The Seats of the Mighty: Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Stobo, Sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, and Afterwards of Amherst's Regiment

XVI.

IMMEDIATELY I opened the packet. True enough, the two books of poems I had lent Alixe were there. They were written by one of my masters at the university, a man of singular talents and delicacy of mind, who had never sought fame, his poems being privately printed, and destined only for his few friends, of whom it was my great joy to be one. For though I am of a rough exterior, I have great sympathies for all natural and artistic refinements ; nor am I without some small gifts of imagination.

I turned the leaves over quickly, and held the books up, so that anything might drop out; but there was nothing, save the flying leaves, to the eye. I was convinced that there must be a message somewhere in the books ; that this was a means of my dear girl to send me news. But was it not most daring, to send it by our mutual enemy ; to hoodwink the very man who, by touching a spring, as it were, could overwhelm us both with misery ? I held a book open in my hand, beside the stove, thinking and wondering ; but presently, glancing down, I saw one poem marked. I thought at first that I had missed it when I searched before, and whether the marking was by my own hand or Alixe’s I could not remember. Soon, however, I saw that it was not mine, for it had been done, I found, by a tiny brush, and the color had been put on wet. It flashed upon me that this was a color which showed only when exposed to heat and light — an old ruse, yet serving well enough. But when I looked again at the poem, and read it through, I was still tossed about in my mind. I will give the verses here :-

(He.)

(She.)

I read the poem over slowly, the last verse twice or thrice, and then the whole thing came to me. Her message was hid in the covers of the books. At once I examined them minutely, and I saw that, most deftly indeed, the covers of one book had been taken apart, and filled in with what must be a letter. I lifted carefully the inner paper of the covers, and there was her message, written upon thin, closely pressed paper : —

DEAR ROBERT, — I know not if this will ever reach you, for I am about to try a perilous thing, even to make Monsieur Doltaire my letter-carrier. Bold as it is, I hope to bring it through safely.

You must know that my mother now makes Monsieur Doltaire welcome to our home, for his great talents and persuasion have so worked upon her that she believes him not so black as he is painted. My father, too, is not unmoved by his amazing address and complaisance. He does not proclaim himself of any merits, but rather hints his badness so frankly and with such delicate touches of over-color that he makes an argument for his virtues. And these things are so set off by occasional charities, by his public honesty, — for he is against all the corruption led by the Intendant,— by his skill in conversation, and by his adroit tenacity that he goes much farther with the best folk than you would guess possible. I do not think he often cares to use his arts — he is too indolent : but with my father, my mother, and my sister he has set in motion all his resources.

Robert, all Versailles is here. The genius of that brilliant but flippant and wicked court is here. This Monsieur Doltaire speaks for it. I know not if all courts in the world are the same, but indeed, if so, I am at heart no courtier. I love the sparkle, the sharp play of wit and word, the very touch-and-go of weapons ; I am in love with life, and I wish to live to be old, very old, that I will have known it all, from helplessness to helplessness again, that I may miss nothing, even though much he sad to feel and bear. Robert, I should have gone on many years, seeing little, knowing little, I think, if it had not been for you and for your troubles, which are mine, and for this love of ours, builded in the midst of sorrows. Georgette is now as old as when I first came to love you, and you were thrown into the citadel, and yet I am ten years older than she ; necessity has made me wise. Ah, if necessity would but make me happy, too, by giving you your liberty, that on these many miseries endured we might set up a sure home. I wonder if you think — if you think of that: a little home away from all these wars, aloof from these vexing times and things.

But there ! all too plainly I am showing you my heart. Yet it is so great a comfort to speak on paper to you, in this silence here. Can you guess where is that here, Robert? It is not the Château St. Louis—no. It is not the Manor. It is the Château, dear Château Alixe, — my father has called it that, — on the Island of Orleans. You would never have guessed it, would you ? I feel so free here, more as I used to do when you knew me at the Manor House, in the good old garden there. Do you remember the hawk you set free, that clear morning? Three days ago I was sick at heart, tired of all the junketings and feastings, and I begged my mother to fetch me here, though it is yet but early spring, and snow is on the ground.

First, you must know that this new Château is built upon, and is joined to, the ruins of an old one, owned long years ago by the Baron of Beaugard, whose strange history you must learn some day, out of the papers we have found here. I begged my father not to tear the old portions of the manor down, but, using the first foundations, put up a house half castle and half manor. Pictures of the old manor were found, and so we have a place that is no patchwork, but a renewal. I made my father give me the old surviving part of the building for my own, and so it is.

It is all set on high ground abutting on the water almost at the point where I am, and I have the river in my sight all day. Now, think yourself in the new building. You come out of a dining-hall, hung all about with horns and weapons and shields and such bravery, go through a dark, narrow passage, and then down a step or two. You open a door, bright light breaks on your eyes ; then two steps lower, and you are here with me. You might have gone outside the dining-hall upon a stone terrace, and so have come along to the deep window where I sit so often. You may think of me a-hiding in the curtains, watching you, though you knew it not till you touched the window and I came out quietly, startling you, so that your heart would beat beyond counting!

As I look up towards the window, the thing first in sight is the cage, with the little bird which came to me in the cathedral the morning my brother got lease of life again: you do remember — is it not so ? It is never from my room, and though I have come here but for a week I muffled the cage well and brought it over ; and there the bird swings and sings the long day through. Robert, it may seem strange to you, but I can never look upon it without a feeling that it was no mere accident which sent it to me. It is a close and dear companion, and it alone hears all my secrets — those which I bless myself in thinking you would care to know. I have heaped the window-seats with soft furs, and one of these I prize most rarely. It was a gift — and whose, think you ? Even a poor soldier’s. You see I have not all friends among the great folk. I often lie upon that soft robe of sable — ay, sable, Master Robert — and think of him who gave it to me. Now I know you are jealous, and I can see your eyes flash up. But you shall at once be soothed. It is no other than Gabord’s gift. He is now of the Governor’s body-guard, and I think is by no means happy, and would prefer service with the Marquis de Montcalm, who goes not comfortably with the Intendant and the Governor.

One day Gabord came to our house on the ramparts, and, asking for me, blundered out, Aho, what shall a soldier do with sables ? They are for gentles and for wrens to snuggle in. Here comes a Russian county oversea, and goes mad in tavern. Here comes Gabord, and saves county from a ruddy crest for kissing the wrong wench. Then county falls on Gabord’s neck, and kisses both his ears, and gives him sables, and crosses oversea again ; and so good-by to county and his foolery. And sables shall be Mademoiselle’s, if she will have them.” He might have sold the thing for many louis, and yet he brought it to me ; and he would not go till he had seen me sitting on it, muffling my hands and face in the soft fur.

Robert, in the hour of sore trial this man will help me. We have gone through sad things, you and I, but something tells me there must be sadder still before we come to quiet. I am learning how, in all noise and stir and confusing motions, one must stand still, saving the brain and will for the great moment, fencing one’s self about with deep motives.

Just now, as I am writing, I glance at the table where I sit — a small brown table of oak, carved with the name of Félise, Baroness of Beaugard. She sat here ; and some day, when you hear her story, you will know why I begged Madame Lotbinière to give it to me in exchange for another, once the King’s. Carved, too, beneath her name, are the words, “ Oh, tarry thou the Lord’s leisure.” It is like a word from out a sanctuary. Perhaps one does not need such things to keep one in believing, but they are like little lights which tell us that the sun is coming, that the day will break.

And now you shall laugh with me at a droll thing Georgette has given me to wipe my pen upon. There are three little circles of deerskin and one of ruby velvet, stitched together in the centre. Then, standing on the velvet is a yellow woolen chick, with little eyes of beads, and a little wooden bill stuck in most quaintly, and a head that twists like a weathercock. It has such a piquant silliness of look that I laugh at it most heartily, and I have an almost elfish fun in smearing its downy feathers. I am sure you did not think I could be amused so easily ; but indeed I have an eye for the grotesque and droll. It is that which saves me many an hour from gloom, and keeps me spirited abroad, when but for thought of your good I could be dull enough, Heaven knows. You shall see this silly chick one day, humorously ugly and all daubed with ink.

There is a low couch in one corner of the room, and just above hangs a picture of my mother. In another corner is a little shelf of books, among them two which I have studied constantly since you were put in prison — your great Shakespeare, and the writings of one Mr. Addison. I had few means of studying at first, so difficult it seemed, and all the words sounded hard; but there is your countryman, one Lieutenant Stevens of Rogers’ Rangers, a prisoner here, as you know, and he has helped me, and is prepared to help you when the time comes for stirring. I teach him French ; and though I do not talk of you, he tells me in what esteem you are held in Virginia and in England, and is not slow to praise you on his own account, which makes me gentler towards him when he would come to sentiment in our work together. Why is it, Robert, why is it that men traffic so with their dignity and honesty ? Does man think woman all vanity, all silliness, that he feeds her on honey and confections so ? I have not met a man in my short life, save yourself, who from the hour of our meeting did not stoop to silliness of some sort. I sometimes ask myself. Am I the cause ? Is there an invitation in my eyes, my face, my words ? I pass myself back and forth, and I cannot find the reason. I am, indeed, told often that I have no heart, that I am light and cruel, and that I care only for being first among the gay and fashionable. Could they — these foolish folk — see me shut in my chamber, as here, alone with myself, and thinking, thinking, thinking, they would not speak so. But there are some who know better : my father and mother, and these poor friends of ours, Voban, Gabord, Mathilde, and Lucy Lotbinière and Monsieur Doltaire. Lucy has seen me fall a-weeping once or twice, and Monsieur Doltaire has forced me to moments when all that I am came into action, all that God and our love have made me.

In another corner is my spinningwheel. In its slow buzzing song my troubled thoughts have passed away, and softened reveries come upon me. This spinning-wheel has not been a mere fancy of self-interest, Robert, for I have sent the work of my hands to poor folk here; and when I have seen Mathilde sitting by me, patient yet distraite, I have had a heart to do a thousand times more than may he possible. It is most pitiful to see the troubles of the poor ; for there are no soft lights of luxury to ease their suffering, and when they fall, they fall so utterly. As Monsieur Doltaire said once to my father, “ Break a poor man’s sleep with Shame, or let Starvation walk beside him in the field he tills, and you have there both the unpardonable sin and the unpardonable punishment. The poor man must have sleep and bread and housing.” My father answered, “ What then of La Friponne ? ” Monsieur laughed at that, then shook his head. “ The keeper of this famine-house shall tremble,” said he, “ and you and I will live to see it.”

How slow I tell you all! yet it is a sweet boon to empty out the heart and soul without reserve. Oh, Robert, Robert, you love me, do you not ? When you escape you never will give me up ? Nay, nay, you will not! You are of nobler elements than that. You will come back to me, or I will go with you, and in some quiet corner of your land we will sit still and let the world go by, till we have gathered strength again. Tell me that; for sometimes I am weak. I am only a young girl, after all, and I am here apart from the world, alone with my soul and you.

There is a harpsichord in a corner here, just where the soft sun sends in a ribbon of light ; and I will play on it for you a pretty song. I wonder if you can hear it ? Is it not so that we can sometimes set free our spirits, so that they fly to those we love, and speak with them ? I am fain to think it, and I will sing the song. Where I sit at the harpsichord the belt of sunlight will fall across my shoulder, and, looking through the window, I fancy I can see your prison there on the Heights ; the silver flag with its gold lilies on the Château St. Louis; the great guns of the citadel; and far off at Beauport the Manor House and garden which you and I know so well, and the Falls of Montmorenci, falling like white flowing hair from the tall cliff. I kneel at my priedieu and say an Ave, and now I sing to you : it is the song of Félise, Baroness of Beaugard, telling of the sad times when all the land was set against her, all save the man who loved her, and how at last she triumphed. Some day, perhaps, I shall be set alone against this whole country, and, like her, I shall not yield my will where my heart cannot follow.

You will care to know of how these months have been spent, and what news of note there is of the fighting between our countries. No matters of great consequence have come to our ears, save that it is thought your navy may descend on Louisburg ; that Ticonderoga is also to be set upon, and Quebec to be besieged in the coming summer. From France the news is various. Now, Frederick of Prussia and England defeat the allies. France, Russia, and Austria ; now, they, as Monsieur Doltaire says, “ send the great Prussian to verses and the megrims.” For my own part, I am ever glad to hear that our cause is victorious, and letters that my brother writes me rouse all my ardor for my country. Juste has grown in place and favor, and in his latest letter he says that Monsieur Doltaire’s voice has got him much advancement. He also remarks that Monsieur Doltaire has reputation for being one of the most reckless, clever, and cynical men in France. Things that he has said are quoted at ball and rout. Yet the King is angry with him, and La Pompadour’s caprice may send him again to the Bastile. These things Juste heard from D’Argenson, Minister of War, through his secretary, with whom he is in friendly commerce.

I pray daily that La Pompadour may recall Monsieur, for his presence here is a menace both to you and to me. He stayed your execution through vanity and a whim ; he might hasten on your death from the same cause. Those letters you will never give him, I know. You were tempted once, for my sake ; you never will be again. He can do no worse than he has done. Oh, Robert, I fear that man, and I fear no one else in all the world. You may not guess what my life has been since that day your death was stayed by him, since that hour I talked with you in the cell where you now are. But I will do what I never thought to do : I will inclose you here some extracts from my journal, which will disclose to you the secrets of a girl’s troubled heart. Some folk might say that I am unmaidenly in this. But I care not, I fear not. I know my heart, and I will bare it before God with any maid in the land, fearing no humiliation.

December 24. I was with Robert today, and told him all that there was time to tell. I let him see what trials I had had with Monsieur Doltaire, and what were like to come. It hurt me to tell him, yet it would have hurt me more to withhold them. I am hurt whichever way it goes. Monsieur Doltaire rouses the worst parts of me. On the one hand I detest him for his hatred of Robert and for his evil life, yet on the other I must needs admire him for his many graces, — why are not the graces of the wicked horrible ? —for his singular abilities, and because, gamester though he may be, he is no public robber. Then, too, the melancholy of his birth and history claims some sympathy. Yet is he so bad, so lost to all responsibility, — that great salvation for man or woman, — that, if one were just, one should look upon his graces with horror, as being the gilded means to evil ends. But sometimes when I listen to him speak, hear the almost piquant sadness of his words, watch the spirit of isolation which, by design or otherwise, shows in him, for the moment I am conscious of a pity or an interest which I flout in wiser hours. This is his art, the potent danger of his personality.

To-night he came, and with many fine phrases wished us a happy day to-morrow, and most deftly worked upon my mother and Georgette by looking round and speaking with a quaintsort of raillery — half pensive, it was — of the peace of this home-life of ours ; and indeed, he did it so inimitably that I was not sure how much was false and how much true. Still. I am sure it was but a trick of temperament, a reflection of some bygone hour when he may have felt such things ; for it is well known what his orphaned youth was like. I tried most constantly to avoid him to-day, but my mother as constantly made private speech between us easy. At last he had his way, and then I was not sorry : for Georgette was listening to him with more color than she is wont to wear. Oh, God, I would rather see her in her grave than with her hand in his, her sweet life in his power. She is unschooled in the ways of the world, and she never will know it as I now do. How am I sounding all the depths! Can a woman walk the dance with evil, and be no worse for it by and by ? Yet for a cause, for a cause! What can I do ? I cannot say, “ Monsieur Doltaire, you must not speak with me, or talk with me ; you are a plaguespot.” No, I must even follow this path, let it wander where it will, so it but lead at last to Robert and his safety.

Monsieur, having me alone at last, said to me, 44 I have kept my word as to the little boast : this Captain Stobo still lives.”

“ You are not greater than I thought,” said I.

He professed to see but one meaning in my words, and answered, “ It was then mere whim to see me do this thing, a lady’s curious mind, eh ? In faith, I think your sex are the true scientists : you try experiment for no other reason than to see effect.”

“ You forget my interest in Captain Stobo,” said I, with airy boldness.

He laughed. He was disarmed. How could be think I meant it ! 44 My imagination halts,” he rejoined. 14 Millennium comes when you are interested. And yet,” he continued, “ it is my one ambition to interest you, and I will do it, or I will say my prayers no more.”

I retorted, railing at him, for I feared to take him seriously.

“ There you wrong me,” he said. “ I am devout; I am a lover of the Scriptures — their beauty haunts me ; I go to mass — its dignity affects me ; and I have prayed, as in my youth I wrote verses. It is not a matter of morality, but of temperament. A man may be religious, and yet be evil. Satan fell, but he believed and he admired, as the English Milton wisely shows it.”

I was most glad that my father came between us at that moment; hut before Monsieur left, he said to me, “ You have challenged me. Beware : I have begun this chase. Yet I would rather be your follower, rather have your arrow in me, than be your hunter. ” He said it with a sort of warmth, which I knew was a glow in his senses merely ; he was heated with his own eloquence.

“ Wait,” returned I. “ You have heard the story of King Artus ? ”

He thought a moment. “ No, no. I never was a child as other children. I was always comrade to the imps.”

“ King Artus,” said I. “ was most fond of hunting.” (It is but a legend with its moral, as you know.) “ It was forbidden by the priests to hunt while mass was being said. One day, at the lifting of the host, the King, hearing a hound bay, rushed out, and gathered his pack together ; but as they went, a whirlwind caught them up into the air, where they continue to this day, following a lonely trail, never resting, and all the game they get is one fly every seventh year. And now, when all on a sudden at night you hear the trees and leaves and the sleepy birds and crickets stir, it is the old King hunting — for the fox he never gets.”

Monsieur looked at me with curious intentness. “ You have a great gift,” he said ; “ you make your point by allusion. I follow you. But see : when I am blown into the air I shall not ride alone. Happiness is the fox we ride to cover, you and I, though we find hut a firefly in the end.”

“ A poor reply,” I remarked easily; “ not worthy of you.”

“ As worthy as I am of you,” he rejoined ; then lie kissed my hand. “ I will see you at mass to-morrow.”

Unconsciously, I rubbed the hand he kissed with my handkerchief.

“ I am not to be provoked,” he said. “ It is much to have you treat my kiss with consequence.”

March 25. No news of Robert all this month. Gabord has been away in Montreal. I see Voban only now and then, and he is strange in manner, and can do nothing. Mathilde is better — so still and desolate, yet not wild ; but her memory is all gone, all save for that “ Francois Bigot is a devil.” Poor soul. Her gift, the little wooden cross, never leaves me. “ If you wear that, the ring of fire will never grow in your head,” she whispered to me all those months ago. It is a token to keep me humble and watchful, too. To-day, when I went to see her, she laid her hand upon mine and said, “ I know where you and I can hide. And there we can hear the mill-wheel and the crying of the grasshoppers, and a wren has a home there — I have seen it. ‘ Pretty wren, pretty wren,’I said, ‘ you have a happy home.’ It peeped at me then, and I said, ‘ I will give you soft hairs from my head to line your nest with, and when it is cold in the trees you shall come and lie in my breast. You shall be warm there, though you shall not hear my heart beat, for it was stole from me as I slept, my pretty wren,’ I said.”

So strange it is : Gabord calls me the wren; and Mathilde talks of the wren, “ the bird of the good God,” as the people say ; and it is a wren that sings in my cage, my gift from God that day in the church. But, Mother of God, was ever girl so set about with snares ? Was ever girl so hatefully entreated and cajoled? My father has taken anew a strong dislike to Monsieur Doltaire, because of hints that are abroad concerning him and Madame Cournal. I once thought she was much sinned against, but now I am sure she is not to be defended. She is most defiant, though people dare not shut their doors against her. A change seemed to come over her all at once, and over her husband also. He is now gloomy and taciturn, now foolishly gay, yet be is little seen with the Intendant, as before. However it be. Monsieur Doltaire and Bigot are no longer intimate. What should I care for that, if Monsieur Doltaire had no power, if he were not the door between Robert and me? What care I, indeed, how vile he is, so he but serve my purpose? Let him try my heart and soul and senses as he will; I will one day purify myself of his presence and all this soiling, and find my peace in Robert’s arms or in the quiet of a nunnery.

This morning I got up at sunrise, it being the Annunciation of the Virgin, and prepared to go to mass in the chapel of the Ursulines. How peaceful was the world! So still, so still. The smoke came curling up here and there through the sweet air of spring, a snowbird tripped along the white coverlet of the earth before me, and up the Ste. Foye road, before a Calvary, I saw a peasant kneel and say an Ave as he went to market. There was springtime in the sun, in the smell of the air; springtime everywhere but in my heart, which was all winter. I seemed alone — alone — alone. I felt the tears start. But that was for a moment only, I am glad to say, for I got my courage again, as I did the night before when Monsieur Doltaire placed his arm at my waist, and poured into my ears a torrent of protestations.

When he did that, I did not move at first. But I could feel my cheeks go to stone, and something clamp my heart. Yet had ever man such hateful eloquence ! There is that in him — oh, shame ! oh, shame ! — which goes far with a woman. He has the music of passion, and though it be the very accident of life, and is lower than love, it is the poetry of the senses. Alas, alas, that such men are abroad! I spoke most calmly, too, I think, begging him place his merits where they would have better entertainment; but I said hard, cold things at last, when other means availed not, which presently made him turn upon me in another fashion.

His words dropped slowly, with a consummate carefulness, his manner was pointedly courteous, yet there was an underpressure of force, of will, which made me see the danger of my position. He said that I was quite right ; that he would wish no privilege of a woman which was not given with a frank eagerness ; that to him no woman was worth the having who did not throw her whole nature into the giving. Constancy— that was another matter. But a perfect gift while there was giving at all — that was the way.

“There is something behind all this,” he said. “ I am not so vain as to think any merits of mine would influence you. But my devotion, my admiration of you. the very force of my passion, should move you. Be you ever so set against me, — and I do not think you are, —you should not be so strong to resist the shock of feeling. I do not know the cause, but 1 will find it out; and when I do, I shall remove it or be myself removed.” He touched my arm with his fingers. “ When I touch you like that,” he said, “summer riots in my veins. I will not think that this which rouses me so is but power upon one side, and effect upon the other. Something in you called me to you, something in me will wake you yet. Mon Dieu, I could wait a score of years for my touch to thrill you as yours does me ! And I will — I will.”

“ You think it suits your honor to force my affections ? ” I asked ; for I dared not say all I wished.

“ What is there in this reflecting on my honor ? ” he answered. “ At Versailles. believe me, they would say I strive here for a canonizing. No, no ; think me so gallant that I follow you to serve you, to convince you that the way I go is the way your hopes will lie. Honor ? To fetch you to the point where you and I should start together on the Appian Way, I would traffic with that, even, and say I did so, and would do so a thousand times, if in the end it put your hand in mine. Who, who can give you what I offer, can offer ? See: I have given myself to a hundred women in my time — but what of me? That which was a candle in a wind, and the light went out. There was no depth, no life, in that; the shadow of a man was there those hundred times. But here, now, the whole man plunges into this sea, and he will reach the lighthouse on the shore, or be broken on the reefs. Look in my eyes, and see the furnace there, and tell me if you think that fire is for cool corners in the gardens at Neuilly or for the Hills of ” — He suddenly broke off, and a singular smile followed. “There, there,” he said, "I have said enough. It came to me all at once how droll my speech would sound to our people at Versailles. It is an elaborate irony that the occasional virtues of certain men turn and mock them. That is the penalty of being inconsistent. Be saint or imp ; it is the only way. But this imp that mocks me relieves you of reply. Yet I have spoken truth, and again and again I will tell it you, till you believe according to my gospel.”

How glad I was that he himself lightened the situation ! The theatrical turn to this mockery made my part easier to play. I had been driven to despair, but this strange twist in his mood made all smooth for me. “ That ‘ again and again ’ sounds dreary,” said I. “ It might almost appear I must some time accept your gospel, to cure you of preaching it, and save me from eternal drowsiness.”

We were then most fortunately interrupted. He made his adieus, and I went to my room, brooded till my head ached, then fell a-weeping. and wished myself out of the world, I was so sick and weary. Now and again a hot shudder of shame and misery ran through me, as I thought of Monsieur’s words to me. Put them how he would, they sound an insult now, though as he spoke I felt the power of his passion. “If you had lived a thousand years ago, you would have loved a thousand times,” he said to me one day. Sometimes I think he spoke truly ; I have a nature that responds to all eloquence in life. But I thank God that I have that which keeps me steady in the ebb and flow of all emotions ; I have a heart which anchors in one harbor only, a pride which will not be set by.

There, Robert, I have bared my heart to thee. I have hidden nothing. In a few days I shall go back to the city with my mother, and when I can I will send news; and do thou send me news also, if thou canst devise a safe way. Meanwhile, I have written my brother Juste to be magnanimous, and to try for thy freedom. He will not betray me, and he may help us. I have begged him to write to thee a letter of reconcilement.

And now, comrade of my heart, do thou have courage. I also shall be strong as I am ardent. Having written thee, I am cheerful once more; and when again I may, I will open the doors of my heart that thou mayst come in. That heart is thine, Robert. Thy

ALIXE,

who loves thee all her days.

P. S. I have found the names and places of the men who keep the guard beneath thy window. If there is chance for freedom that way, fix the day some time ahead, and I will see what may be done. Voban fears nothing ; he will act secretly for me. A.

I read and re-read her letter, and gave myself up for the whole day to reverie. The depth and seriousness of her character, her most singular sincerity, kept me in wonder and admiration. The next day I arranged for my escape, which had been long in planning.

XVII.

I should have tried escape earlier but that it was little use to venture forth in the harsh winter in a hostile country. But now April had come, and I was keen to make a trial of my fortune. I had been saving food for a long time, little by little, and hiding it in the old knapsack which had held my second suit of clothes. I had used the little stove for parching my food — Indian corn, for which I had professed a fondness to my jailer, and liberally paid for out of funds which had been sent me by George Washington in answer to my letter, and other moneys to a goodly amount in a letter from Governor Dinwiddie. These letters had been carefully written, and the Marquis de Vaudreuil, into whose hands they had first come, was gallant enough not to withhold them, though he read them first. But I am sure he ordered extra vigilance over me because of this, and was peremptory and threatening in his orders to my jailer and the sentinels.

Besides Indian corn, the parching of which amused me, I had parched ham and tongue, and bread and cheese, enough, by frugal use, to last me a month at least. I knew it would be a journey of six weeks or more to the nearest English settlement. but if I could get that month’s start I should forage for the rest, or take my fate as I found it: I was used to all the twists of fortune now. My knapsack gradually filled, and meanwhile I slowly worked my passage into the open world. There was the chance that my jailer would explore the knapsack; but after a time I lost that fear, for it lay untouched with a blanket in a corner, and I swept and garnished my cell with my own hands.

The true point of danger was the window. There lay my way. It was stoutly barred with iron up and down, and the bars were set in the solid limestone. Soon after I entered this prison, I saw that I must cut a groove in the stone from stanchion to stanchion, and then, by drawing one to the other, make an opening large enough to let my body through. For tools I had only a miserable knife with which I cut my victuals, and the smaller but stouter one which Gabord had not taken from me. There could be no pounding, no chiseling, but only rubbing of the hard stone. So hour after hour I rubbed away, being, however, in constant danger of discovery. My jailer had a trick of sudden entrance, which would have been grotesque if it had not been so serious to me. To provide against the half-flurried inquisition of his eye, I kept near me bread well chewed, and filling the hole with it, I covered it with the sand I had rubbed or the ashes of my pipe. I lived in dread of these entrances, but at last I found that they chanced only within certain hours, and I arranged my times of work accordingly. Once or twice, however, as I worked, I was so impatient with my slow progress that I scratched the stone with some asperity and noise, and was rewarded by hearing my fellow stumbling in the hall ; for, in truth, he had as uncertain limbs as ever I saw. He stumbled upon nothing, as you have seen a child trip itself up by tangling of its feet.

The first time that be came, roused by the grating noise as he sat below, he stumbled in the very centre of the cell, and fell upon his knees. I would have laughed if I had dared, but I yawned over the book I had hastily snatched up, and puffed great whiffs from my pipe. I dreaded lest he should go to the window. He started for it, but suddenly made for my couch, and dragged it away, as if looking to find a hole dug beneath it. Still I did not laugh at him. but gravely watched him ; and presently he went away. Once again I was foolishly harsh with my tools ; but I knew now the time required by him to come upstairs, and I swiftly filled the groove with bread, strewed ashes and sand over it, rubbed all smooth, and was plunged in my copy of Montaigne when he entered. This time he went straight to the window, looked at it, tried the stanchions, and then, with an amused attempt at being cunning and hiding his own vigilance, he asked me, with laborious hypocrisy, it I had seen Monsieur Voban pass the window. And so for weeks and weeks we played hide-and-seek with each other.

At last I had nothing to do but sit and wait, for the groove was cut, the bar had room to play. I could not bend it, for it was fast at the top ; but when my hour of adventure was come, I would tie a handkerchief round the two bars, and twist it with the piece of hickory used for stirring the fire. Here was my engine of escape, and I waited till April should wind to its close, when I should, in the softer weather, try my fortune outside these walls.

After I received Alixe’s letter, I took a day or so to think over my affairs, to decide upon my actions, and then I wrote her a letter, in which I set forth my plan of escape and my hopes for the future. I told her that I was now bound for freedom, and that, if fortune favored me, I should join the forces coming against Quebec, and win her with sword and flame. I bade her be sure that while I lived I should never yield her to another, nor ever falter in my purposes. I did not in the smallest show that I recognized her own fears, or that I saw the struggle she was having against Doltaire’s engaging devices. I knew there was the true thing in her, and that would save her. All was with him, place, distinction, elegance, temperament, even the occasional shadows of his wickedness — for woman’s mind is curious ; yet there was a loyalty in her which grew the stronger, with violence threatening it. But these tilings may be seen in her deeds. So time went on until one eventful day, even the 30th of April of that year 1758.

It was raining and blowing when I waked, and it ceased not all the day, coming to a hailstorm in the evening. There was much thundering, also, and night drew on, repenting nothing of the day. I felt sure that my guards without would, on such a day, relax their vigilance, nor march back and forth under my window. In the evening I listened, and heard no voices nor any sound of feet, only the pelting rain and the whistling wind. Yet I did not stir till midnight. Then I slung the knapsack in front of me, so that I could force it through the window first, and tying my handkerchief round the iron bars, I screwed it up with my stick. Presently the bars came together, and my way was open. I got my body through by dint of squeezing, and let myself go plump into the mire below. Then I stood still a minute, and listened again.

A light was shining not far away. Drawing near, I saw that it came from a small hut or lean-to. Looking through the cracks, I observed my two gentlemen drowsing in the corner. I was eager for their weapons, but I dared not make the attempt to get them, for they were laid between their legs, the barrels resting against their shoulders. I drew back, and for a moment paused to get my hearings. Then I made for a corner of the yard where the wall was lowest, and, taking a run at it, caught the top, with difficulty scrambled up, and speedily was over and floundering in the mud. I knew well where I was, and at once started off in a northwesterly direction, towards the St. Charles River, making for a certain farmhouse above the town. Yet I took care, though it was dangerous, to travel a street in which was Voban’s house. There was no light in the street nor in his house, nor had I seen any one abroad as I came, not even a sentinel.

I knew where was the window of the barber’s bedroom, and I tapped upon it softly. Instantly I heard a stir; then there came the sound of flint and steel, then a light, and presently a hand at the window, and a voice asking, “Who’s there? ”

I gave a quick reply ; the light was put out, the window opened, and Voban stared at me.

“This letter,” said I, “to Mademoiselle Duvarney ; ” and I slipped ten louis into his hand, also.

This he quickly handed back. “ Monsieur,” said he, “ if I take it I would seem to myself a traitor — no — no. But I will give the letter.”

Then he asked me in ; but I would not, yet begged him, if he could, to have a canoe at my disposal at a point below the Falls of Montmorenci two nights hence.

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ I will do so if I can, but I am watched. I would not pay a sou for my life — no. Yet I will serve you, if there is a way.”

Then I told him what I meant to do, and bade him repeat it exactly to Mademoiselle. This he swore to do, and I cordially grasped the good wretch’s shoulder, and thanked him with all my heart. I got from him a weapon, also, and again I put gold louis into his hand, and bade him keep it, for I might need his kind offices to spend it for me. To this he consented, and I plunged into the dark again. I had not gone far when I heard footsteps coming, and I drew aside into the corner of a porch. A moment, then the light flashed in full upon me. I had my hand upon the hanger I had got from Voban, and I was ready to strike if there were need, when Gabord’s voice broke on my ear, and his hand caught at the short sword by his side.

“It is dickey-bird, aho !” cried he. “Come forth, and home with Gabord.” There was exultation in his eye and voice. Here was a chance for him to prove himself against me ; he had proved himself for me more than once. “ Here was I,” added he, “making for Monsieur Voban. that he might come and bleed a sick soldier, when who should come running but our English captain ! Come forth, aho ! ”

“No, Gabord,” said I, “I’m bound for freedom.” I stepped forth, his hanger poised against me. I was intent to make a desperate fight.

“ March on,” returned lie gruffly, and I could feel the iron in his voice

“ But not with you, Gabord. My way lies towards Virginia.”

“March on, or dickey-bird’s gill goes split! ” he threatened.

I did not care to strike the first blow, and I made to go past him. His lantern came down, and he made a catch at my shoulder. I swung back, threw off my cloak and up my weapon. Then we fought. My knapsack troubled me, for it was loose, and kept shifting. Gabord made stroke after stroke, watchful, heavy, offensive, muttering to himself as he struck and parried. There was no hatred in his eyes, but he had the lust of fighting on him, and he was breathing easily, and could have kept this up for hours. As we fought I could hear a clock in a house near strike one. Then a cock crowed. I had received two slight wounds, and I had not touched my enemy. But I was swifter, and I came at him suddenly with a rush, and struck for his left shoulder when I saw my chance. I felt the steel strike the bone. As I did so, he caught my wrist and lunged most fiercely at me, dragging me to him. The blow struck straight at my side, but it went through the knapsack, which had swung loose, and so saved my life ; for another instant and I had tripped him down, and he lay bleeding badly.

“ Aho! ’t was a fair fight, dickeybird,” said he. “ Now get you gone. I call for help.”

“No, no,” I replied, “I cannot leave you so, Gabord. Not till help comes.” I stooped and lifted up his head.

“ Then you shall go to citadel,” said he, feeling for his small trumpet.

“No, no,” I answered ; “ I ’ll go fetch Voban.”

“ To bleed me more ! ” quoth he ; and I knew well lie was pleased that. I did not leave him. “ Nay, kick against yon door. It is Captain Fancy’s. ”

At that moment a window opened, and Lancy’s voice was heard. Without a word I seized Gabord’s lantern and my cloak, and made away as hard as I conld go.

“ I’ll have a wing of dickey-bird for lantern there ! ” roared Gabord, swearing roundly as I ran off with it.

With all my might I hurried, and was soon outside the town, and coming fast to the farmhouse about two miles beyond. Nearing it, I hid the lantern beneath my cloak and made for an outhouse. The door was not locked, and I passed in. There was a loft nearly full of hay, and I crawled up, and dug a hole far down against the side of the building, and climbed in, bringing with me for drink a nest of hen’s eggs which I found in a corner. The warmth of the dry hay was comforting, and after caring for my wounds, which I found were but scratches, I had somewhat to eat from my knapsack, drank up two eggs, and then coiled myself for sleep. It was my purpose, if not discovered, to stay where I was two days, and then to make for the point below the Falls of Montmorenci where I hoped to find a canoe of Voban’s placing.

When I waked it must have been near noon, so I lay still for a time, listening to the cheerful noise of fowls and cattle in the yard without, and to the clacking of a hen above me. The air smelt very sweet. I also heard my unknowing host, at whose table I had once sat. two years before, talking with his son, who had just come over from Quebec, bringing news of my escape, together with a wonderful story of the fight between Gabord and myself. It had, by his calendar, lasted some three hours, and both of us, in the end, fought as we lay upon the ground. “ But presently along comes a cloaked figure, with horses, and he lifts Monsieur the Englishman upon one, and away they ride like the devil towards St. Charles River and Beauport. Gabord was taken to the hospital, and he swore that Englishman would not have got away if stranger had not fetched him a crack with a pistol-butt which sent him dumb and dizzy. And there Monsieur Lancy le Capitaine sleep snug through all until the horses ride away ! ”

The farmer and his son laughed heartily, with many a “ By Gar ! ” their sole English oath. Then came the news that six thousand livres were offered for me, dead or living, the drums heating far and near to tell the people so.

The farmer gave a long whistle, and in a great bustle set to calling all his family to arm themselves and join with him in this treasure-hunting. I am sure at least a dozen were at the task, searching all about; nor did they neglect the loft where I lay. But I had dug far down, drawing the hay over me as I went, so that they must needs have been keener than they were to have smelt me out. After about three hours’ poking about over all the farm, they met again outside this building, and I could hear their gabble plainly. The smallest among them, the piping chore-boy, he was for spitting me without mercy ; and the milking-lass would toast me with a hay-fork, that she would, and six thousand livres should set her up forever.

In the midst of their rattling came two soldiers, who ordered them about, and with much blustering began searching here and there, and chucking the maids under the chins, as I could tell by their little bursts of laughter, and the “ La M’sieu’s ! ” which trickled through the hay. I am sure that one such little episode saved me. For I heard a soldier just above me poking and tossing hay with uncomfortable vigor. But presently the amorous hunter turned his thoughts elsewhere, and I was left to myself, and to a late breakfast of parched beaus and bread and raw eggs, after which I lay and thought; and the sum of the thinking was that I would stay where I was till the first wave of the hunt had passed. And so I did, cramped, but snug and comfortable, and gaining confidence and courage as I waited.

Near midnight of the second day I came out most secretly from my lurkingplace, and faced straight for St. Charles River. Finding it at high water, I plunged in, with my knapsack and cloak on my head, and made my way across, reaching the opposite shore safely. After going two miles or so, I discovered friendly covert in the woods, where, in spite of my cloak and dry cedar boughs wrapped round, I shivered as I lay till morning. When the sun came up, I drew out, that it might dry me ; after which I crawled back into my nest and fell into a broken sleep. Many times during the day I heard the horns of my hunters, and more than once voices near me. But I had crawled into the hollow of a halfuprooted stump, and the cedar branches, which had been cut off a day or two before, were a screen. I could see soldiers here and there, armed and greatly swaggering. and faces of peasants and shopkeepers whom I knew.

A function was being made of my escape ; it was a hunting-feast, in which women were as eager as their husbands and their brothers. There was something devilish in it, when I came to think of it: a whole town roused and abroad to hunt down one poor fugitive, whose only sin was in themselves a virtue — loyalty to his country. I saw women armed with sickles and iron forks, and lads bearing axes and hickory poles cut to a point like a spear, while blunderbusses were in plenty. Now and again a weapon was fired, and, to watch their motions and peepings, it might have been thought I was a dragon, or that they all were hunting La Jongleuse, their fabled witch, whose villainies, are they not told at every fireside ?

Often I shivered violently, and anon I was burning hot; my adventure had given me a chill and fever. Late in the evening of this day, my hunters having drawn off with as little sense as they had hunted me, I edged cautiously down past Beauport and on to the Montmorenci Falls. I came along in safety, and reached a spot near the point where Voban was to hide the boat. The highway ran between. I looked out cautiously. No one was in sight, hut then the road went only a little way before there was a turning. I could hear nothing, and so ran out and crossed the road, and pushed for the woods on the banks of the river. I had scarcely got across when I heard a shout, and looking round 1 saw three horsemen, who instantly spurred towards me. I sprang through the underbrush, and came down roughly into a sort of quarry, spraining my ankle on a pile of stones. I got up quickly ; but my ankle hurt me sorely, and I turned sick and dizzy. Limping a little way, I set my back against a tree, and drew my hanger. As I did so, the three gentlemen burst in upon me. They were General Montcalm, a gentleman of the Governor’s household, and Doltaire !

“ It is no use, dear Captain,” said Doltaire. “ Be not too adventurous. Yield up your weapon.”

General Montcalm eyed me curiously, as the other gentleman talked in low, excited tones ; and presently he made a gesture of courtesy, for he saw that I was hurt. Doltaire’s face wore a malicious smile ; but when he noted how sick I was, he came and offered me his arm, and was constant in courtesy till I was set upon a horse, and, with him and the General riding beside me. came to my new imprisonment. They both forbore to torture me with words, for I was suffering greatly ; but they fetched me to the Château St. Louis, followed by a crowd, who hooted at me. Doltaire turned on them at last.

The Governor, whose petty vanity was roused, showed a foolish fury at seeing me, and straightway ordered me to the citadel again.

“It’s useless kicking ’gainst the pricks,” said Doltaire to me cynically, as I passed out limping between two soldiers ; but I did not reply. In another halfhour of most bitter journeying I found myself in my dungeon. I sank upon the old couch of straw, untouched since I had left it; and when the door shut upon me, desponding, aching in all my body, now feverish and now shivering, my ankle in great pain, I could bear up no longer, and I bowed my head and fell a-weeping like a woman.

XVIII.

Now I am come to a period on which I shall not dwell, nor repeat a tale of suffering greater than that I had yet endured. All the first night of this new imprisonment I tossed on my wretched bed in pain and misery, and when morning came was the most distressed creature in the world. A strange and surly soldier came and went, bringing bread and water; but when I requested that a surgeon be sent me, he replied, with a vile oath, that the devil should be my only surgeon, his hothouse my hospital. Soon he came again, accompanied by another soldier, and set about to put irons on me. With what quietness I could I asked him by whose orders this was done ; but be vouchsafed no reply save that I was to “ go bound to fires of hell.”

“ There is no journeying there,”I answered ; “ here is the place itself.”

As my reward for that, a cold, hard chain was roughly put round my injured ankle, and it gave me such agony that I turned sick, and a vise seemed working at my heart. But I kept back groaning, for I would not have these varlets catch me quaking.

“ I ’ll have you grilled for this one day, said I. “ You are no men, but butchers. Can you not see my ankle has been sorely hurt ? ”

“ You are for killing,” was the gruff reply, “ and here’s a taste of it! ”

With that he drew the chain with a jerk round the hurt member, so that it brought from me a sharp cry of pain, and drove me to madness. I caught him by throat, and hurled him back against the wall, and snatching a pistol from his comrade’s belt aimed it at his head. I was beside myself with pain, and if he had been further violent I should have shot him without parley. His fellow dared not stir in his defense, for the pistol was trained on him too surely ; and so at last the wretch, promising better treatment, crawled to his feet, and made motion for the pistol to be given him. But I would not yield it, telling him it should be guarantee of truce. There was naught for him to do at the moment, for I would have fought them both then, inhuman wretches, till my last breath. If this incident induced action on the Governor’s part, or fetched to my dungeon Monsieur Ramesay, the Commandant, or Doltaire, so much the better. If it meant an armed attack by these ruffians later, why, then I would meet them at their worst with no flinching, by God’s help. The door closed behind them, and I sank back upon the half-fettered chains, making essay to ease my ankle. Yet I kept my eyes on the door, — they had left the torch behind, - for I would be prepared against surprise.

I must have sat for more than an hour, when there was a noise without, and there entered the Commandant, the Marquis de Montcalm, and the Seigneur Duvarney. The pistol was in my hand, and I did not put it down, but struggled to my feet, and waited for them to speak. I was in no soft mood, and I had a spirit of anger in me which came well near being uncontrollable.

For a moment there was silence, and then the Commandant said. “ Your guards have brought me word, Monsieur le Capitaine, that you are violent. You have resisted them, and have threatened them with their own pistols.”

“ With one pistol, Monsieur le Commandant,” answered I. And then, in bitter words, I told them of my treatment by those rascals, and I showed them how my ankle had been tortured. “ I have no fear of death,” said I, “ nor will I fight against the inevitable, nor be violent in my durance, if I am used humanely ; but I will not lie and let dogs bite me with ‘ I thank you.’ Death can come but once, and mine is a matter of state affairs; but if death be the penalty set by the state, it is a damned brutality to make one die a hundred, and yet live - the work of Turks, not Christians. I came here as a hostage; you hold me unjustly, charged with a vile crime, and because, in the fair game of war, I try for escape, resort is had to these villainies. Is it thought to break my spirit by such means ? Surely a nation should be engaged in worthier tricks. If you want my life, why, take it and have done, but keep torture for those whose secrets you cannot buy with gold ; let gentlemen travel to their graves with decent usage.”

There was silence after my passionate words, and the Marquis de Montcalm whispered to the Commandant. The Seigneur Duvarney, to whom I had not yet spoken, nor he to me, stood leaning against the wall, gazing at me seriously and kindly.

Presently Ramesay spoke : “ Your guard brought his story to my chamber, and we came at once to see how violent a disabled man could be. It was ordered you should wear chains, but not that you should he maltreated. You are ill. A surgeon shall be sent to you, and this chain shall be taken from your ankle till it is well again. Meanwhile, your guards shall be changed, and we will see that the Governor’s orders shall not be abused.”

It was all said with some consideration, which I think was due to the Marquis de Montcalm, and there was an instant change in my feelings. I held out the pistol to the Commandant, and he took it. “ I cannot hope for justice here,” said I, “ but men are men, and not dogs, and I ask for human usage till my hour comes and my country is your jailer.”

The Marquis smiled, and his gay eyes sparkled. “ Some find comfort in daily bread, and some in prophecy,” he rejoined. “ One should envy your spirit, Captain Stobo. ”

“ Permit me, your Excellency,” replied I; “ all Englishmen must envy the spirit of the Marquis de Montcalm, though none is envious of his cause.”

He bowed gravely. “ Causes are good or bad as they are ours or our neighbors’. The lion has a good cause when it goes hunting for its young ; the deer has a good cause when it resists the lion’s leap upon its fawn.”

I did not reply, for I felt a faintness coming ; and at that moment the Seigneur Duvarney stepped to me, and put his arm through mine. There came a dizziness, my head sank upon his shoulder, and I felt myself floating away into darkness, while from a great distance came a voice : —

“ It had been kinder to have ended it last year.”

“ He nearly killed your son, Duvarney.” This was the voice of the Marquis in a tone of surprise.

“ He saved my life, Marquis,” was the sorrowful reply. “ I have not paid back those forty pistoles, nor ever can, in spite of all.”

“ Ah, pardon me,” was the courteous rejoinder of the Marquis.

That was all I heard, for I had entered the land of complete darkness. When I came to, I found that my foot had been bandaged, there was a torch in the wall, and by my side something in a jug, of which I drank, according to directions in a surgeon’s hand on a paper beside it.

I was easier in all my body, yet miserably sick still, and 1 remained so for a month, now shivering and now burning, a raking pain in my chest. My couch was filled with fresh straw, but in no other wise was my condition altered from the first time I had entered this place. My new jailer was the jailer of the whole citadel, a man of no feeling that I could see, yet of no violence or cruelty ; one whose life was like a wheel, doing the eternal round. He did no more nor less than his orders, and I made no complaint nor asked any favor. No one came to me, no message found its way. I was the friend of darkness, the comrade of the blades of corn still growing as before in the dungeon. But my small mouse came no more ; and one day, searching, I found its dried dead body among the corn, in the very spot where the jar of water and the bread had used to stand.

It touched me more than may he thought possible. But indeed, one can reduce life to such simplicities, to so few objects of solicitude, that values alter, and the merely childish become important. “ Poor mouse,” said I, “you came and went, and went and came, day by day, and the hand that fed you was no longer here, the familiar voice spoke no more. You ran along my couch, but I, the friendly monster, was not there. You hovered at the old feeding-ground, but no crumbs fell, and the last speck was gone. Though there was yet some bread on the top of the jar, its smooth sides defied you, and you could not climb it; and one day in came a soldier, caught up the jar and bread, and carried them away. Too late you tried to follow him, the door closed, and you were left alone to die. Making a final circuit, going to forage for the last time, you drew close into a hollow between these blades of corn, and lay upon your side: and there was an end of it, my little friend.”

The days went heavily on, and though at last my cough was easier and my ankle better, I had been shaken sorely by the illness, and these years of trouble, anxiety, and danger had told upon me severely. But the temperance and care of my youth now played a gallant part, and my light was not to be put out by casual blowing. Full three months went by in this fashion, and then, one day, who should step into my dungeon, torch in hand, but Gabord ! He raised the light above his head, and looked down at me most quizzically.

“ Upon my soul — Gabord ! ” said I. “ I did not kill you, then ? ”

We had fought, but I had a heart for him as for an old friend. Yet I meant to show no more of that than might happen in our way of banter. I saw by my first look at him that he bore me no enmity.

“ Upon your soul and upon your body, you killed not Gabord, dormouse. But it was a dig around a corner, and leeches could not follow. So Gabord sits by, and state affairs go flounder — poom ! ”

“ And what now, quarrelsome Gabord ? ” I questioned cheerfully.

He shook some keys. “ Back again to dickey-bird’s cage. ‘Look you,’ quoth Governor, ‘ who will guard and bait this prisoner like the man he mauled? Send Gabord to the citadel, and he will hold the gentleman till we have last words from France.’ Quoth Gabord, ‘ Governor speaks true ; there shall be holes in Gabord’s liver if he bait not prisoner well, and keep him safe till time to truss and skewer.’ A lady stands by Governor’s chair. ‘ Do they chain bears when they are baited, soldier ? ’ asked she. ‘ Why, no, Madame,’ said I, ‘ no more than corner them and have them well inclosed.’ Then she touched Governor’s arm. ‘ Great cousin,’ quoth she, ‘ I heard a gossip somewhere that this Englishman is kept in heavy chains, though in a dungeon, as though he were some beast of prey. It is said he is a great villain, but yet he has had the breeding of a gentleman. Is it not shame enough for him to have a solitary dungeon, sleep on straw, be doomed to death, and be baited by his guards, but that he must be chained? So, so, pipes wren, and sets her head as she has sung a song you never heard before. There was better piping than shall be heard among the popes in heaven. And wren’s eyes fly from Gabord to Governor, from Governor to Gabord. ‘ Great cousin,’ said she, ‘ you are known for your fine justice and humanity. This poor wretch, whate’er he be, need not be strung in chains. I am thinking of what the wide world will say, cousin,’ whistles wren, — was ever such wisdom in a head no bigger than an apple ? — ‘ when they hear of it. I fear it will reflect upon your greatness that so ill-bred revenge be had upon this miserable man.’ ”

Gabord laughed his soundless laugh, puffing out his cheeks, his round eyes rolling.

“Quoth Governor, quoth he, ‘Chains! Chains ! ’T was told Ramesay months ago to have them off. I thank you, pretty cousin, for caring for my honor so.’ Ho! ho! was ever such a juggling with the truth! ‘Then, see,’ pipes wren once more, ‘ see, soldier, that the Governor is obeyed this time. It is by these disobediences he suffers.’ And then she looks at me most wise and sweet, and Governor takes her arm and says. ‘ Come, pretty cousin, I would I had men counselors like thee.’ As they pass me, wren puts fingers on her lips to kiss them, and lays them quickly on my arm, and Governor does not see. There ’s a tale for dickey-bird, aho ! ”

“ And is that all — all ? ” I asked, my heart heating hard.

“ Ay — is ’t not enough ? ” said he.

He began to loose the chains from me, and soon I was free again to move about in my dark and lonely meadow. I was in a vile condition. The irons had made sores upon my wrists and legs, my limbs now trembled so beneath me that I could scarcely walk, and my head was very light and dizzy at times. Presently Gabord ordered a new bed of straw brought in ; and from that hour we returned to our old relations, as if there had not been between us a fight to the death — he the rough, vigilant, kind jailer, I the helpless and docile captive. Of what was going on abroad he would not tell me, and soon I found myself in as ill a state as before. No Voban came to me, no Doltaire, no one at all. I sank into a deep silence, dropped out of a busy world, a morsel of earth slowly coming to Mother Earth again.

A strange apathy began to settle on me. All those resources of my first year’s imprisonment had gone, and I was alone : my mouse was dead ; there was no history of my life to write, no incident to break the pitiful monotony. I brooded on my position, I thought unnumbered hours upon Alixe, rising to cheerfulness at times, being never gloomy with Gabord, and striving to bear all with my old manner. Yet a shadow had settled on me, all gayety of temper was an effort, and in the long hours of darkness something more powerful than my strength and will conquered me, and I found I could not, as I had done before, give my body an airing through the open doors and lattices of imagination. I did not despair — that was not my nature; but I did not hope. I had asked Gabord to give me a torch, that I might write a letter which I would beg him to bear to Alixe, but he resolutely refused both light and service—according to his stringent orders. Why should I rail? Railing could do no good. I was being broken on the wheel, and I must bear or die. My only hope was Alixe. I knew she would not rest while I lived, but she was only one arrayed against great powers. There was one other hope, but it was faint: that our army would invest Quebec and take it, I had no news of any movement, winter again was here, and it must be five or six months before any action could successfully be taken ; for the St. Lawrence was frozen over in winter, and if the city was to be seized it must be from the water, with simultaneous action by land.

I knew the way. the only way, to take the city. At Sillery, just above the town, there was a hollow in the cliffs, up which men, secretly conveyed above the town by water, could climb. At the top was a plateau, smooth and fine as a parade-ground, where battle could be given, or move be made upon the city and citadel, which lay on ground no higher. Then, with the guns playing on the town from the fleet, with forces on the other, the Beauport side, attacking the lower town, where was the Intendant’s palace, the great fortress might be taken, and Canada be ours.

This passage up the cliff side at Sillery I had discovered three years before, when, being free to move about, a guard attending, I traveled beyond the city walls. I was with Doltaire at the time. I had met him as I journeyed, and he had joined me, walking up and down the cliff side in conversation. He had the eye of a soldier, and the thing struck him as soon as it did myself. “ There,” said he, “ there is the secret panel into this town. You have seen it. This spot should be well guarded, if your people came, though they were little like to know it. ” I shrugged my shoulder at that. He smiled as he replied, “ You will scarcely join that company of freebooters.”

Thinking upon this and kindred matters gave me some hours of interest, and in imagination I planned a campaign against Quebec, which had the merit of being the one that got us Canada in the end. I shall seem boastful writing thus, for you will not see this fact spoken of in histories, and but a passing reference to myself in that excellent account of the siege written in the journal of Mr. John Knox, captain in Major Kennedy’s Regiment of Foot. But I have no will to figure in these public writings, for I have learned that a great cause should more be loved than the notorious name, and that the knowledge of duty done is at the last reward enough for an honest man. It might be said with some sort of justice that I should have given these letters to Monsieur Doltaire, and so have stayed the war, which was sent upon us by La Pompadour ; yet I cannot think that even one’s country should demand one’s private honor — one’s life is another matter. I am no casuist, those matters are for wiser men ; but I sit by now, all those trials over, and, having naught to gain by speech or writing of those times, tell all with a mind that envies not, neither is discontented. What I worked for came to pass; and if I was a small instrument to success, why, then the notice which the illustrious Mr. Pitt was good enough to give me, the oft-repeated thanks of General Amherst, and the notable place I was given in Anstruther’s Regiment are reward enough — more than enough, when I think of something else beyond all reckoning.

I have wandered far afield. I must come back to that distressful year.

Gabord was ever the same, yet I could see him looking at me strangely at times, even when brusque, quaint words came from him, and he held the torch up as if to see me better. When winter set well in he brought me a blanket, and though last year I had not needed it, now it was most grateful. I had been fed for months on bread and water, as in my first imprisonment, but at last — I never knew whether by orders or no — he brought me a little meat every day, and some wine also. Yet I did not care for them, and often left them untasted. This troubled him, and he tried to rouse me to an appetite, but without avail. A hacking cough had never left me since my attempt at escape, and I was miserably thin, and so weak that I could hardly drag myself about my dungeon. Yet I always made essay to meet Gabord with a humorous word — a mighty effort at times. So, many weeks of the winter went on, and at last I was not able to rise from my bed of straw, and could do little more than lift a cup of water to my lips and nibble at some bread. I felt that my days were numbered, and I begged of Gabord again some paper and ink, that I might write to Alixe; for the time would soon come when I should be too weak to hold a pen, and my brain too dull to put my thoughts in order. Some days afterwards he brought me what I asked for, and said, as he placed the torch in the wall, that this might easily put him where I was. I did not thank him in words, but made a motion of my hand in gratitude. When he was gone I set to my task, and in a few days — I could write only for an hour at a time, and that but slowly, for hands and brain were easily tired — I had it finished.

“You will know, my heart.” said I, near the end of the letter, “ that I cannot feel my life to be a failure. I have suffered for my duty and my cause. Life, mere living, is not all. These very incompletenesses, shortcomings, and discontents, they are evidences of a great readjustment somewhere. And if we lose our individual selves in the general life, safety, and movement of our race, it is well done. If there were no completion beyond, that thought should sustain us. I have hugged to my heart one thought that has come to me in my exile and captivity : that the good of the race and its individuality are more than the good or the individuality of the unit. That brings me comfort in our troubles. Your spirit lights up my solitude and this dark place, and I see by it my way to living honor or the honorable grave.

“ I would have you know my mind in all; for if we are parted, meeting not here again, you will remember, and from this love of ours you will have come to new knowledge of life. It is not the signs and contacts of love I mean, but the doors that love opens, the hidden springs it touches, its power to unfold the nature until it is all bare to human life and sentiment. It is character and spirit I am thinking on more than the enjoyments of affection, though these are the daily food which makes all possible. It is this that renders my life bearable. I would be always near you, and yet I can endure being away, when I think that we have both grown wiser, and feel more and see farther than we did, and that we have found the secret of all good life.

“ Whatever comes, cherish the thought that this love of ours is not wasted, may not he scattered with our ashes, but remains working in the spirit of our race, the true patriotism, the right loyalty of all. When I say 4 our race,’ I mean, not Englishmen or Frenchmen, but all of us who live in the Christian world — who have behind us the same background of sweet tragedy, the martyrdom and example of Jesus Christ. In these fightings and clashings between our peoples works the same spirit for the final peace, when in some larger day there will be but one patriotism. What are a thousand or a million lives to that! In a thousand years, as the wise villain, our foe Doltaire, never tires of saying, it will be all the same ! If one can but think that way : that in the end and beyond — and I doubt not of that Beyond! — we shall not quarrel with the cutting out of years of life, this way or that! I well remember the death of the young Chevalier de Besançon, three years ago. He was most friendly to me, as you know, and he liked not such as Doltaire, though both had known the same society and life. It made Doltaire unreal, half cynic and half philosopher; it made the chevalier sad and wise, and at the last most cheerful. ‘ See, he said to me the day before he died. ‘ why should I quarrel with going? I have had it all: a happy youth, many friends, indolence that made me moody, action that made me cheerful, and war that made me strong. I have had wealth and love, and been honored by the King, and here on my bed I have in youth the peaceful outlook that should come with old age. What was there to experience that I have not felt or known ? It was but a question of how long I should feel and know. Was I not given all these things within my thirty years because I was to die at thirty ? So it seems to me. Some fulfill themselves at ten, and some at eighty, play their full parts, and leave this wide day for a wider. It was good, Captain Stobo,’ he went on, ‘ that I came here to this new land out of the gay inconsequence of the Court, where great men trifle with empires already made. It was good that I breathed this large air, and saw how empires were to be made, new homes and cities in making. I have learned much, but not all. The All is for to-morrow.’

“ Then he turned towards the good priest who had just come in, and said, 4 Dear abbé, you are white-haired, and in the light of sunset ; tell me why you remain, and I go.’

“The abbé replied, ‘My son, man’s measurements of time are arbitrary. Time is the trick of civilization, the weapon of mortal warfare. The hermit in the desert and the statesman in the council, though they are born to die upon the same day. yet the clock of God strikes differently for each.’

“ The young chevalier, his face all pale and shining, looked at me with a kind of joyful pride, and said, 4 It is so, it is so.’

“ You will see what I mean, and whether I go or stay, you will, I know, dear Alixe, think of these things.”

Many other matters I wrote upon, and when I had done 1 folded and sealed the letter, and then waited for the chance to send it to her. Again two or three weeks went by; how long it was hard to tell, for I was growing weaker steadily, and my cough continued, sometimes quite harsh. I had begged for a surgeon, but none had been sent me, and I asked no more. I suffered little pain, and had no violent feelings of any sort.

At last, one day, I heard commotion at my dungeon door ; then it opened, and Gabord entered and closed it after him. He came and stood over me, as with difficulty I lifted myself upon my elbow.

“ Dickey-bird, said he, “’t is done with nest now ; come fly away.”

“ It is the end, Gabord ? ” asked I, and I felt for the letter to give to him.

“ It is not away to paradise, aho! ” said he.

“ I am free ?” I asked.

“ Free from this dungeon deep, and silken bars to cage now,” answered he.

I raised myself and tried to stand upon my feet, but fell back. He helped me to rise, and I rested an arm on his shoulder.

“ Come, get to woolen bed, and sips of wine, and pantry’s swelling store,” said my whimsical jailer.

I tried to walk, but a dizziness came over me, and I sank back. Then Gabord laid me down, went to the door, and called in two soldiers with a mattress. I was wrapped in my cloak and blankets, laid thereon, and so was borne forth, all covered save my eyes; and they soon were covered, too, for the light of day was, as before, too strong for them. At the door I saw a fine team of horses with a large sleigh and many fur robes, and I was lifted in. Then I knew no more, for a sudden faintness came on me, and as the horses sprang away, a liveried driver behind, and the clear sleighbells rang out, a gun from the ramparts was fired to give the noon hour, a blackness came, and I sank into unconsciousness.

Gilbert Parker.