrielle de Clermont as I had, I should take you. I should have taken
you anyhow."

Robert's head swam, and there was a mist before his eyes. He was
thinking of the beautiful young mother whom he could not remember.

"Then I am by blood a De Clermont, and yet not a De Clermont," he said.

"You're a De Clermont by blood, by right, and before all the world,"
said Willet. "I've a letter from Benjamin Hardy in New York, stating
that the records have been found in the ruins of the burned church on
the coast of Brittany, where the marriage was performed. Their
authenticity has been acknowledged by the French government and all the
members of the De Clermont family who are in France. Copies of them have
been smuggled through from France."

"Thanks to the good God!" murmured St. Luc.

"And Adrian Van Zoon? Why has he made such war against me?" asked
Robert.

"Because of money," replied Willet. "Your father was a great owner of
shipping, inherited, as Richard Lennox was a young man under thirty when
he was lost at sea. At his death the control of it passed into the hands
of his father's partner, Adrian Van Zoon. Van Zoon wanted it all, and,
since you had no relatives, he probably would have secured it if you had
been put out of the way. That is why you were safer with me at Albany
and in the woods, until your rightful claims could be established.
Benjamin Hardy, who had been a schoolmate and great friend of your
father, knew of this and kept watch on Van Zoon. Your estate has not
suffered in the man's hands, because, expecting it to be his own, he has
made it increase. Jonathan Pillsbury knew your history too. So did
Jacobus Huysman, in whose house we placed you when you went to school,
and so did your teacher, Master Alexander McLean."

"I had powerful friends. I felt it all the time," said Robert.

"So you had, lad, and it was largely because they saw you grow up worthy
of such friendship. You're a very rich man, Robert. There are ships
belonging to you on nearly every sea, or at least there would be if we
had no war."

"And a Marquis of France--when I die," said St. Luc.

"No! No!" exclaimed Robert. "You'll live as long as I will! Why, you're
only a young man!"

"Twenty-nine," said St. Luc. "Gabrielle was twelve years older than I
am. You are more a younger brother than a nephew to me, Robert."

"But I will never become a Marquis of France," said Robert. "I am
American, English to the core. I have fought against France, though I do
not hate her. I cannot go to France, nor even to England. I must stay in
the country in which I was born, and in which my father was born."

"Spoken well," said Willet. "It was what I wanted to hear you say. The
Chevalier will return to France. He will marry and have children of his
own. Haven't we heard him sing often about the girl he left on the
bridge of Avignon? The next Marquis of Clermont will be his son and not
his nephew."

Which came to pass, as Willet predicted.

Robert stayed long that night by the pallet of his uncle, to whom the
English gave the best of attention, respecting the worth of a wounded
prisoner so well known for his bravery, skill and lofty character. St.
Luc finally fell asleep, and, going outside, Robert found Tayoga
awaiting him. When he told him all the strange and wonderful story that
he had heard inside the tent, the Onondaga said:

"I suppose that Dagaeoga, being a great man, will go to Europe and
forget us here."

"Never!" exclaimed Robert. "My home is in America. All I know is
America, and I'd be out of place in any other country."

And then he added whimsically:

"I couldn't go so far away from the Hodenosaunee."

"Dagaeoga might go far and yet never come to a nation greater than the
great League," said Tayoga, with deep conviction.

"That's true, Tayoga. How stands the battle? I had almost forgotten it
in the amazing tide of my own fortunes."

"General Wolfe is dead, but his spirit lives after him. We are
victorious at all points. The French have fled into Quebec, and they yet
have an army much more numerous than ours, if they get it all together.
But Montcalm was wounded and they say he is dying. The soul has gone out
of them. I think Quebec will be yielded very soon."

And surrendered it was a few days later, but the victors soon found that
the city they had won with so much daring would have to be defended with
the utmost courage and pertinacity. St. Luc, fast recovering from his
wound, was sent a prisoner to New York, together with De Galissonnière,
who had been taken unhurt, but Robert did not get away as soon as he had
expected. Quebec was in peril again, but now from the French. De Levis,
who succeeded Montcalm as the military leader of New France, gathering
together at Montreal all the fragments of the French power in Canada,
swore to retake Quebec.

Robert, Tayoga and Willet, with the rangers, served in the garrison of
Quebec throughout the long and bitter winter that followed. In the
spring they moved out with the army to meet De Levis, who was advancing
from Montreal to keep his oath. Robert received a slight wound in the
battle of Ste. Foy that followed, in which the English and Americans
were defeated, and were compelled to retreat into Quebec.

This battle of Ste. Foy, in which Robert distinguished himself again
with the New England rangers, was long and fierce, one of the most
sanguinary ever fought on Canadian soil. De Levis, the French commander,
showed all the courage and skill of Montcalm, proving himself a worthy
successor to the leader who had fallen with Wolfe, and his men displayed
the usual French fire and courage.

Hazen, the chief of the rangers, was badly wounded in the height of the
action, but Robert and Willet succeeded in bringing him off the field,
while Tayoga protected their retreat. A bullet from the Onondaga's rifle
here slew Colonel de Courcelles, and Robert, on the whole, was glad that
the man's death had been a valiant one. He had learned not to cherish
rancor against any one, and the Onondaga and the hunter agreed with him.

"There is some good in everybody," said Willet. "We'll remember that and
forget the rest."

But Robert's friends in the Royal Americans had a hard time of it in the
battle of Ste. Foy, even harder than in Wolfe's battle on the Plains of
Abraham. They were conspicuous for their valor and suffered many
casualties. Colden, Cabell and Stuart were wounded, but took no
permanent hurt. Charteris also received a slight wound, but he recovered
entirely before his marriage in the summer with the lovely Louise de St.
Maur, the daughter of the Seigneur Raymond de St. Maur, in whose house
he had been a prisoner a long time in Quebec.

It was Robert's own personal contact and his great friendship for
Charteris, continuing throughout their long lives in New York, that
caused him to take such a strong and permanent interest in this
particular regiment which had been raised wholly in the colonies and
which fought so valiantly at Duquesne, Louisbourg, Ticonderoga, Quebec,
Ste. Foy, and in truth in nearly all the great North American battles of
the Seven Years' War.

It was at first the Sixty-Second Regular Regiment of the British Army,
"Royal American Provincials," but through the lapsing of two other
regiments it soon became the Sixtieth. Its valor and distinction were so
high when composed wholly of Americans, except the superior officers,
that nearly seventy years subsequent to the fall of Quebec the
Englishmen, who after the great quarrel had replaced the Americans in
it, asked that they be allowed to use as their motto the Latin phrase,
_Celer et audax_, "Swift and Bold," "Quick and Ready," which Wolfe
himself was said to have conferred upon it shortly before his fall upon
the Plains of Abraham. And in memory of the great deeds of their
American predecessors, the gallant Englishmen who succeeded them were
permitted by the British government to use that motto.

Despite their defeat at Ste. Foy, the English and Americans held the
capital against De Levis until another British fleet arrived and
compelled the retreat of the brave Frenchmen. More reënforcements came
from England, the powerful army of Amherst advanced from the south,
Montreal was taken, and it was soon all over with New France.

Canada passed to England, and after its fall English and American
troops, men of the same blood, language and institutions, did not stand
together again in a great battle for more than a century and a half, and
then, strangely enough, it was in defense of that France which under one
flag they had fought at Duquesne and Ticonderoga, at Quebec and Ste.
Foy.

Robert, Tayoga and Willet went back to the colonies by land, and after a
long journey stopped at Albany, where they received the warmest of
welcomes from Master Jacobus Huysman, Master Alexander McLean and
Caterina.

"I knew Robert that some time you would come into your own. I hold some
of the papers about you in my great chest here," said Jacobus Huysman.
"Now it iss for you to show that you understand how to use great fortune
well."

"And never forget your dates," said Master Alexander. "It is well to
know history. All the more so, because you have had a part in the making
of it."

Warm as was their welcome in Albany, it was no warmer than that given
them in New York by Benjamin Hardy and Jonathan Pillsbury. The very next
day they went to the house of Adrian Van Zoon for a reckoning, only to
find him dead in his bed. He had heard the night before of Robert's
arrival; in truth, it was his first intimation that young Lennox was
alive, and that all his wicked schemes against him had failed.

"It may have been a stroke of heart disease," said Benjamin Hardy, as
they turned away, "or----"

"He has gone and his crimes have gone with him," said Robert. "I don't
wish ever to know how he went."

A little later the Chevalier Raymond Louis de St. Luc, Marquis de
Clermont, the war now being over, sailed with his faithful Canadian
attendant, Dubois, from New York for France. The parting between him and
his nephew was not demonstrative, but it was marked by the deepest
affection on either side.

"France has been defeated, but she is the eternal nation," said St. Luc.
"She will be greater than ever. She will be more splendid than before."

The De Clermonts were a powerful stock, with their roots deep in the
soil. A son of St. Luc's became a famous general under Napoleon, a great
cavalry leader of singular courage and capacity, and a lineal descendant
of his, a general also, fought with the same courage and ability under
Joffre and Foch in the World War, being especially conspicuous for his
services at both the First and Second Marne. At the Second Marne he gave
a heartfelt greeting to two young American officers named Lennox,
calling them his cousins and brothers-in-arms, in blood as well as in
spirit. They were together in the immortal counter-stroke on the morning
of July 18, 1918, when Americans and French turned the tide of the World
War, and sealed anew an old friendship. They were also together
throughout those blazing one hundred and nineteen days when British,
French and Americans together, old enemies and old friends who had
mingled their blood on innumerable battle-fields, destroyed the greatest
menace of modern times and hurled the pretender to divine honors from
his throne.

Robert found his fortune to be one of the largest in the New World, but
he kept it in the hands of Benjamin Hardy and David Willet, who
increased it, and he became the lawyer, orator and statesman for which
his talents fitted him so eminently. A marked characteristic in the life
of Robert Lennox, noted by all who knew him, was his liberality of
opinion. He had his share in public life, but the bitterness of
politics, then so common in this country as well as others, seemed never
to touch him. He was always willing to give his opponent credit for
sincerity, and even to admit that his cause had justice. In his opinion
the other man's point of view could always be considered.

This broadness of mind often caused him to incur criticism, but it had
become so much his nature, and his courage was so great, that he would
not depart from it. He had been through the terrible war with the
French, and, even before he knew that he was half a Frenchman by blood,
he had gladly acknowledged the splendid qualities of the French, their
bravery and patience, and their logical minds. He always said during the
worst throes of their revolution that the French would emerge from it
greater than ever.

His position was similar in the Revolutionary War with the English.
While he cast in his lot with his own people, and suffered with them, he
invariably maintained that the English nation was sound at the core. He
had fought beside them in a great struggle and he knew how strong and
true they were, and when our own strife was over he was most eager for a
renewal of good relations with the English, always saying that the fact
that they had quarreled and parted did not keep them from being of the
same blood and family, and hence natural allies.

He consistently refused to hate an individual. He always insisted that
life was too busy to cherish a grudge or seek revenge. Bad acts
invariably punished themselves in the course of time. He was able to see
some good, a little at least, in everybody. Searching his mind in after
years, he could even find excuses for Adrian Van Zoon. He would say to
Willet that the man loved nothing but money, that perhaps he had been
born that way and could not help it, that he had made his attempts upon
him under the influence of what was the greatest of all temptations to
him, and that while he paid the slaver to carry him away he had not paid
him to kill him. As for Garay, he would say that he might have exceeded
orders. He would say the same about the shots the slaver had fired at
him at Albany.

This tolerance came partly from his own character, and partly from an
enormous experience of life in the raw in his young and formative years.
He knew how men were to a large extent the creatures of circumstances,
and on the individual in particular his judgments were always mild. He
had two favorite sayings:

"No man is as bad as he seems to his worst enemy."

"No man is as good as he seems to his best friend."

His own faults he knew perfectly well to be quickness of temper and a
proneness to hasty action. Throughout his life he fought against them
and he took as his models Willet and Tayoga, who always appeared to him
to have a more thorough command over their own minds and impulses than
any other men he ever knew.

Aside from his brilliancy and power in public life, Lennox had other
qualities that distinguished him as a man. He was noted for his
cosmopolitan views concerning human affairs. He had an uncommon
largeness and breadth of vision, all the more notable then, as America
was, in many respects, outside the greater world of Europe. People in
speaking of him, however, recalled the extraordinary variety and
intensity of his experiences. Much of his story was known and it was not
diminished in the telling. He was always at home in the woods. He had an
uncommon sympathy for hunters, borderers, pathfinders and all kinds of
wilderness rovers. He understood them and they instinctively understood
him, invariably finding in him a redoubtable champion. He was also
closely in touch with the Indian soul, and his friends used to say
laughingly that he had something of the Indian in his own nature. At all
events, the Great League of the Hodenosaunee found in him a defender and
he was more than once an honored guest in the Vale of Onondaga.

On the other hand, his interest in European affairs was always keen and
intelligent, especially in those of England and France, with whose sons
he had come into contact so much during the great war. He maintained a
lifelong correspondence with his friend, Alfred Grosvenor, who
ultimately became a nobleman and who sat for more than forty years in
the House of Lords. Lennox visited him several times in England, both
before and after the quarrel between the colonies and the mother
country, which, however, did not diminish their friendship a particle.
In truth, during those troubled times Grosvenor, who was noted for the
liberality of his sentiments and for an affection for Americans,
conceived during his service as a soldier on their continent in the
Seven Years' War, often defended them against the criticism of his
countrymen, while Lennox, on his side, very boldly told the people that
nothing could alter the fact that England was their mother country, and
that no one should even wish to alter it.

But his correspondence with his uncle, Raymond Louis de St. Luc, Marquis
de Clermont, not so many years older than himself, covered a period of
nearly sixty years filled with world-shaking events, and, though it has
been printed for private circulation only, it is a perfect mine of fact,
comment and illumination. St. Luc was one of the few French noblemen to
foresee the great Revolution in his country, and, while he mourned its
excesses, he knew that much of it was justified. His patriotism and
courage were so high and so obvious that neither Danton, Marat nor
Robespierre dared to attack him. As an old man he supported Napoleon
ardently until the empire and the ambitions of the emperor became too
swollen, and, while he mourned Waterloo, he told his son, General Robert
Lennox de St. Luc, who distinguished himself so greatly there and who
almost took the château of Hougoumont from the English, that it was for
the best, and that it was inevitable. It was the comment of St. Luc,
then eighty-five years old and full of experience and wisdom, that a
very great man may become too great.

Lennox was noted for his great geniality and his extraordinary capacity
for making friends. Yet there was a strain of remarkable gravity, even
austerity, in his character. There came times when he wished to be
alone, to hear no human voices about him. It was then perhaps that he
thought his best thoughts and took, too, his best resolutions. In the
great silences he seemed to see more clearly, and the path lay straight
before him. Many of his friends thought it an eccentricity, but he knew
it was an inheritance from his long stay alone upon the island, a period
in his life that had so much effect in molding his character.

It was this ripeness of mind, based upon fullness of information and
deep meditation, that made him such a great man in the true sense of the
word. As a speaker he was without a rival either in form or substance in
the New World. It was said everywhere in New York that the famous
Alexander Hamilton and the equally skillful Aaron Burr went to the
courtroom regularly to study his methods. Both admitted quite freely in
private that they copied his style, though neither was ever able to
acquire the wonderful golden voice, the genuine phenomenon that made
Lennox so notable.

On one of these occasions, after making a thrilling speech, when he
filled the souls of both Hamilton and Burr with despair, a great
Onondaga sachem, in the full costume of his nation, said to his friend
Willet, once a renowned hunter:

"I always knew Dagaeoga could use more words than any one else could
find in the biggest dictionary."




THE END




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


Page numbers in the table of contents and in the transcriber's notes
below refer to the original printed version.

Footnotes have been moved to the end of their respective chapters.

The following typographical errors in the original printed version have
been noted below and corrected only where indicated.


CHARACTERS IN THE FRENCH AND INDIAN WAR SERIES

The character Louis de Galissonnière appears here as "GALISONNIÈRE."
Although he appears only at one other point in this book, the correct
spelling comes from his more frequent appearances in another novel of
the series, _The Masters of The Peaks_.

The captain of the _Hawk_, Stuart Whyte, is listed here as "WHITE."

The lieutenant of the _Hawk_, John Lanham, is listed here as "LATHAM."


CHAPTER I

(Page 2) The character of Jacobus Huysman has a very noticeable dialect.
The spelling of "iss," "wass," and "hass," plus various other words in
his dialogue, is preserved as in the original text.

(Page 17) Alfred Grosvenor is referred as "Grovenor's."


CHAPTER III

(Page 53) "hiden" instead of "hidden." Corrected in this text.


CHAPTER IV

(Page 71) A missing closing quote at "... and so I decided against
him." Corrected in this text.


CHAPTER V

(Page 92) "probabilty" instead of "probability." Corrected in this text.

(Page 93) "She's going almost due south ..." opens with a single quote.
Corrected in this text.


CHAPTER VIII

(Page 144) "firce" instead of "fierce." Corrected in this text.


CHAPTER XI

(Page 203) Once again, Captain Stuart Whyte is referred to as "White."

(Page 214) A missing closing quote at "... for the term of the war, at
least." Corrected in this text.


CHAPTER XII

(Page 221) "You" instead of "your" in "your look iss changed!" Corrected
in this text.


CHAPTER XIII

(Pages 245, 246). The name "Todohado" appears twice in quick succession
on these pages. Presumably the spirit Tododaho was intended.

(Page 247). Tayoga uses "Degaeoga," presumably meaning Dagaeoga, his
name for Lennox.

(Page 248) "atack" instead of "attack." Corrected in this text.

(Page 255) The location of Isle-aux-Noix appears here as
"Isle-aux-noix."


CHAPTER XIV

(Page 266) A comma appeared to terminate the sentence "... laid by the
Ojibway." Corrected in this text.

(Page 282) The lieutenant of the _Hawk_, John Lanham, is referred to as
"Lanhan."

CHAPTER XV

(Page 293) David Willet is referred to as "Willett."





End of Project Gutenberg's The Sun Of Quebec, by Joseph A. Altsheler