The Grey Cloak - Page 198/256

Brother Jacques saw nothing in the velvet glooms but the figure of

Monsieur le Marquis as it lay that night after the duel.

Whenever the Senecas came to a habitation, they drew up the canoes and

carried them overland, far distant into the forest, making a

half-circuit of the point. During these portages the fatigue of the

women was great. Several times Anne broke down, unable to proceed.

Sometimes the savages waited patiently for her to recover, at other

times they were cruel in their determination to go on. Once Brother

Jacques took Anne's slight figure in his strong arms and carried her a

quarter of a mile. She hung upon his neck with the content of a weary

child, and the cool flesh of her cheek against his neck disturbed the

tranquillity of his dreams for many days to come.

Madame, on her part, struggled on without complaint. If she stumbled

and fell, no sound escaped her lips. She regained her feet without

assistance. Madame's was a great spirit; she knew the strength of

resignation.

It was after two o'clock when the Iroquois signified their intention of

pitching camp till dawn. They were far away from the common track now.

The last portage had carried them across several small streams. They

were in the heart of the forest. All night Brother Jacques sat at the

side of the women, guarding with watchful eyes. How the spirit and the

flesh of this man warred! And all the while his face in the filtered

moonlight was marbled and set of expression. He was made of iron,

constitutionally; his resolution, tempered steel.

Anne slept, but not so madame. She listened and listened: to the stir

of the leaves, to the dim murmur of running water, to the sighs of the

night wind, to the crackling of a dry twig when Anne turned uneasily in

her sleep. She listened and listened, but the sound she hungered for

never came.

At Quebec the news of the calamity did not become known till near

midnight. As the wind-drifted pleasure-boat told its grim story,

desolation fell upon the hearts of four men, each being conscious in

his own way that some part of the world had shifted from under his

feet. The governor recommended patience; he was always recommending

that attribute; he was always practising it, and fatally at times. The

four men shook their heads. The Chevalier and Victor bundled together

a few necessities, such as cloaks, blankets and arms. They set out at

once while the moon was yet high; set out in silence and with sullen

rage.

Jean Pauquet and the vicomte were in the act of following, when

D'Hérouville, disheveled and breathing heavily from his run down from

the upper town, arrested them.

"Vicomte," he cried, "you must take me with you. I can find no one to

go with me."