The Plowshare and the Sword: A Tale of Old Quebec

"Let us also travel to this land of Acadie," the knight said. "My Richard haunts me with reproaches. I go to make ready our canoe for the long journey. My mind shall find no rest till I have avenged our son."

He went out and built a fire upon the beach, and while the lumps of pitch, prepared from native bitumen mixed with pine resin, were melting, he peeled soft sheets of bark from the snowy birch trees and patched the canoe, caulking every seam with pitch. About the time of the evening shadow his work was done; but as he was returning to his home a voice called, and the Puritan hastened to his side.

"Welcome, friend," said the knight. "How fares it with you and your brave comrade?"

"We suffer who sojourn in Mesech," said Hough. "Old Penfold lies grievously sick of a fever."

"Dwell you far away?" the knight asked.

"Nigh upon two miles by land and water. We have returned to the cave which we occupied before our taking of the Dutch ship."

"My wife shall prepare a medicine. She is well skilled in the arts of healing," said the other. "You shall bring us to your cave with all speed."

"The disease has already taken hold upon his mind," said Hough. "One time he is holding his mother's gown, old man though he be, and wandering in water-meadows to pluck long purples and clovers, muttering as he picks at his blanket. 'Here is trefoil, good for cattle, but noisome to witches.' Another time he reaches for his sword, and swears – the Lord forgive him – at the weakness which holds him down. 'The French are upon us, comrades,' he calls. 'Let me not lie like an old dame with swollen legs.' Then he falls a-crying, and shouts, 'England! England!' Methinks if his mind were healed he would stand up again."

Mary Iden being summoned, and having made her preparations, the three set forth and came to the cave, which the adventurers had hoped to exchange for the Dutch vessel, then lying fathoms deep beneath the cliffs of Tadousac. There they found Penfold stretched along a heap of grass, babbling incessantly at the cold walls and the shadows. When the figures darkened the entrance, he screamed at them and sprang up, only to fall back upon the rude bed, a fever-held body agitated by stertorous breath.

"Build me here two fires," said the quiet woman, as she passed to the sick man's side.

"Witch!" shrieked Penfold. "Flower! Woodfield! Comrades, where are ye? Save me now from sorcery. Hough! Go bring the villagers, and bid them fling this hag into the Thames and pelt her with stones when she rises. To me, comrades! Leave not your old captain to perish by witchcraft."

"Canst heal him from this madness?" muttered Hough. "Myself I dared not let his blood, fearing lest I might do that which should hasten his end."

"Our people let no blood," came the answer. "We bring great heat into the body, so that the evil spirit shall come forth to seek water. Then we strengthen the body, so that it may be able to resist his return."

Already Penfold ceased to struggle beneath her soothing hands. The fires blazed fiercely, the smoke and hot vapours being drawn upwards into the natural chimneys. Obeying instructions, the men placed their sick comrade between these fires and covered him closely, while the skilful healer moistened his brow and lips with water in which she had steeped the young pink bark of the bitter willow, thus wringing the fever out of his body like water from a sponge.

"I am saving the old man," she whispered in a confident voice.

At the end of another hour the limp rag of humanity was steeped in sleep. By then the night was strong and the stars little orbs in splendour among the clouds. The breathing which the men heard when Mary Iden rose from her knees might have been that of a little child.

"The evil spirit has been driven forth to find water. Lift the man quickly; for the foul creature travels faster than the moonlight."

Obedient to superior knowledge, the men reconveyed the sleeper to the grass bed, and there the healer roused him to administer a decoction of bruised herbs: serrated calamintha, the perfoliate eupator, later more popularly known as the fever-wort of North America, and the white-rayed pyrethrum, which lifted its bitter bloom upon the heights. The sick man gasped as he swallowed the powerful tonic, and sank back into untroubled rest.

Presently the knight and his wife departed, and Hough accompanied them upon the first stage of their return journey; and when they reached the lake-side, where the canoe sprawled along the shingle, the knight acquainted his fellow-countryman with his plan of departure. Hough listened, gazing dimly over the scintillating surface, where a silver ribbon of moonlight led away to the Isle of Dreams.

"Where lies that land whither you go?" he asked at length.

"In the far east where Sebastian Cabot first touched," the Kentishman replied. "There I may sight the great ocean, which we islanders love, and scent the good brine and watch for an English sail."

"Here there is nothing we may do," said Hough, removing his eyes from the dreamy lake. "There surely we may look for the ship which Lord Baltimore shall send when Viner comes down to Virginia. I too would be near the sea and smell liberty."

With that they parted, and Hough returned to his hole among the rocks with visions of the sea. Within that cave, where Penfold slept during his guardian's absence, the fires darted, tincturing with red the silver of the moonbeams against the sable wall of cliff. Between the granite and the forest of pines a stream of moonlight spread like a glacier. A figure stole from the black belt, stepped cautiously into the white road, and waded, as it were, through the rippling beams. It was Onawa, who had watched the two men and her sister making west; she knew that one of the men would return after a little interval; and she understood that the work which she had undertaken must be done quickly.

No croaking bird aroused Penfold from his sleep to warn him of the she-wolf. It was one of those ironies which run through life that one sister should have cast the sick man into healthy slumber in order that the other might stab him as he lay.

A cloud of blood-sucking insects trumpeted around Onawa. Their thin noise seemed to her a tumult, and she stopped and looked back along the cold white stream. A lean wolf was slinking in her direction, his muzzle snuffling the dust. She shivered when she remembered that the murderess was doomed to become a werewolf after death to prowl about the scene of her former sin. The creature howled. The pale girl started and ran into the cave.

Her belief remained constant that she might still win the love of La Salle by destroying his enemies. She knew that he had gained renown by her betrayal to him of the English settlement. Now he had gone in the great ship to Acadie. She was about to follow, having neither home nor people, being indeed hunted for her life; but first she might destroy another of his enemies. Then she could learn to say: "I have killed the old Englishman who stirred up my people to attack yours." And she thought that he might welcome her at last for the sake of her good deeds.

A frightened howl broke upon the night. The wolf, disturbed by some enemy of its species, was hurrying for cover. The crisp snapping of twigs, succeeded by a rattling of small stones, were caused, not by the pads of the black loup-garou, but by a body weightier and less cowardly. These sounds were deadened by the walls of rock, and Onawa did not hear them. Swiftly she drew away the coverings from the white-faced sleeper, and old Penfold smiled innocently at her in his drugged sleep. Onawa drew in her breath, unsheathed her knife, and felt its point; then leaned back, measuring the distance by the faint glow, and her arm went up to strike. That next moment she screamed with terror, turned, struck wildly at the air, and was carried back to the granite floor with Hough's iron fingers driven round her throat.

Step by step the grim Puritan dragged the girl back to the mouth of the cave, and there pinned her to the rock with one arm, while reaching with the other to the corner, where he had piled a rope taken from the deck of the privateer. He bound her hand and foot; and thus helpless she stared up, and read her death upon his face.

For over an hour Hough paced the floor of the cave, listening to his captain's gentle breathing, and recalling the violent death of Athaliah, slain by order of Jehoiada, and the fate of Jezebel, cast from an upper window at the command of Jehu; for such a man as the Puritan regulated all the actions of his life by the light revealed to him from the Bible. There was, he reasoned, the highest authority to justify the act which he contemplated; only the manhood in him recoiled from the slaying of a woman. At length his mind became fixed. He bent and drew together the scarlet embers of the fire.

Onawa made no sign of terror, and no appeal for mercy; but her eyes followed every movement of her stern captor, as she sought to learn her sentence without betraying her fear.

"The witch is fair," the Puritan muttered, standing over and regarding her fawn-coloured skin, her even features, and large dark eyes. "A woman takes pride in her beauty. May the Lord punish me if I act now unjustly and for vengeance alone."

He pushed a stick into the fire and watched it grow red, then turned sharply upon his victim. The girl's eyes flashed defiance when they met his.

"Behold!" he exclaimed, drawing a thin hand across his terrible face, upon which the Court of Star Chamber had written its unjust judgment. The girl saw the slit nostrils, the cropped ears, the branded cheeks, and the scarred forehead. Her tongue became loosened at that sight, and she prayed for instant death, because she knew it was vain to plead for mercy.

Outside the cave the long black wolf, which if native testimony were accepted, contained the soul of some sorcerer, or of some vile man who had slain his friend, crept back to search for scraps of food. As a cloud drifted over the moon the brute dropped a bone which it had snatched, and scurried away like a human thief into the shadows, terrified by a wild scream from within the granite cave.

CHAPTER XXVII

REVELATION

Had Madame Labroquerie continued firm in her resolve never to approach the fortress while her nephew ruled, all might have been well; but unfortunately for her daughter, and, as it was to prove, for herself, the bitter little woman permitted her longing to enter again into the affairs of the world to prevail over her hatred for the commandant, and so suffered herself to be brought to the citadel, railing savagely throughout the journey. Before a week had passed she revealed herself fully as an unnatural mother and an implacable foe. Yet, to do justice to even a worker of evil, it must be admitted that Madeleine, with all her sweetness, was a sore trial to a fanatical Catholic and bigoted patriot, for she refused to be ashamed of her heresy, and was never weary of singing the praise of her English lover.

Left to themselves, neither Laroche, now the head of the Church in that district, nor Roussilac would have taken action against the lovely sinner; but Madame, in one of her fits of ungovernable anger, publicly preferred two charges against her daughter, accusing her of heresy and treason, and calling upon the Church to punish her for the one offence and the State to exact a penalty for the other.

These were grave indictments, but both priest and layman closed their ears, the former not wishing to be troubled by unpleasant duties, the latter hanging back, not on account of the tie of relationship, but because of Madeleine's beauty. But when Madame, in another fit of fury, openly denounced the commandant before D'Archand, who for the second time had arrived at that coast, as a Lutheran at heart, and a protector of the enemies of the Church, he was driven to act for the sake of his ambition. So Madeleine was arrested and confined in a small stone hut high upon the cliff, and before her door a sentry paced both by day and night, while Laroche, with many deep grumblings, was compelled to undertake the uncongenial task of saving the fair girl's soul.

To the credit of the priest, be it said that he was charitable. He believed Madeleine had been perverted from the right way by some spell of witchcraft, and this belief was strengthened by the fact that, when he adjured the girl by the tears of the Saviour to weep, she merely laughed at him. It was notorious that a guilty witch was unable to shed tears. Accordingly Laroche attended himself to the obvious duty of exorcising the evil spirit which had taken up its abode in her; but, in spite of all his efforts, the girl remained as wickedly obstinate as before.

"The Church acts towards her children with wondrous love, and because of that love may chasten," the abbé preached. "'Tis the duty of the faithful within the fold to bring in the wandering sheep, either by suasion or by force. Being bewitched, my daughter, you stand in great peril, and we, by the powers entrusted unto us, may remove that danger, when reasoning fails, by bodily torment. Be converted, and your soul shall live. Remain in your unbelief, and punishment shall follow, because a living heretic is a danger to the world and a dishonour to the holy saints."

Even such sound doctrine as this failed to move the heart of Madeleine, and each day Laroche grumbled louder at his failure, and Roussilac shrank yet more from bringing his cousin to trial, and Madame became more stinging in speech and more furious in her awful passions, because of the suffering of her mind during lucid moments, when she could see herself in sunny Normandy once more young and sane. Her hatred for Roussilac increased, until she would spit and snarl at him when he passed, and scream: "Infidel! This shall be known in France. Power shall fall from you, and the people shall curse your name." And when the men who had been sent after Geoffrey returned afoot with their tale of failure, Madame Labroquerie made it known from the ship to the citadel that it was the commandant who had secured the spy's safety for the love of his heretic cousin.

Coward as he was in many ways, Roussilac at length saw that he must act or be dishonoured; he must either release Madeleine or bring her to trial for treason. The former alternative was impossible, because the girl was an ecclesiastical prisoner. The lightest sentence he could pass for treason was banishment, and he could not endure the prospect of losing Madeleine. Besides, when he had sentenced her, she still remained to be judged by the clerical court. It needed a wiser brain than Roussilac's to solve so tangled a problem. Nevertheless, he resolved to attempt it. After some speech with Laroche, who was heartily weary of the whole business, the commandant passed from the church of Ste. Mary, after the hour of vespers, and ascended the winding path which led towards the hut where the impenitent was imprisoned. The sentry saluted as the governor approached, then resumed his march along the brown scar which the constant tread had made.

"Withdraw yonder," Roussilac ordered.

A happy voice broke out, as he put up his hand to the door:

"There is the sun upon the side of the wall. So it is already evening. Time flies as fast in prison as elsewhere. I pray you, sun, shine upon Geoffrey rather than on me!"

Cribbed and confined as the girl was, she steadily refused to be cast down, because she was assured that life had far better things in store. Her lover was pursued, but then she knew he would escape. Her body might be held in prison, but her spirit was free, flying over forest and hill, and singing like a lark against the clouds.

Her note changed when Roussilac flung open the door and stood before her in a flood of light.

"Cousin," Madeleine said coldly. "You break upon me suddenly. I had better company before you came. Why do you drive my friends away?"

The commandant closed the door and stepped forward, his sallow face working.

"You are alone," he said. "None dare visit you without permission."

"I am never alone," she declared. "My friends left me when you entered; but they shall return when you depart."

"Am not I a friend? Nay, more – I am a relation," began Roussilac; but she checked him with the reproof: "I have no family now that Jean-Marie is dead."

"Your mother," he reminded her.

"She has delivered me into the power of the Church."

"Because it is best for you. I would care for your body, Madeleine, as your mother cares for your soul. Cousin, think not unkindly of me. I would release you; but what power have I to remove the judgment of the Abbé Laroche? He has sentenced you to close confinement, until – "

"My lover returns to release me," she finished, and backed from him with a laugh.

Roussilac clenched his fingers tightly, and jealousy venomed the words which then left his lips:

"Foolish girl, would you rouse all the evil in me? Bear with me, cousin," he went on quickly. "It is not in me to endure patiently. Since that day when I stood before you in the grove I have not known the meaning of peace. My nights have been long, my days dark, my position unprofitable – "

Again she interrupted him, to simplify what she knew must follow:

"Because you think that you love me."

He stepped forward to seize her hands; but she drew back and steadied herself against the wall.

"I do love you, sweet cousin."

"You do not love me. Need I give you the lie when your own tongue gives it you? Is it love when the nights become long, and the day dark, and position brings no pleasure? Arnaud, I love, and am held in prison; but my nights are short, my days warm, and my position is a happiness. Believe you that love, however unrequited, takes away from life? I tell you it adds, it enriches, it beautifies. It is a crown which makes a humble man a king, and the halo which makes the singing-girl a saint. Love gives a man strength to use his power, to defy superstition and false religion, to snap his fingers in the face of a fat priest who believes that a strong will may be bent and broken by holding the body in bondage. Had I my heart to offer I would scorn your cowardly love."

He had faced her while she spoke, but when she stopped he turned, and, feeling the sting of her eyes, savagely pulled at the cloak which had drifted from his shoulders.

"My mother has sent you," said Madeleine.

"She and I are bitter enemies," came the sullen answer. "I have but borne with her for your sake. She seeks to stir up mischief all the day long." He turned abruptly. "Have you no kind word for me, little cousin?"

He looked worn and old, and the girl pitied him; but she was too honest to deceive by fair speech.

"You brought me to this place against my will," she reminded him. "I was happy in our cabin beyond the river. You have played into the hands of my mother, who desires to see me punished because I have abjured her faith. Would you have brought me here had you found the plain country maid you had looked to see?"

"I swore to your brother to protect you."

"Do not recall that death scene, I pray you," she said firmly. "If the spirit of Jean-Marie looks down upon us now, he finds you – protecting me!"

Roussilac winced as that shot struck him. "Blame me not," he said more submissively. "Were you a civil prisoner only, I would open this door, and you should go as free as air. My purpose in coming to you is to urge you to free yourself."

"Never at the price demanded. Arnaud, I put your courage to the test. I trow that the man who loves a woman will for her sake perform what she may demand, even though he lose position for it. Open the door, and lead me to Father Laroche, and say to him: 'Father, I have taken it upon myself to release your prisoner, since it shames me to see flesh and blood of mine confined against her will in the fortress over which I rule.' Do so, Arnaud, and I shall believe in you."

"It is madness to ask it," said Roussilac loudly.

"Let us have the truth. You dare not."

"It is so," he confessed. "I dare not set myself against the Church, which has the power to consign a man's soul to hell."

Madeleine smiled contemptuously.

"If you would search your heart and read truly what there you find, I should hear a different answer. You do not fear Father Laroche. He does not wish to hold me here. Rather would he cast me from his mind, that he might have more time to spend at the tavern and his brawls. I will tell you what you fear: your actions are watched, your words criticised. If you let me free, it would be rumoured that you were false to the faith. That rumour would be wafted across seas, and your enemies at home would see to it that you were recalled and relegated to the obscurity from which you have arisen. You would rather treat your cousin as a courtesan than abate one fragment of the pitiful power which shall some day fall from your body like a rag. Now, my commandant, are you answered?"

Roussilac said not a word when he saw the scorn in those violet eyes. He merely put out his hand, and opened the door, muttering, as though to himself: "That pride shall break when she knows."

"Know?" cried Madeleine. "What should I know?"

He looked at her savagely, feeling that it was in him to make her suffer.

"That your lover is hanged at my command."

He closed the door quickly and fastened it, half hoping, half dreading, to hear the scream of anguish which he believed must follow. But there came to him as he waited a peal of joyous laughter, and the happy words:

"Geoffrey, Geoffrey! would that you could hear that! Dead! Why, my love, you are full of life. Were you to die, which God indeed forbids, your dear spirit would fly at once to me. Dead! Have I not seen you in my dreams? Do not I see you now walking within sight of the New England fields? Oh, Geoffrey! Near – how near! Who is that great man riding beside you, a panther skin across his shoulder? How noisily he talks … and now leans over, and pats you on the arm. Ah, gone – gone! And he would have me think that you are hanged!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

BODY AND MIND

Roussilac strode towards the river, and in that hour found it in his heart to envy the meanest settler in the land. Like many a man who has risen from the ranks, he found himself destitute of friends. He had cut himself off from his own relations, lest they should hinder his ascent, and none had come to take their place; the captains of noble birth, his official equals, having refused to receive into friendship the son of a Normandy farmer. The home government was but using what military talents he possessed to their advantage; and when his services had been rendered, he would be cast aside by the proud priest who ruled the destinies of France, and another chosen in his stead.

"Courage!" he muttered. "'Tis but imagination which makes a weakling of me. I will to D'Archand, and inquire of him whether or no my name be yet in favour. Then to stand up like a man, and sweep away my enemies, let them be priests, relations, or demons."

D'Archand was idling upon deck, but at a word from the commandant entered his curtained cabin and produced a flask of Burgundy as an aid to conversation. First Roussilac sought to hear more particularly the news of the world, and induced the master to expatiate upon the revolution of the Scottish Covenanters, the struggle of Charles for money and ships, the resolute stand of John Pym for just law, the prosperity of France under Richelieu, and the breaking of the short treaty between that country and Holland. D'Archand warmed to his discourse under the influence of the wine and a thrill of patriotism, as he concluded: "I have but recently crossed the high seas without sighting a hostile vessel. The Dutch privateers have gone home empty. The English coffers are bare. France now holds the world. I drink to the Cardinal and our King."

Abstractedly Roussilac lifted his glass. When the master leaned over and emptied the flask between them, the commandant observed, with an assumption of indifference: "Didst hear any word of praise for my work in this land?"

"My stay was short," D'Archand answered. "I heard no talk of you, commandant – at least, not upon the streets, and to be spoken of in the street is the only fame, I take it. But there were rumours afloat regarding the Abbé La Salle."

"Perdition!" muttered Roussilac. "Shall these priests never confine themselves to their own affairs?"