The Forge in the Forest

"You have excellently described our bitterest foe, and yours, Madame," said I, smiling. "The wicked Abbé La Garne, the pastor and master of these poor tools of his whom I would fain have spared, but could not." And I pointed to the bodies of the three dead savages, where they lay sprawling in various pathetic awkwardnesses of posture.

She looked, seemed to think of them for the first time, shivered, and turned away her pitiful eyes.

"Those poor wretches," I continued, "were sent by this kind priest to capture you. He knew when and where to find you, because he had played the eavesdropper when Marc and I were talking of you."

"Oh," she cried, clenching her white hands desperately, "can there be a priest so vile?"

"Ay, and this which you have heard is but a part of his villany. We have but lately baulked him in a plot whereby he had nearly got Marc hanged. This, Madame, I promise myself the honour of relating to you by and by; but now we must get the poor lad removed to some sort of house and comfort."

"And, oh," cried this poor mother, in a voice of piercing anguish and amazement, as if she could not yet wholly realize it, – "my boy, my boy! He is in the power of such a monster!"

"Be of good heart, I beseech you," said I, with a kind of passion in my voice. "I will find him, I swear I will bring him back to you. I will wait only so long as to see my own boy in safe hands!"

Again that look of trust was turned upon me, thrilling me with invincible resolve.

"Oh, I trust you, Monsieur!" she cried. Then pressing both hands to her eyes with a pathetic gesture, and thrusting back her hair – "I knew you, somehow, for the Seigneur de Briart," she went on, "as soon as I heard you demanding our release. And I immediately felt a great hope that you would set us free and save Philip. I suppose it is from Marc that I have learned such confidence, Monsieur!"

I bowed, awkward and glad, and without a pretty word to repay her with, – I who have some name in Quebec for well-turned compliment. But before this woman, who was young enough to be my daughter, I was like a green boy.

"You are too kind," I stammered. "It will be my great ambition to justify your good opinion of me."

Then I turned away to launch a canoe.

While I busied myself getting the canoe ready, and spreading ferns in the bottom of it for Marc to lie on, Mizpah walked up and down in a kind of violent speechlessness, as it were, twisting her long white hands, but no more giving voice to her grief and her anxiety. Once she sat down abruptly under the maple tree, and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, but not a sound of sob or moan came to my ears. My heart ached at the sight. I determined that I would give her work to do, such as would compel some attention on her part.

As soon as the canoe was ready I asked:

"Can you paddle, Madame?"

She nodded an affirmative, her voice seeming to have gone from her.

"Very well," said I, "then you will take the bow paddle, will you not?"

"Yes, indeed!" she found voice to cry, with an eagerness which I took to signify that she thought by paddling hard to find her child the sooner. But the manner in which she picked up the paddle, and took her place, and held the canoe, showed me she was no novice in the art of canoeing. I now went to lift Marc and carry him to the canoe.

"Let me help you," pleaded Prudence, springing up from beside him. "He must be so heavy!" Whereat I laughed.

"I can walk, I am sure, Father," said Marc, faintly, "if you put me on my feet and steady me."

"I doubt it, lad," said I, "and 'tis hardly worth while wasting your little strength in the attempt. Now, Prudence," I went on, turning to the girl, "I want you to get in there in front of the middle bar, and make a comfortable place for this man's head, – if you don't mind taking a live traitor's head in your lap!"

At this the poor girl's face flushed scarlet, as she quickly seated herself in the canoe; and her lips trembled so that my heart smote me for the jest.

"Forgive me, child. I meant it not as a taunt, but merely as a poor jest," I hastened to explain. "Your sister has told me all, and you were scarce to blame. Now, take the lad and make him as comfortable as a man with a shattered shoulder can hope to be." And I laid Marc gently down so that he could slip his long legs under the bar. He straightway closed his eyes from sheer weakness; but he could feel his maid bend her blushing face over his, and his expression was a strangely mingled one of suffering and content.

Taking my place in the stern of the canoe, I pushed out. The tide was just beginning to ebb. There was no wind. The shores were green and fair on either hand. My dear lad, though sore hurt, was happy in the sweet tenderness of his lily maid. As for me, I looked perhaps overmuch at the radiant head of Mizpah, at the lithe vigorous swaying of her long arms, the play of her gracious shoulders as she paddled strenuously. I felt that it was good to be in this canoe, all of us together, floating softly down to the little village beside the Canard's mouth.

Part II

Mizpah

Chapter XII

In a Strange Fellowship

I took Marc and the ladies to the house of one Giraud, a well-tried and trusted retainer, to whom I told the whole affair. Then I sent a speedy messenger to Father Fafard, begging him to come at once. The Curé of Grand Pré was a skilled physician, and I looked to him to treat Marc's wound better than I could hope to do. My purpose, as I unfolded it to Marc and to the ladies that same evening, sitting by Marc's pallet at the open cottage door, was to start the very next day in quest of the stolen child. I would take but one follower, to help me paddle, for I would rely not on force but on cunning in this venture. I would warn some good men among my tenants, and certain others who were in the counsels of the Forge, to keep an unobtrusive guard about the place, till Marc's wound should be so far healed that he might go to Grand Pré. And further, I would put them all in the hands of Father Fafard, with whom even the Black Abbé would scarce dare to meddle openly.

"The Curé," said I, turning to Mizpah, "you may trust both for his wisdom and his goodness. With him you will all be secure till my return."

Mizpah bowed her head in acknowledgment, and looked at me gratefully, but could not trust herself to speak. She sat a little apart, by the door, and was making a mighty effort to maintain her outward composure.

Then I turned to where Marc's face, pallid but glad, shone dimly on his pillow. I took his hand, I felt his pulse – for the hundredth time, perhaps. There was no more fever, no more prostration, than was to be accounted inevitable from such a wound. So I said: —

"Does the plan commend itself to you, dear lad? It troubles me sore to leave you in this plight; but Father Fafard is skilful, and I think you will not fret for lack of tender nursing. You will not need me, lad; but there is a little lad with yellow hair who needs me now, and I must go to him."

The moment I had spoken these last words I wished them back, for Mizpah broke down all at once in a terrible passion of tears. But I was ever a bungler where women are concerned, ever saying the wrong thing, ever slow to understand their strange, swift shiftings of mood. This time, however, I understood; for with my words a black realization of the little one's lonely fear came down upon my own soul, till my heart cried out with pity for him; and Prudence fell a-weeping by Marc's head. But she stopped on the instant, fearing to excite Marc hurtfully, and Marc said: —

"Indeed, Father, think not a moment more of me. 'Tis the poor little lad that needs you. Oh that I too could go with you on the quest!"

"To-morrow I go," said I, positively, "just as soon as I have seen Father Fafard."

As I spoke, Mizpah went out suddenly, and walked with rapid strides down the road, passing Giraud on the way as he came from mending the little canoe which I was to take. I had chosen a small and light craft, not knowing what streams I might have to ascend, what long carries I might have to make. As Mizpah passed him, going on to lean her arms upon the fence and stare out across the water, Giraud turned to watch her for a moment. Then, as he came up to the door where we sat, he took off his woollen cap, and said simply, "Poor lady! it goes hard with her."

"My friend," said I, "will these, while I am gone, be safe here from their enemies, – even should the Black Abbé come in person?"

"Master," he replied, with a certain proud nobility, which had ever impressed me in the man, "if any hurt comes to them, it will be not over my dead body alone, but over those of a dozen more stout fellows who would die to serve you."

"I believe you," said I, reaching out my hand. He kissed it, and went off quickly about his affairs.

Hardly was he gone when Mizpah came back. She was very pale and calm, and her eyes shone with the fire of some intense purpose. Had I known woman's heart as do some of my friends whom I could mention, I should have fathomed that purpose at her first words. But as I have said, I am slow to understand a woman's hints and objects, though men I can read ere their thoughts find speech. There was a faint glory of the last of sunset on Mizpah's face and hair as she stood facing me, her lips parted to speak. Behind her lay the little garden, with its sunflowers and lupines, and its thicket of pole beans in one corner. Then, beyond the gray fence, the smooth tide of the expanding river, violet-hued, the copper and olive wood, the marshes all greenish amber, and the dusky purple of the hills. It was all stamped upon my memory in delectable and imperishable colours, though I know that at the moment I saw only Mizpah's tall grace, her red-gold hair, the eyes that seemed to bring my spirit to her feet. I was thinking, "Was there ever such another woman's face, or a presence so gracious?" when I realized that she was speaking.

"Do I paddle well, Monsieur?" she asked, with the air of one who repeats a question.

"Pardon, a thousand pardons, Madame!" I exclaimed. "Yes, you use your paddle excellently well."

"And I can shoot, I can shoot very skilfully," she went on, with strong emphasis. "I can handle both pistol and musket."

"Indeed, Madame!" said I, considerably astonished.

"Ask Marc if I am not a cunning shot," she persisted, while her eyes seemed to burn through me in their eager intentness.

"Yes, Father," came Marc's whispered response out of the shadow, where I saw only the bended head of the maid Prudence. "Yes, Father, she is a more cunning marksman than I."

I turned again to her, and saw that she expected, that she thirsted for, an answer. But what answer?

"Madame," said I, bowing profoundly, and hoping to cover my bewilderment with a courtly speech, "may I hope that you will fire a good shot for me some day; I should account it an honour above all others if I might be indebted to such a hand for such succour."

She clasped her hands in a great gladness, crying, "Then I may go with you?"

"Go with me!" I cried, looking at her in huge amazement.

"She wants to help you find the child," whispered Marc.

The thought of this white girl among the perils which I saw before me pierced my heart with a strange pang, and in my haste I cried rudely: —

"Nonsense! Impossible! Why, it would be mere madness!"

So bitter was the pain of disappointment which wrung her face that I put out both hands towards her in passionate deprecation.

"Forgive me; oh, forgive me, Madame!" I pleaded. "But how could I bring you into such perils?"

But she caught my hands and would have gone on her knees to me if I had not stayed her roughly.

"Take me with you," she implored. "I can paddle, I can serve you as well as any man whom you can get. And I am brave, believe me. And how can I wait here when my boy, my darling, my Philip, is alone among those beasts? I would die every hour."

How could I refuse her? Yet refuse her I would, I must. To take her would be to lessen my own powers, I thought, and to add tenfold to the peril of the venture. Nevertheless my heart did now so leap at the thought of this strange, close fellowship which she demanded, that I came near to silencing my better judgment, and saying she might go. But I shut my teeth obstinately on the words.

At this moment, while she waited trembling, Marc once more intervened.

"You might do far worse than take her, Father. No one else will serve you more bravely or more skilfully, I think."

So Marc actually approved of this incredible proposal? Then was it, after all, so preposterous? My wavering must have shown itself in my face, for her own began to lighten rarely.

"But – those clothes!" said I.

At this she flushed to her ears. But she answered bravely.

"I will wear others; did you think I would so hamper you with this guise? No," she added with a little nervous laugh, "I will play the man; be sure."

And so, though I could scarce believe it, it was settled that Mizpah Hanford should go with me.

That night I found little sleep. My thoughts were a chaos of astonishment and apprehension. Marc, moreover, kept tossing, for his wound fretted him sorely, and I was continually at his side to give him drink. At about two in the morning there came a horseman to the garden gate, riding swiftly. Hurrying out I met him in the path. It was Father Fafard, come straight upon my word. He turned his horse into Giraud's pasture, put saddle and bridle in the porchway, and then followed me in to Marc's bedside.

When he had dressed the wound anew, and administered a soothing draught, Marc fell into a quiet sleep.

"He will do well, but it is a matter for long patience," said the Curé.

Then we went out of the house and down to the garden corner by the thicket of beans, where we might talk freely and jar no slumberers. Father Fafard fell in with my plans most heartily, and accepted my charges. To hold the Black Abbé in check at any point, would, he felt, be counted unto him for righteousness.

My mind being thus set at ease, I resolved to start as soon as might be after daybreak.

Before it was yet full day, I was again astir, and goodwife Giraud was getting ready, in bags, our provision of bacon and black bread. I had many small things to do, – gathering ammunition for two muskets and four pistols, selecting my paddles with care from Giraud's stock, and loading the canoe to the utmost advantage for ease of running and economy of space. Then, as I went in to the goodwife's breakfast, I was met at the door by a slim youth in leathern coat and leggins, with two pistols and Marc's whinger. I recognized the carven hilt stuck bravely in his belt, and Marc's knitted cap of gray wool on his head, well pulled down. The boy blushed, but met my eye with a sweet firmness, and I bowed with great courtesy. Even in this attire I thought she could not look aught but womanly – for it was Mistress Mizpah. Yet I could not but confess that to the stranger she would appear but as a singularly handsome stripling. The glory of her hair was hidden within her cap.

"These are the times," said I, seriously, "that breed brave women."

Breakfast done, messages and orders repeated, and farewells all spoken, the sun was perhaps an hour high when we paddled away from the little landing under Giraud's garden fence. I waved my cap backwards to Prudence and the Curé, where they stood side by side at the landing. My comrade in the bow waved her hand once, then fell to paddling diligently. I was still in a maze of wonderment, ready at any time to wake and find it a dream. But the little seas that slapped us as we cleared the river mouth, these were plainly real. I headed for the eastern point of the island, intending to land at the mouth of the Piziquid and make some inquiries. The morning air was like wine in my veins. There was a gay dancing of ripples over toward Blomidon, and the sky was a clear blue. A dash of cool drops wet me. It was no dream.

And so in a strange fellowship I set out to find the child.

Chapter XIII

My Comrade

I could not sufficiently commend the ease and aptness with which my beautiful comrade wielded her paddle. But in a while the day grew hot, and I bade her lie back in her place and rest. At first she would not, till I was compelled to remind her in a tone of railing that I was the captain in this enterprise, and that good soldiers must obey. Whereupon, though her back was toward me, I saw a flush creep around to her little ears, and she laid the paddle down something abruptly. I feared that I had vexed her, and I made haste to attempt an explanation, although it seemed to me that she should have understood a matter so obvious.

"I beg you to pardon me, Madame, if I seem to insist too much," said I, with hesitation. "But you must know that, if you exhaust yourself at the beginning of the journey, before you are hardened to the long continuance of such work, you will be unable to do anything to-morrow, and our quest will be much hindered."

"Forgive me!" she cried; "you are right, of course. Oh, I fear I have done wrong in hampering you! But I am strong, truly, and enduring as most men, Monsieur."

"Yes," I answered, "but to do one thing strenuously all day long, and for days thereafter, that is hard. I believe you can do it, or I should have been mad indeed to bring you. But you must let me advise you at the beginning. For this first day, rest often and save yourself as much as possible. By this means you will be able to do better to-morrow, and better still the day after. By the other means, you will be able to do little to-morrow most likely, and perhaps nothing the day after."

"Well," she said, turning her head partly around, so that I could see the gracious profile, "tell me, Monsieur, when to work and when to rest. I will obey. It is a lucky soldier, I know, who has the Seigneur de Briart to command him."

"But I fear, Madame," said I, "that discipline would sadly suffer if he had often such soldiers to command."

To this she made no reply. I saw that she leaned back in her place and changed her posture, so as to fulfil my wish and rest herself to the best advantage. I thought my words over. To me they seemed to have that savour of compliment which I would now avoid. I felt that here, under these strange circumstances, in an intimacy which might by and by be remembered by her with some little confusion, but which now, while she had no thought but for the rescue of the little one, contained no shadow of awkwardness for her clear and earnest soul, – I felt that here I must hold myself under bonds. The play of graceful compliment, such as I would have practised in her drawing-room to show her the courtliness of my breeding, must be forsworn. The admiration, the devotion, the worship, that burned in my eyes whensoever they dwelt upon her, must be strictly veiled. I must seem to forget that I am a man and my companion the fairest of women. Yes, I kept telling myself, I must regard her as a comrade only, and a follower, and a boy. I must be frank and careless in my manner toward her; kind, but blunt and positive. She will think nothing of it now, and will blush the less for it by and by, when the child is in her arms again, and she can once more give her mind to little matters.

And so I schooled myself; and as I watched her I began to realize more and more, with a delicious warming of my heart, what instant need I had of such schooling if I would not have her see how I was not at all her captain, but her bondsman.

At the mouth of the Piziquid stream there clustered a few cottages, not enough to call a village; and here we stopped about noon. A meal of milk and eggs and freshly baked rye cakes refreshed us, and eager as was our haste, I judged it wise to rest an hour stretched out in the shade of an apple tree. To this halt, Mizpah, after one glance of eager question at my face, made no demur, and I replied to the glance by whispering: —

"That is a good soldier! We will gain by this pause, now. We will travel late to-night."

The cottagers of whom we had our meal were folk unknown to me; and being informed that the Black Abbé had some followers in the neighbourhood, I durst give no hint of our purpose. By and by I asked carelessly if two canoes, with Indians of the Shubenacadie, had gone by this way. I thought that the man looked at me with some suspicion. He hesitated. But before he could reply his goodwife answered for him, with the freedom of a clear conscience.

"Yes, M'sieu," she chattered, "two canoes, and four Indians. They went by yesterday, toward sundown, stopping here for water from our well, – the finest water hereabouts, if I do say it!"

"They went up the river, I suppose," said I.

"Oh, but no, M'sieu," clattered on the worthy dame. "They went straight up the bay. Yes, goodman," she continued, changing her tone sharply, "whenever I open my mouth you glare at me as if I was talking nonsense. What have I said wrong now, I'd like to know. Yes, I'd like very much to know that, goodman. Why should not the gentleman know that they had – "

But here the man interrupted her roughly. "Will you never be done your prating?" he cried. "Can't you see that you worry the gentlemen? How should they care to know that the red rascals made a good catch of shad off the island? Now, do go and get some of your fresh buttermilk for the gentlemen to drink before they go. Don't you see they are starting?"

And, indeed, Mizpah's impatience to be gone was plainly evident, and we had rested long enough. I durst not look at her face, lest our host should perceive that I had heard what I wanted to hear. I spoke casually of the weather, and inquired how his apples and his flax were faring, and so filled the minutes safely until the goodwife came with the butter-milk. Having both drunk gratefully of the cool, delicately acid, nourishing liquor, we gave the man a piece of silver, and set out in good heart.

"We are on the right track, comrade," said I, lightly, steering my course along the shore toward Cobequid.

Her only answer was to fall a-paddling with such an eagerness that I had to check her.

"Now, now," I said, "more haste, less speed."

"But I feel so strong now, and so rested," she cried passionately. "Might we not overtake them to-night?"

"Hardly so soon as that, I fear, Madame," I answered. "This is a stern chase, and it is like to be a long one; you must make up your mind to that, if you would not have a fresh disappointment every hour."

"Oh," she broke out, "if it were your child you were trying to find and save, you would not be so cool about it."

"Believe me, Madame," said I, in a low voice, "I am not perhaps as cool as I appear."

"Oh, what a weak and silly creature I must seem to you!" she cried. "But I will not be weak and silly when it comes to trial, Monsieur, I promise you. I will prove worthy of your confidence. But make allowance for me now, and do not judge me harshly. Every moment I seem to hear him crying for me, Monsieur." And her head drooped forward in unspeakable grief.

I could think of nothing, absolutely nothing, to say. I could only mutter hoarsely, "I do not think you either weak or silly, Madame."

This answer, feeble as it appeared to myself, seemed in a sense to relieve her. She put down her paddle, leaned forward upon the front bar, with her face in her hands, and sobbed gently for a few minutes. Then, while I gazed upon her in rapt commiseration, she all at once resumed the paddle briskly.

For my own part, being just lately returned from a long expedition, my muscles were like steel; I felt that I should never weary. Steadily onward we pressed, past the mouths of several small streams whose names I did not know, past headland after headland of red clay or pallid plaster rock. As the tide fell, we were driven far out into the bay, till sometimes there was a mile of oozy red flats parting us from the edge of the green. But as the tide rose again, we accompanied its seething vanguard, till at last we were again close in shore. A breeze soon after mid-day springing up behind us, we made excellent progress. But soon after sunset a mist arose, which made our journey too perilous to be continued. I turned into a narrow cove between high banks, where the brawling of a shallow brook promised us fresh water. And there, in a thicket of young fir trees growing at the foot of a steep bank, I set up the canoe on edge, laid some poles and branches against it, and had a secluded shelter for my lady. She looked at it with a gratified admiration and could never be done with thanking me.