Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion

'Do you love this man?'

The girl was half dazed, but she directed her gaze towards the pitiless face. Then Menotah, attracted possibly by sympathy for one who was to suffer her pangs, drew nearer and looked closely at her features. Then she said, 'You are his wife?'

The other moistened her dry lips. 'I was,' she muttered.

'He deserted me for you.' She hung on every syllable. 'When he said he loved me, you were at his heart; when he caressed me, he thought of you; when he spoke tenderly, he forgot it was not you he was addressing.'

An angry flush of shame crossed Marie's brow. 'He never cared for me – the traitor. And I hate him.'

Menotah turned. 'So; she who was your wife before your own people has nothing for you but hatred.' Then she picked up the key, which Lamont had dropped in his sudden fright. 'It is time,' she said quietly, then unlocked the door and threw it wide open. She cast aside the cloak, while the knife glittered as she stretched forth her arm. 'You may pass if you wish.'

He was stupefied at this new move, and wondered at her meaning. Beyond he could see the lamp light flickering in the hall, and further, half hidden in shadow, the dim outline of the outer door. In that direction lay liberty. How simple it was! A quick bound forward, two or three steps, and life would be his again.

But then the cold voice struck on his ears again, —

'First I will warn you. As you pass I shall strive to wound you. A touch with this knife is death.'

He stood irresolutely, while a contemptuous smile broke over Marie's white countenance.

'I am waiting for you.'

He gazed from the open door to that terrible window, where the dreaded power of justice perhaps even then lay concealed.

'It will be over in a single moment.'

He tried to nerve himself for the act. With a single motion of his hand he might hurl the slight girl from the door; with one blow of his powerful fist he could paralyse that arm. But she was quick, and fearfully determined. The risk was too great.

'Coward!' she burst forth in a first expression of passion. 'I am but a weak woman – how weak you can hardly tell. But even for your liberty you will not attack me, for the gift of your life you dare not pass me.'

There was silence, until the splashing of heavy raindrops on the shingle could be distinctly heard.

'Hark! there are other sounds than the rain and the thunder.'

'I hear footsteps,' said Marie, in a barely intelligible voice.

Menotah barred the doorway with a trembling arm. 'Your chance is gone,' she said, yet with a peculiar deliberation. 'You know why these men have come. You do not deserve to live, for you have been false to everyone. They will take you with them, and treat you as they did Riel. They will hang you as they did him.'

She fell back as she spoke against the wall, while the hot breath choked her.

Another thought occurred to him. If he could reach the next room he might obtain his weapons. Armed, he would be not only a brave man, but a formidable foe. But Menotah still guarded the threshold, the deadly instrument in her hand, her eyes following his every movement.

'You cannot escape,' she murmured with low, fearful accent. There was a new expression upon her face which Marie wondered at. 'You are captured by a weak woman. You did not think to set eyes on me again. You thought I should crawl away to some quiet spot, there to sob away my life as the wounded deer. Yet I have followed your footsteps to repay you for the wounds you have inflicted upon me. The time is here now – the hour for vengeance.'

The last words fell from her lips in a frightened whisper. For the first time since that fatal night of desertion, emotion awoke in her colourless face, while a strange moisture started into her eyes.

But where was the plan for vengeance, and why did she not follow it out? For this meeting she had waited and planned. Now it had arrived. Why did she not make use of opportunity and act quickly? The deadly drug still lay unused in her bosom. Why did she not make use of it? Because she had then forgotten its very existence.

Again came the sounds On this occasion Lamont fancied he could detect a creaking of the storm door outside.

'They are coming,' said Marie, in a hushed tone.

Menotah looked upon her wildly. She repeated the words as though doubtful of their full significance. Then in a tremulous half whisper, 'Perhaps they are all round the door. He might escape by the window.'

'Escape!' half shouted Marie, excitedly.

Menotah's face had broken and changed, like the sky after a storm. The cruelty had melted and gone. A look of fear crept into her pain-filled and lustrous eyes. Suddenly, after a short and mighty struggle with herself, she turned and loudly cried at Lamont, —

'The window!'

The guilty man started at the change in that voice. Again he saw Menotah in the full sunshine, flitting along by the high cliff of the Saskatchewan, with bright song and laughter.

'There is still one chance left.'

Lamont could not move. He was divided between paralysing dread and suspicious perplexity. But she came towards him. He shrank from the knife with the brown stained point. Fearlessly she took him by the arm, then compelled him across the room.

'See!' Her voice was low and fervent. 'You may yet escape, with this knife to aid you. Make for the bush on the river's opposite bank. There you will be safe.'

There was a trembling pity in every motion, while her limbs shook with weakness. Upon her he turned his dazed eyes. Then he saw that her cheeks were burning, as though with fever, that the look on her face was wild and cunning.

'Let me go for my rifle,' he said.

'You cannot. They will see you. Go! For the love you bore me once – escape.'

Marie passionately intervened. 'You have jested with him enough. Take care, or he will snatch the knife from you.'

'Jesting!' cried Menotah, piteously. 'Ah, no. I am the coward now. I loved him. I gave him my heart and wrapped my soul round his life. Now I am called to avenge. I cannot. I cannot. The pain has returned – back to my heart. I thought the flame dead and cold. But it has sprung up again. It lives! It lives!'

She sprang at Lamont, and hung to him with an embrace. 'There is still time. Go! Go!'

'Stop!' cried Marie, furiously. 'You are in league with him. He shall not escape.'

'Do not listen to her. See! I will hold her arms.'

Marie advanced with a loud cry, but Menotah was upon her with all her lithe strength, holding her back, stifling her screams.

'The knife!' cried Lamont, with his usual selfish thought.

She threw it at him, but in the effort Marie cast her aside. Frantically she cried, in a piercing voice which rose above the storm, 'Help! He is escaping. The window!'

A second of silence, then there came deep voices and sounds of hurried footsteps.

'There is death on the point of the knife.' Again she held back the struggling Marie.

Lamont sprang to the window. Freedom was his. Another second – one more step forward, then the darkness would have received him, the night would have covered his flight. But that step was not to be made.

A man rose up suddenly from the gloom, a spare man with thin, nervous face. There could be no passing, no resisting, this new opponent. He had not strength to raise his hand against that figure.

'Sinclair!'

The single word burst from him as he fell back in a bath of terror. There was no hope now.

For hostile sounds uprose on every side. Like a man in a dream, he watched an officer, followed by two soldiers, entering the room at the door. These men were deemed sufficient to arrest one who would be unprepared. A larger band might have excited suspicion; besides, there might still be partisans of the White Chief hanging round the enclosures of the fort.

But as these entered a dreadful cry rang forth. Menotah was upon her knees, crying bitterly in this new sorrow. 'We may not turn back, if we have sworn to hate. If we pray for vengeance, the God will force it on us against the will.'

Sinclair advanced with an oath, and took her by the shoulder. 'What are you doing here? Helping him to escape – eh?'

'Yes,' cried Marie, fiercely. 'And she would have killed me – the savage!'

'You'd better get out while we give you the chance,' said the hunter, 'or you'll be taken and hung along with him.'

She raised her streaming eyes to his, until the grandeur of her romantic beauty touched even him. 'I care not. I am woman again now. That is why I could not harm him whom I had loved. Take me and hang me. See! I ask it of you. It will be pleasure after my suffering.'

Trembling and hopeless, Lamont stood against the wall, though the knife gleamed threateningly in his hand. Sinclair covered the window, one of the soldiers was backed against the closed door, before him stood the officer. The latter held a bright object, which glittered ominously beneath the lamp light.

'Come, Sinclair,' said the latter, 'leave that nitchi girl alone. She can't trouble our plans, but if we fool around here for long, some may turn up who will. We may have been watched coming here, and, mind, the Rebellion hasn't been long over.'

'You're right,' said the hunter. 'Well, I'm ready.'

The officer pointed. 'This is our man – the White Chief, eh?' he asked, in his strident tones.

Fiercely Menotah turned upon him. 'No! it is not. This man is innocent. The White Chief is dead. I know he is. I myself saw him – '

'Quit your darned noise,' interrupted the man. 'What the devil have you to do with it? I'll fire you out of the window, if you talk another word.'

'That's the White Chief, all right,' said Sinclair, with a slow, savage satisfaction. 'He's your man, officer.'

Menotah could not be repressed. 'You dare not touch him. That knife he holds is poisoned.'

The men looked at each other. Close quarters with the traitor meant certain death. But the officer was equal to the emergency.

'I've got a warrant for your arrest, and I'm going to take you alive or dead. I allow I'd rather have you alive, so I'm going to give you two minutes by my watch to chuck down that knife. None of us mean to be fixed by any more of your dirty tricks.' Then he raised his hand, with the revolver levelled against the prisoner's heart.

The last faint hope died, though he still mechanically retained his grasp of the knife.

Sinclair chuckled. 'I reckon I shall get square for that scar on my shoulder now,' he muttered.

Then Menotah passed before him and knelt before the officer. She lifted her beautiful moist eyes, with a last request, 'May I speak to him first – just for one moment? He was my husband once.'

The others burst into coarse laughter. Then the officer pushed her aside. 'I told you not to say another word, didn't I?'

'Don't let her speak to him,' cried Marie. 'She wants to free him.'

'How can I do so?' flashed Menotah. 'There are four men here, and I am unarmed. What can I do?'

'Better put her out of the house,' said Sinclair.

Her face was grand as she turned at him. 'Who saved your life in the forests of the Saskatchewan?'

The hunter turned red, and muttered something awkwardly.

'Ah! let me wish him good-bye. He was my husband, and I love him.'

Her excitement, the heat of returning passion, had made her again lovely. The hair fell in luxurious disorder, the bosom heaved, and eyes glittered between wet lashes. The officer observed all of these things, and did not give the order for her ejection. On the contrary, he bent down and whispered something into her ear. The others guessed what this was, and laughed again.

She did not flinch when the proposal was made. It was indeed what she had expected. 'Honour is nothing to me now.'

'It may be risky all the same,' said Sinclair, addressing the man in command.

She smiled bitterly. 'Are you still afraid of one weak girl?'

The officer bit at his moustache. Then he said, 'You can't have more than half a minute.'

'She may give him something,' cried Marie.

'Hold my hands.' She stretched them forth proudly.

The officer nodded, and the two soldiers came forward. They placed themselves on either side of the girl, and took each a hand. Then they crossed the floor.

She twisted herself in front of the men, who stood well back from the dreaded knife, and spoke a few words into Lamont's ear. Afterwards the three stepped back, and left him standing by the side of the lamp.

The officer pulled out his watch. 'The two minutes start now,' he said briefly.

Menotah drew near his side, falling a little behind in the deep shadow. Perhaps her beauty had never been so remarkable as at that moment. Her eyes were glowing with unnatural fire, the light intensified by dark lines beneath, and brilliant scarlet of the cheeks. The lips were parted half painfully. She was breathing fast, and fighting for each deep breath. For this was all the last effort of nature. The whole of her remaining life strength was being cast into one supreme endeavour to save the man who had wronged her. That colour was but the hot passion fever of the mind; the brightness of the eyes was closely akin to the light of madness. During that awful day she had not tasted food; sleep had scarcely been hers for the past month; now she was nothing but a shell, containing a single spark of fire, which would flash once, then die away for ever.

The officer had raised his revolver, and now covered Lamont. The traitor stood motionless in the same spot, still clutching the death knife. The seconds of time which made up that first minute ticked away without action on his part.

Lamont glanced wildly at the dark window, the silent soldier guarding it, then at the standard lamp which stood between them. Every eye was upon him. Sinclair knew that his triumph was complete. Marie, with large eyes of hatred, regarded the man who had won her young affections and had so grievously dishonoured her life. None thought of Menotah, as she stood in the shadow. She never for a second removed her gaze from the officer within reach of her hand; she noted his slightest movement; deliberately she counted the rapid pulsations of these two terrible minutes.

And the last of these now drew towards its close, Lamont had not stirred, nor did he show any sign of dropping the murderous weapon.

'Fifteen seconds more.'

'You're a fool, Lamont,' muttered the hunter. 'Chuck the thing away, and be a man.'

'Ten.'

Menotah was quivering like an aspen in the breeze.

Grimly the watch ticked off the last few seconds.

The officer took a more deliberate aim, while every man held his breath.

'Time.'

Almost before the word had formed into sound, Menotah dashed the revolver from his hand.

'Now!'

Lamont hurled the lamp to the floor in front of him, then bounded forward in the darkness. The soldier moved to meet him, despite the almost certainty of death from the poisoned knife. But, instead of the fugitive, he caught in his arms the figure of a girl. Menotah had cast herself against him to assist the escape. They rolled together on the floor, and Lamont tumbled over them both. Then, with a desperate movement, he dragged himself to the window, until he clutched the ledge with his fingers. But the man caught him by the ankle. Menotah deliberately threw her whole weight upon the detaining arm, and it broke down beneath the strain.

The next second Lamont had dragged himself free. Then he clambered to his feet, and in almost the same motion leapt from the window. All heard the furious shaking of bushes beneath, the hurried click of a gate in the palisade, followed by loud beating of feet upon the hard road.

'After him!' shouted the officer, swearing violently in his rage. 'Shoot him! Club him – anything.'

'He's bound for the river,' shouted one of the men. Then he flung himself from the window. The other followed, and after him the officer.

Sinclair stood in the dark room, biting his hands. 'If he swims across and reaches the bush, we sha'n't see him again,' he muttered furiously.

Then he struck a match. The pale, sulphurous flame lit up the room weirdly. Marie's nerves had given way, and she lay in a chair sobbing with weakness.

The hunter brought in the lamp from outside. As darkness disappeared, Menotah rose from the ground and tottered with feeble motions towards the door. That frightful strain had been removed at last. The work for which she had retained life and strength was done. Her vengeance had been accomplished, so she might rest – rest in the peace of death, for now there remained no further duty in life.

She spoke in a low voice of anguish. 'Has he escaped? They did not seize him? Tell me.'

Sinclair turned viciously upon her. 'Damn you!' he snarled, 'I could fix you for this. You've robbed me of my revenge, after all my planning and waiting. But you'll have to pay the devil now. Wait till they come back. I tell you, if they haven't got him you'll swing instead. They'll hang you, right enough, for this.'

Madly she drank in the glad truth of his opening words. Then she moved again nearer the door, as though she would once more seek a hiding place.

But tension never fails to find the weakest spot.

Suddenly she flung both hands to her burning forehead, staggered on another couple of paces, then fell crushed to the floor, with a low, heart-breaking cry.

The kindly darkness of insensibility blotted away for a time her madness and her pain.

CHAPTER IX

DARKNESS

Thus the weak hand, which was to have dealt the death blow, gave life to the traitor and liberty to the betrayer. For a secret tendril of love still clung and quivered about the dead heart. This might not be killed entirely, nor stamped out by a mere effort of the will, though for long it lay quiescent, in the mood of eternal silence. The presence, the sight of the once loved, aroused that latent force into hot overwhelming life, banished all recollection of duty, cast into oblivion memory of the sacred oath, the curse of her shattered life.

She became woman again – that was the difference.

Once he had deserted her, and the heart flickered out in a wild grief. The one thought then was for vengeance. She lived for it; cried for it to the Spirit; her soul was fed with the longing, while the waiting for it maintained the body in strength. Then it came, the life lay in her hand, she was bidden to crush it and satisfy all longing.

But instead she courted a felon's death in a wild effort to assist him in escaping. To save him she gladly offered to sacrifice life and honour, though both of these things were valueless, and dead fruit in her mouth.

For when she saw the figure she had loved, feeling returned in a mad torrent. Still she hated him for the vile treachery; she despised him for the lack of manly courage: but she could not lay a destroying hand upon the body she had worshipped. For she had loved him with a passion of which even he himself could know nothing. She made, at the dedication of Self, no empty lip promise; she offered no meaningless service of the tongue; but she offered the soul and life happiness.

In her false strength, all through the weary months of the northern winter, when she rocked the babe upon her knee, she had played the part. It was then her strong determination to do justice to her people, to obey her gods, to avenge her dishonoured self. Yet what was the result of this mighty striving after an imagined duty? When the moment arrived for the act which should for ever quench desire, when she heard the steps of the approaching soldiers, when she knew they would seize him she had loved, hang the one she had fondly caressed, then came the flood of reaction. The old sharp pain crept back to the body. Again she was woman, weak, foolish woman, with no thought but to protect, and, save the man – what mattered it whether he were worthy of the sacrifice? – who had first lit that sacred fire within her breast. She was fool, traitor, coward. That is what the disappointed men called her. Perhaps they were right.

Yet unwittingly she had leaned towards the teaching of the white man's God – the doctrine she had so heartily rejected. The power of love had of itself taught the heathen mind to act according to highest admonitions. Was there then something better and greater in that strange, misty faith. Could it be that the white God had pointed to the Religion of Love?

Presently, as Sinclair waited anxiously for the return of the pursuers, loud shouting uprose from the direction of the palisade. After his reply, noisy footsteps careered along, and a minute later three figures put in an appearance – Captain Robinson, behind his cigar; McAuliffe, with a long-necked bottle protruding from his pocket; Dave, with his short pipe and smug self-satisfaction. This trio had followed the former band at a safe interval, and were now burning to learn how things had gone.

They were somewhat taken aback to find Sinclair standing moodily in the yellow blot of lamp light, with a young woman sobbing hysterically in a chair, and Menotah lying without motion along the floor. The unexpected sight checked their exuberance.

'Goldam!' exclaimed the Factor. 'Say, Billy, what sort of a picnic is this, anyway?'

'He's gone,' replied the hunter, sourly.

'Not Lamont!' the others cried in unison.

Sinclair nodded. Then he pointed to the corpselike figure. 'She's tricked us all.'

Dave, who had completely forgotten events of the night preceding, became greatly concerned when he discovered the identity of the lifeless figure.

'You've gone to work and fixed her!' he shouted. 'Who did it? By holy heaven, Billy, if you had a hand in it, I'll fix you right now.'

'Quit it, Dave,' said the Captain. 'There's another gal here.'

'Damn 'em,' shouted Dave, wildly, 'I'll teach 'em to fix my poor gal! I'm going to start work with Billy here.'

He produced a great revolver from his hip pocket, but before he could bring it down to his elbow the others held him.

'Don't be a gol-darned fool, Dave,' said the Captain. 'Billy's our pard.'

Dave struggled and swore. 'My gal's dead.'

'She's right enough,' growled Sinclair; 'only fainted.'

Dave was himself again. 'Gimme your bottle, Alf. I'm going to give my gal a drink.'

The Factor gave him the bottle, then asked Sinclair to detail events. 'Tell us how the flush was bob-tailed, Billy.'

The hunter obeyed, and startled his listeners by the account of Menotah's courage.

'Well, well,' said the Captain, when he had finished. 'So he's got right away.'

'They're after him,' said Sinclair hopefully. 'He didn't get much of a start, and they're armed.'

McAuliffe had a word to say. 'Pshaw! as if he couldn't get away from those bullet stoppers,' he cried disdainfully. 'Tell you, Lamont's a match for that crowd. Might as well try and catch a badger on open prairie as him. The badger jumps into a hole and pulls it in after him. Lamont's the same.'

In the meantime, Dave was half choking Menotah with the fiery spirit. 'When whisky fails, order the coffin,' he proclaimed, as she began to cough.

Sinclair listened at the window. The night was very dark and pleasantly cool by then. Rain was falling heavily. 'They should be back soon.'

'It's not far to the river, and he'll swim that,' said the Captain.

'Then he'll be all right,' added the Factor. 'The bullet stoppers won't follow. First place, they can't swim; if they could, they'd be too darned scared of getting wet.'

The hunter turned to Dave. 'If you want to save her, you'd better get her away before they come back.'

'I'll chaw them up if they try to start fooling,' said Dave.

'You can't do it. They'd hang her quick enough for this night's business.'

Dave rubbed his coarse hand along the girl's smooth neck. 'They don't get her from Dave Spencer. We'll walk our chalks when we hear the bullet stoppers coming.'

Menotah stirred slightly, while a faint groan burst from her lips. Slowly she was returning from the bliss of insensibility to the awful dreariness of life. Then the Factor bethought himself of offering assistance to Marie.

So he snatched the bottle from the unwilling Dave, came over and touched her awkwardly on the shoulder. Not for years had he spoken with a 'civilised' woman.

'No darned use in crying, far as I can see.'