■;»:ig:y disease, the natural obstacles of the country, and le irregular warfare of the Indians, met with no lisaster save the repulse of a night attack on the Island Battery, by a force in whale-boats, who were Repulsed with the loss of one hundred and eighty men. And now, indulgent reader, we will leave the page )f history, and the annals of the New Englanders* triumph, and seek the beleaguered city, so soon to fall into the power of its determined foes ; once again to •ise, Phoenix-like, from its ashes — to rise again, but )nly to fall once more, and forever. 12 TWICE TAKEN. From thence we shall pass through many scenes] of joy and grief^ beauty and terror, peace and conflictj good and ill ; over many leagues, by many shores, erej we again stand within its walls, then, as now, to be! torn by English missiles : then, as now, to resist in| vain. 13 ny scenes] d conflict! hores, ere^ ow, to be- ' resist in; CHAPTER II. THE COUNCIL OF WAR. N the " Circular Battery," which covered the west gate of tlie city, an hour before day, on the morn- of the nth of June, stood a group of four persons, ^Orapped in heavy cloaks, for the mist and fog hung ctensely over the fated city. Around their pieces stood tiie worn and dispirited soldiery, repairing the crum- bling embrasures and shattered carriages, and prepar- ing to answer the fire of the English, which, for a few days past, had visibly slackened. The principal figure of the group, whose uniform, •tudded with medals and crosses, glittered occasionally tween the folds of his cloak, was Monsieur Du- ambon, military governor of Louisburg. The officer ho leaned so negligently on the carriage of a dis- mounted falcon was Captain De Courcy, his chief of artillery ; the third, L'Our Blanc, or the White Bear, a |>etty chief of the Micmacs, a warrior of great courage, iind an inveterate enemy of the English ; and, lastly, ather Gilbert, a Jesuit missionary. All were cou- rsing, in low tones, of the progress of the siege, and eir prospects of relief. " If," said Duchambon, " we can hold out a fortnight ngcr, assistance must come ; with the help of the eet, now almost due, from Brest, our deliverance is 'ftK. .J»'' H TWICE TAKEN. certain ; without it, the valor and self-devotion of the j last three weeks are in vain. At least, I have kept my word with the heretic : the cannon alone hath been ' my messenger — an envoy of hatred, defiance, and; death. But what say you, De Courcy, can we hold| out two weeks longer ? " The soldier raised his eyes slowly from the debris I of the shattered works which he had been contem- plating, and turned them towards the governor, whoj saw in them nought to encourage, save the impress of | a soul undaunted by certain misfortune. " I fear," said he, " that it is simply impossible. I Look at this bastion! Two weeks ago, sixteen guns! thundered defiance to the enemy ; to-day, three alone i are serviceable, and these, even, are but indifferently protected by the shattered parapet. Our other works are in the same condition ; our powder is becoming scarce, and of the brave men who led our troops at the commencement of the siege, many have answered to their last roll-call, and sleep undisturbed by can- nonade or reveille. Still, your excellency, I will stand to my guns for king and country, to assist the living and avenge the dead." Duchambon pressed his hand in silence, and turned to the Chief of the Micmacs, who stood stoically smoking, and toying with the handle of his war-axe. " And what says my red brother? Is the heart of the White Bear as unconquered, are his teeth as sharp, his hug as fatal, as when he drove the English dogs to their kennels at Annapolis and Canseau ? " The Indian drew the feathered tube from his lips, and slowly answered, " Does any one doubt the courage ^n^" THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 15 ii of the I kept my ith been ice, and we hold le debris conteni- lor, who press of possible. en guns I 3e alone fferently !r works ^coming •oops at iswered by can- I will sist the turned toically rar-axe. ^3 of the sharp, dogs to is lips, ourage of L'Our Blanc? A hundred braves entered with him the city of the king, to avenge their own wrongs and to assist the soldiers of the French monarch. Save twenty, all have sought the happy hunting ground. But not alone ; for their good rifles had sent many spirits before to announce their coming. The living will not dishonor their fallen comrades." And the heaving breast and flashing eye ceased to ispcak the presence of the fiery spirit within, and the [warrior smoked in calm silence, as became a brave. The governor turned to the Jesuit. " And you, ^Father Gilbert?" said he, inquiringly.. The person iaddressed was a young man of about twenty-five years |of age, of compact though slender make, whose glossy hair and keen black eyes contrasted well with a com- plexion still delicate, though tanned by exposure, and wrinkled by study and meditation. He answered in the quaint manner of his profession, though a keen ■observer would have noticed a slight dash of irony in Ihis tone. " Whatever man may do I will do to pro- :ect our good city ' ex mam'dus spoliator is J Have I [not already used carnal weapons, to the injury of my ^priestly character, and, perchance, the great danger of my soul? Have I not even assisted in working huge ingines of death, of whose very names I should be itterly ignorant?" " Ay," answered De Courcy, losing his gravity for :he moment, "and, greatly to my surprise, I found that my education at the military school was little better than that displayed by the laudable endeavors of your reverence to get the range of that new bat- tery yesterday. Tete-Dieul I'll never call a priest •'T*-, i6 TWICE TAKEN. a non-combatant again." And the light-hearted sol- dier laughed merrily at the discomposure of the holy father. At this moment the fog, which had so thickly veiled them, suddenly swept away to seaward, and, as if by magic, disclosed the English batteries, the hated red- cross flag, and the guns manned for instant action. " Down on your faces, for your lives ! " shouted Do Courcy, suiting the action to the word. A hoarse cheer rang from battery to battery along the works of the besiegers, a sheet of flame swept from the semi- circle of forts converging towards the city, and shell and ball sper'. on their errand of destruction. The fire, so desultory of late, was renewed with unexampled in- tensity and precision, and rapidly reduced the number of eftective guns and the tenability of the ramparts, while the little band of defenders was fearfully thinned. " Gentlemen, we must seek a safer retreat," said De Courcy, and was leading the way to a bomb-proof, when he remembered that he preceded his chief, and, with the punctilious politeness of that period, has- tened to correct his blunder. Turning, and raising his chapeau, he said, " Pardon, monsieur : lead if you please ; I will follow." Fatal politeness ! A sharp explosion was heard, and a fragment of the exploding missile struck the breast of the brave artillerist, who fell into the arms of Father Gilbert. He was assisted to the casemate, where Duchambon strove in vain to stanch the life-blood which gushed over his rent and powder-stained uniform. He beckoned to Father Gil- bert : the monk bent his head. " It is useless," said he : " I have fought my last fight, pointed my last THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 17 ted sol- lic holy y veiled IS if by Led red- ion. jted Do hoarse orks of le semi- id shell ^he fire, pled ill- number mparts, binned, said -proof, ef, and, d, bas- ing his if you sharp loding t, who ssisted Ivain to nt and er Gil- " said y last im ; it is all over with me and the city of the king. die content ; but my poor children — gallant Hubert lind denr Rosalie ! — who will care for them ? " The yes of the Jesuit relaxed from the revengeful look cy had worn till then, and became strangely solemn nd tender, and his tones were mild and consoling, as e answered, — " Grieve not for your loved ones ; they shall be my i|are ; children they shall be to him who may never leel a father's joy and pride. For the rest, dying brother, cast your eyes to heaven, to the emblem of a pavior's sufferings, an immortal's love ; soon you will leave us for the martyr's crown, the servant's reward." iThe dying soldier cast on him a look of gratitude, and Reckoned for his sword — a slender rapier, with a tri- angular blade and cross hilt. He gave it to Father iGilbert, who held it before his eyes until they beheld ilo longer the scenes of earth. That night a sad jpi-oup, gathered in the cemetery of the chapel, hastily Committed the remains of the brave De Co.urcy to meir mother earth. * -^ I Afler this the fire slackened not until the i6th, when uchambon desired a truce, which was granted ; and e next day the city surrendered, with all its inhabit- ts and garrison, save the remaining Micmacs, who, irith the Jesuit and his orphan proteges^ had, under over of the preceding night, passed through the hos- le fleet, and were far on their way to the Isle of St. bhn. ■IT t/r^'-'ir..: i i '11 :i I. i8 CHAPTER III. THE FLIGHT. ON the evening of the i6th the three remaining members of the council of war were, for the last time, reunited in the house of the governor. The fire of the besiegers no longer drove the inhabitants to * their close casemates for shelter ; for with the truce had ceased the roar of the English cannon. They gazed at each other in silence and gloom ; even the stoical Micmac seemed depressed and apprehensive; Duchambon broke the oppressive silence. " At last," said he, " we seem to be conquered — cer- tainly we are defenceless. The death of our brave friend has deprived us of sage counsel and cheery encourage- ment ; our citadel and bastions are no longer tenable, — their guns lie beneath their ruins ; our munitions are spent, our garrison worn by watching, and dis- couraged by losses and disaster. All is lost save life and honor ; and yet " — and he gazed inquiringly at the White Bear, and the Jesuit, who held by the hand the children of De Courcy. L*Our Blanc understood the look, and the sorrow of the brave heart, whose possessor could no longer protect his savage allies, and hastened to allay it. " Let no fears for his red brethren torture the great heart of my white father. To the remnants of the THE FLIGHT. «9 maining for the >r. The ►itants to he truce . They 3ven the hensive ; d — cer- ise friend :ourage- tenable, unitions iiid dis- lave life ingly at le hand lerstood whose ies, and le great of the ns of the forest are still left their strong hearts, true Acs., and swift canoes. To-night the spirits of the ist, the children of Kzimlamit* and Saboghwan^^ ill cover with their garments rock, channel, sea, and land. The spirit of his ancestor, Mambertou, will atch over the swift canoes of the White Bear as they ass the big war-ships ; and his magical power will Im the waves and winds that waft the canoes of his scendant to the Isle of St. John." " And," said Duchambon to the Jesuit, " I shall Bave no difficulty in procuring you a safe passage to France." " Nay, your excellency," said he, while his form dilated, and his features became radiant with resolve. I cannot accept your kind offer ; my comfort, my fety, and my life are no longer my own ; I am sworn j^L, devote my all to the spread of our holy faith, the lonversion of these benighted tribes, the advancement 0f Catholic power and domain. Through fire and flood, ccess and defeat, peace and war, in sickness and in ealth, I must still press onward to the attainment of is glorious end, or, like my ancestor, Gilbert du Thet, Id the martyr's crown." Turning to the chief; he asked, I* Has L'Our Blanc room in his bark for the Black obe and these orphans ? " " They shall first enter the White Bear's own que- ;?," % he answered, " when the drums of the An- iasheowe § beat for the last time ; the canoes will lie Jpn the south shore, and all will be ready. The White ^ear grieves at leaving his white father," continued Mie, " but men may not cry like squaws, Never agajn * Air. + Water. \ Canoe. t W^ter, a § English. 20 TWICE TAKEN. will the rifle of L*Our Blanc, in unison with the roar of cannon, speak death to the Anglashcowc^ and joy to his white father. We meet not again on the war-path, in council, or wigwam ; but the chieftain feels that wc shall meet hereafter, with the brave and beautiful who have gone before to the happy hunting grounds, the Wasook * of the Illenoo" t He wrung the hand of the governor hastily, and was gone. " Duchambon," said the missionary, *' we must part soon, never to meet again on earth. Thou hast fought nobly and well for France and our holy faith. Grieve not overmuch at our misfortunes ; the English banner will not long pollute these walls, consecrated by sacred rites and the blood of brave men. In the future do thy duty as thou hast done ; keep ever in sight the triumph of the cross, and thy success is sure, thy final happiness certain. The prayers of the poor mission- ary Father Gilbert will ever intercede for thee. May the blessing of God and our holy church be ever with thee." Just as the drums were beating the "retreat" the little band entered their canoes, and, under cover of the friendly mists, glided noiselessly past picket-boat and frigate into the open sea ; and with favoring winds passed swiftly by cape and bay, until daylight found them near the He Madame, at the entrance of the Pass de Fronsac. Here they concealed themselves during the day ; and it was amid its craggy recesses, while seated by the camp-fire, that L'Our Blanc was asked by the priest for an account of his ancestor Mambertou. ?!■*■. * Heaven. t Generic term ^^ Indian.'' >i.?'ifcl*.v.'.-*_S^1 i THE FLIGHT. 21 2 roar of d joy to Mr-path, that wc iful who inds, the liaiid of lust part t fought Grieve banner y sacred iture do ight the thy final Tnission- . May er with at" the aver of set-boat J winds : found of the nselves icesses, nc was ncestor The canoes had been drawn up on the stony beach t the foot of a narrow gorge, whose entrance was iddcn by a dense thicket of young firs, the trunks of hich stood so thickly together that in some places he war-axe of L'Our Blanc had been called into requi- ition to effect a passage. On the grassy turf within at the band at their evening meal, around a fire of ine logs ; for the mists of the evening were becoming lick and chill. Above them, on the escarpment of the cliff, stood th» Sentinel, a lithe and graceful youth, the nephew of the iChief, who, from his bravery and skill in swimming, tiad gained the name of Cubenic^ or The Otter. A 'tnantle of the rich fur of this animal hung gracefully rom one shoulder, while the other shone bare and cautiful in its bronzed symmetry. As he stood lean- ing upon his bow, a bank of mist swept up and filled '^he gorge, then slowly rose up the cliff until the rocks i^vere hidden from view, and the warrior seemed stand- -|ng on its dense vapors. Still, as he gazed earnestly Jbff to seaward, it rose higher and higher, veiling the Ringed leggings, the waist girt with woven beads, over ^e furred chest, the symmetrical bust and neck, and ^nally, the head and its simple helm, or rather crest, of flumes were no longer visible. K The tragical events of the past month, the flight . ilinder cover of darkness, and the weird passage past lehrouded shores and rocks enveloped in fog, had had |their effect on all ; and the good father asked, half lightly, half in earnest, " Is he, too, a descendant of vlambertou ? for his mantle seems to have descended upon him." ■ .,-:».' .i'.-L r^ vi_. k iii il' ! iili * French. § Heaven. ** Fire. t Bowls or dishes. II Hell. ft Sea. X Kennebec. If Air. XX Lake. aa TWICE TAKEN. *' Father," said L'Our Blanc, " he, too, claims descent from the great sachem, whose spirit is still believed to watch over the safety of his descendants." The Jesuit, skilled in the Cabala of the East and the superstitions of Europe, desiring to become ac- quainted with the mythology and legends of his savage companions, pressed the chief for some account of this celebrated personage ; and the White Bear, between the whiffs of his calumet, spoke thus : — ijj " Many generations ago, when the big quetans of the Wennooch * first sought our shores, and the tribes of the Abenaqui were as the sands of the sea, when the settlements of the white man were weak as those . of the ant, and as easily to be crushed out, then lived our great ancestor Mambertou. First on the war-path, and foremost in the chase, generous at home, and wise in counsel, was he. The curtains of his wigwam were never fastened, the ouragans\ of his guests never empty. The dwellers of the land over which shines ' the star that moves not,' shuddered at his name. His girdle was fringed with scalps from the forests watered by the Kennebebi.\ His counsel was sage and unprejudiced, his knowledge beyond tliat of the wisest of his tribe. For he held converse with the || J inhabitants of Wasook^% and made the dark spirit of Mundoo-ake || tremble before him. To him bowed the spirits of Kumlamit^ the fierce intelligences of Puctou^** and those who inhabit the crystal domes of Saboghwan ft and Ekketaii, \% And the tongues ••'*'V THE FLIGHT. 23 IS descent believed East and :oiTie ac- is savage nt of this between etajis of he tribes 2a, when as those ,; len lived ^ yrar-path, ; and wise am were ts never h shines 5 name. e forests ras sage it of the vith the k spirit 1 bowed * nces of domes tongues Mre. 3ea. Lake. beast, bird, and fish were as clear to him as an un- filed lake at noonday. But he was the true friend the Wcnnooch^* and bowed before Wesoulk^\ and elt at the feet of Jcchuch.X in the hope of whose ercy he died. He lies in his last resting-place near rt Royal ; yet for many generations the river has urmurcd more gently near his tomb ; the birds sing ore softly over the grave of the great' Autmoin.% JLnd to his descendants is still permitted to burn the mystic charcoal of the cedar, and to them he appears io dreams of warning and encouragement, while his ipul watches over them in all dangers. I dreamed list night," continued he, solemnly, '* that I saw him wound a bear ineflectually, for the arrow fell blunted vgnd harmless — a sure forerunner of death to one of his rce." And the warrior ceased his narration. f The Jesuit sat meditating on the strange assimila- tion between the legends and mysteries of the Old World and the New, when he saw the stratum of fog ,|^gin to grow thinner, giving to view, first the tops imd then the branches of the trees' beneath which he had last seen the Indian Apollo. The branches were fll in view, and foot after foot of the trunk appeared in rapid succession, then the spreading base, and at >j|ast the plateau on which it stood, but — Cubetiic was W longer there. L'Our Blanc sprung to his feet with || bound, and with his finger upon his lip signalled to liix of his band to follow bin) ; then seized his rifle, and .Avith agile yet silent bounds, they ascended the side of the ravine, while the remainder of the band prepared '^to re-enforce their leader, or to defend the camp. * French. t God. J Jesus. § Magician. 24 TWICE TAKEN. Father Gilbert seized the sword given him by Dc Courcy, and followed the chief, who went on the dan- gerous quest with the stealthy grace and cautious courage of the tiger. Followed and imitated by his handful of men, he now glided from tree to tree ; now sheltered himself by passing behind huge boulders; and there screened his swift approach by the thickly- massed young firs, until he stood where the young sentinel had so mysteriously disappeared. A glance told the story to the practised wood-ranger. The torn earth, the tracks of white men, the deep indentations of feet going towards the sea, told that Cubenic had been surprised, gagged, and borne away a captive. At a shrill whistle the rest of the band joined the scouts ; and, led by L'Our Blanc, they swept on througli bog, copse, and craggy glen along the recent trail. At last they saw the gleam of the blue water, and with a whoop of defiance, the chief sprang forward, swinging his keen hatchet around his plumed head in gleaming circles. Closing up in an unbroken front, the warriors cleared the low bushes that skirted the beach, but, to their disappointment, their prey had escaped them. At about six hundred yards from the rugged shore, skirted with half-submerged rocks and surf-beaten ledges, lay a small boat, containing six men and the Indian prisoner, who was still covered by the blankQt which had been used to blindfold and to stifle him. A yell of baffled wrath broke from the Indians as they saw the boat pulling oflf in safety, soon to be hidden from view by the dense fog-bank which was slowly rolling in from seaward. One of the captors, in order to still further exasperate the Indians, raised the en- w^yw' ^•'Y'w THE FLIGHT. 25 1 by Dc the dan- cautious sd by liis ee ; now •ouldcrs ; ; thickly- le young A. glance The torn L'ntations enic had ptive. ined the through rail. At :1 with a winging earning iwarriors but, to nem. d shore, f-beaten and the blanket le him. as they hidden slowly n order the en- opiuir blanket from the form of the Otter, who in- ntly stabbed the thoughtless soldier with his knife, id a second dead with his hatchet, and dove in the ection of the shore. A moment more, and all that ued was hidden from those on shore by the fog ; ugh the frequent shots, the hoarse shouts of com- l^nd and disappointment, the plashing of oars, and ah occasional whoop of exultation, told of fierce pur- •ult and successful expedients for escape. Soon this fog-bank had passed onward like the other ; but before its friendly veil was withdrawn, Cubenic, dripping lilse a river-god, had joined the happy band, and in the iKpct interval the boat was seen pulling stoutly to sea- ft»rd, while the wounded soldier shook his clinched hind at the reunited warriors. n reaching the camp they hastened to re-embark, midnight found them sailing north vard, under the ms of the silent stars. The poor children and the f aried braves slept soundly in their narrow limits ; jbnt in the canoe of the White Bear, the Jesuit, Cu- Imoiic, and his uncle sat talking over in subdued tones th^ events of the day : at last the young warrior leaned hU head on his arm and slept also. Then said the missionary, " Does L'Our Blanc still Jfl^c faith in his dream of ill-omen? The arrow has llOt fallen blunted, but has drank the life-blood." *' True," answered the chief, " one fell by his hand ; Ipt the other escaped, though severely wounded. By hand will fall the descendant of Mambertou." 'How know you the true Magician?" asked the suit, impressed in spite of himself. ' By the great medal he wore when in life, by his 26 TWICE TAKEN. godlike form, his massive forehead, and the eye thai speaks when the lips are silent," answered he. Merrily rippled the wavelets against the smooth sides of the swift quetans ; softly blew the midnigh breeze ; steadily filled the snowy sails, wafting then on towards the Isle of St. John ; above gleamed tk starry chart of the world's fate and man's destiny, an beneath their mystic influence the subtle Jesuit anc simple warrior spoke to each other of the strange ex periences of those who strive to pierce with morta vision beyond the boundaries of the other world, unti the east grew lurid with coming day, and they sailec from within the narrow Pass into the rougher water; of the Strait. The following evening found them entering the har bor of jPor^ la jfote^ where they were received witl lavish hospitality, while the news they brought causec the utmost uneasiness. Still every precaution possible was taken to save the property of the inhabitants froir the possession of the English. Effects were shippec to Acadia and New France, while others buried theii most precious movables, and av/aited the coming of the occupying force in patient resignation. The Mic macs alone, under the command of the White Bear prepared to resist and annoy the invader. His scouti watched the neighboring ocean, and his Dand awaitec impatiently the coming of the hated heretic. The Jesuit continued to dwell among them, studying theii language, noticing their customs and characters, ano pointing out to them the way to heaven through the atoning merits of yechuch-KlU,* ♦ Jesus Christ. 27 J eye that e. e smootl midnigh lin^ then ;amed tlit stiny, ant esuit anc range ex th morta orld, iinti hey sailet ler water; g the har t ived witi ht caused < possible ants from shippec ried theii )ming of The Mic ite Bear is scouts 1 awaitec ic. The hig theii J. ters, and -^ Dugh the CHAPTER IV. THE DEATH OF GUBENIG. ILEASANTLY passed the few remaining days of the beautiful month of June, and the children of Dc Courcy had become somewhat accustomed to |be strange faces of their savage hosts, while Father filbert spent his time in learning as much as he could regard to all things connected with his future large, and in preparing for the coming of the Eng- h. In the little camp all were busy preparing to |trike some fierce blow at the hated race, whose weachery they feared, and whose heresy they con- high in the still night air, or flickered as the gusts iwhich had begun to mingle with the gentle night -rnbreeze swept through the sombre branches. The esuit lighted a lamp of antique shape, and placed it n the hand of Ulalie, whom he led into the inner ircle, having first strewed on each fire handfuls of I 1 I'iii A' i ill ■■■"rf*^:. 40 TWICE TAKEN. incense and wild gums, which sent forth a thick and aromatic smoke. Ulalie gazed upward a moment. The sky, so clear a few moments ago, was now swept over by dark clouds, which by turns hid the moon entirely from view, or disclosed her looking through gloomy chasms, or rugged rifts ; yet she felt no fear ; — she was to see Cubenic once again. " Ulalie, be firm ; stir not beyond this circle ; speak not without my permission," said Du Thet ; and, holding in one hand the fatal cutlass, and in the other a small, heavily-embossed volume, he read from it, thus : — " Here, beneath the moon's pale light, While the world seeks rest in sleep, In the solemn, mystic night, We our magic ritual keep. Three yards from the north, to south, By three from the east to west, With steady hand, and silent mouth, And powerful spells, we seal and bless ; That no intelligence, howe'er Powerful, in the world unseen, Whether in hatred, love, or fear, May break this sacred ring within." Ulalie saw the triple lines of odorous smoke rising weirdly in the dim light, as the succeeding gusts rose higher and higher ; saw the clouds driving, like storm- swept barks, across an angry sea ; saw the placid moon fast becoming obscured by the gloomy banks of strangely-shaped clouds, yet felt no fear, for s/te shoiiU see Cubenic once more. The solemn silence wa^ broken by the voice of the Jesuit : — {III lij THE TWO VIGILS. 41 bick andl so clearl k clouds, view, or isms, or ls to see " 5 speak et ; and the other from it, :e rising ists rose le stornv placid ^anks of shouU ice was " By the dread virtue of that awful day When earth and sea shall render up their dead, By the fierce fires which priests and Magi say Are the doomed spirits' everlasting bed, I do command thee, spirit of the slain. To use thfcine ancient shape and speech again ! By all the yearnings of thine earthly love. By the deep silence of the mystic night, By all earth's sympathy with spheres above. By sacred cedar, incense, magic rite, Thy Christian faith, thy loyalty to France, Proved upon earth by deeds with axe and lance, — I, standing by thy wood-surrounded bier, Whereon thy body lias in burial dress, Do summon thy quick spirit to appear, On pain of endless torment and distress I Arise ! Arise ! Obey my liege commands, Or pace eternally the scorching sands ! " Then the deep voice of the exorcist was heard mut- ^ing a strange formula, in the language of the chosen rice ; and finally, at a sign, Ulalie joined Du Thet in iflirice invoking the name of the dead warrior. High jji^ove the rustle of swaying boughs and shrieking gust ^s heard the stern call of the Jesuit, " Cubenic ! )enic ! Cubenic ! Appear, I command thee ! " )urnfully swept through the glade the sweet tones his companion, as she cried, " Cubenic ! Cubenic ! ibenic ! Appear, I entreat thee ! " estrange forms, half opaque, half transparent, were iw seen to cross the glade in various directions. Gro- >que visages seemed to leer from the overhanging inches, the beasts of the woods to gather around ; id huge bats and snowy owls swept fiercely at the 43 TWICE TAKEN. iliii heads of the daring mortals, but never encroached on I the limits of the charmed circle, and the consecrated II fires. Through the glade, so quiet an hour ago, swept' wailing blasts, the cries of the panther and wolf, the mournful bark of the fox; and mingling with these || came the sharp hiss of huge serpents, which reared their supple columns on the edge of the charmed circle, -^4 but, at the sweep or thrust of the consecrated blade of the Jesuit, writhed a few seconds in seeming agony. '' and then were seen no more. After a short interval, Du Thet again invoked the unwilling spirit; again sounded the soft entreaty of the mourner, and not ini vain. Just beyond the triple columns of aromatic vapor a light began to glimmer through the smoke; at first scarcely distinguishable, it rapidly increased, imtil it seemed to illumine an oval space, whose bor-j ders were sharply defined by the dense fumes of the I incense. Within the light a form began to develop itself. At first, a plumed head-dress, then the face, the neck, the whole person. Cubenic stood again before them. Clad in the same dress so conspicuous at every gathering of state or pleasure, with his trust}! bow, keen knife, and plumed spear, stood the nephew -% of L'Our Blanc, the lover of Ulalie ; and still the same unearthly light illumined the simple bier, andj the sharp outlines of tlie face of the dead. ■ The strange sights, so numerous a few momentsl before, sank, one by one, into the recesses of the] forests, or melted away into the surrounding darkness; and the gusts subsided as the Jesuit spoke. " Spirit of the loved and lost, by the power of those I K -i THE TWO VIGILS. 43 )ccult sciences which Christian men may practise, 3y magical rites, and the sympathy of mind, which, though trammelled in us by its surrounding clay, still lath communion with the essences which have, like thine, burst the bonds of time and flesh, we have sum- loned and exorcised thee ; that, retaking thine ancient I welling, thou mayst answer to us concerning matters )f great moment to the nation, our church, and our- selves. Therefore I do permit and conjure thee to issume thine earthly body, and to address us as in life." No motion was perceivable of the lips, eyes, or form )f the apparition ; but from the place it occupied came clear and musical voice, which answered thus : — " Sage, mortal, simple maiden, the butterfly seeks |not again the chrysalis from which it came forth a [thing of beauty ; neither may aught but the power of [the Deity fit mortal clay for the residence of an im- Imortal spirit ; yet by vigil, and the chastening of tears, lyou have attained the power of seeing the form I [now bear. Question quickly — I will answer as it is [permitted." Father Gilbert spoke at first tremblingly, but gain- ling courage as he proceeded: "My church I my country! must they be driven from this broad con- Itinent?" The vision slowly answered, "It is not yet per- imitted me to foresee the future." " Hast thou aught to say of this maiden ? " ^ " Ulalie, thou lovest much, thou hast suflTered much ; all souls are not parted by death ; thou mayst again I hold converse with the spirit of Cubenic." 44 TWICE TAKEN. ili! liii il! The Jesuit again spoke, in a language unintelligible to Ulalie, who stood gazing, in glad wonder, on the | unwonted sight before her : " By all that thou hast loved on earth, that thou hopest in heaven, I conjure and command thee to summon before me the shade of thy great ancestor ! " The voice spoke in tones that seemed to die away in the distance, as the vision grew indistinct, and finally invisible : " Thou hast well demanded, bold mortal ; I give place to an intelligence mightier far than I." The oval space illumined by the hidden light ex- ? panded, and grew still more luminous ; and within its smoke-defined limits, distinguished by his almost gigantic stature, by his majestic head, whitened by the snows of a century, his regular and symmetrical features, by the broad silver medal, the gift of the grateful French settlers, stood the great magician, warrior, and statesman of the tribes of the Abe- naqui, the early convert to the Christian faith — Mam- bertou. Again a voice was heard ; but this time, in tones that, deep and stern at times, at others seemed tinged with sadness : " Thou hast called, I have obeyed. What wouldst thou with the departed?" " Mighty warrior, sage Autmoin, of the past, tell me of the future — the decrees of fate concerning French sway and Catholic faith." " Thy faith, appealing to the simple niinds of a savage but generous race, shall not perish as long as that race shall exist. Of French destiny I cannot speak clearly ; yet the star of French domain seems to THE TWO VIGILS. 45 Hgible Dn the u hast onjurc shade away t, and I, bold ^ ier far ;ht ex- within almost led by letrical of the ^ician, Abe- Mam- tones tinged 3eyed. 5t, tell srning } of a )ng as ;annot ;ms to rane, and that of the Anglasheowe to increase, throw- ig its broad rays over the New World. Yet this luch is permitted me to say — the sword may not de- Side the contest without the axe^ the spade^ and the plough." *' Shall we meet again, Mambertou? " " Thrice on earth, servant of the church : once in light ; again in the city twice taken ; lastly, when lou standest alone on earth, and thy days are num- )crcd : these arrows shall be the sign of my coming ; vhen one is missing I will be with thee. Farewell." The form vanished ; the flame-illumined oval grew )aler by degrees, and disappeared ; the triple columns )f smoke rose vertically, hiding bier and warrior with ^heir dense fumes ; the clouds grew gray, and the moon )aled as day approached, and the watchers, wan and wearied, stepped from the charmed circle, and ap- )roached the spot which the weird light had occupied. >n the breast of Cubenic lay a small casket of cedar ^ood, banded with gold, and fastened by a simple hasp. Du Thet opened it, and found within three Itiny arrows, bound closely together by a band of [parchment. The shafts were of cedar, feathered with [the plumes of the humming-bird, and tipped with ] jasper. On shaft, cincture, and barb were strange signs, which Ulalie said were the Indian characters [for Mambertou. On the under side of the lid, in the same strange [letters, were several sentences, which Ulalie declared herself unable to decipher. The Jesuit closed and secured the lid, intending to seek further information 46 TWICE TAKEN. from the elders of the tribe. After erasing the marks of the magical figure and the triple fires, they sat in \ silence by the dead, until daylight, when they were ^ relieved by the White Bear ; and returning to the little village, they slept until the hour appointed for the funeral ceremonies. 1 % I r / f „'-'^ -■f^**y. .r..^ ,.*.. ^ ,_.,,.??>■• 47 CHAPTER VI. THE BURIAL. ^ f IN all ages and climes, wherever a people has re- nounced one religious belief, and embraced an- other, however radical the change experienced, some traces of the old faith become a part of the new, or, rather, exist in spite of the overthrow of the belief from which they resulted ; and it was clearly a proof of the good judgment of Father Gilbert, and of his keen insight into the motives that swayed his savage flock, that, having said mass the day before, he al- lowed them to honor and inter the young chief as seemed good and customary to them. Shortly after sunrise the procession was formed, consisting of all the adult portion of the community, of whom each was dressed in his best, without jewels or garlands, and each warrior had erased from his war-paint every hue except black, that color, in all ages, sacred to the King of Terrors. * The bier, decked with new garlands, was raised on the shoulders of four young braves, who had taken part in the siege of Louisburg, and had fought beside him in the fatal conflict. Close behind came two captives, bearing the valuables of the dead, which consisted, for the most part, of weapons and finery. Following these walked, in couples, the old men of the 48 TWICE TAKEN. tribe, headed by L'Our Blanc and the Jesuit. After these came the remaining adults, in alternate pairs of warriors and women ; but in no case was there formed a couple from opposite sexes. Slowly moved the mournful train, singing as they went of the virtues of the deceased, of his prowess in battle, and his skill in hunting; of the loss sustained by the surviving members of the noble line of whose dynasty he wasj the last representative of his generation ; and lament- ing that, in the course of nature, the time was not farj distant when no being should exist having in his I veins the blood of Mambertou. Fitfully rose the barbaric chant, now almost exultant, as it recalled i the former triumphs of the slain ; again subsiding into grief for the generous nature and loving heart t*aken from earth forever; and anon shrieking forth the despair of the nation and the deep longings of re- venge ; ceasing only as the bier was placed by the grave, which was excavated beneath a huge maple. The dead warrior was gently lowered into the grave, shrouded only by his war-dress, and coffined in his blanket: on his hip hung the keen scalping-knife ; near the nervieless hand lay the massive war-axe ; the elastic bow, whose twang in battle had been answered by anguished cry and dying moan, rested unstrung by the case containing its swift messengers of death, never again to bring down the swift moose, never again to be heard on the battle-fields of the Abenaqui. In the same grave were placed the other valuables of the chief, and stores of food and fuel for the spirit's journey to the land of the blessed, and on the mound heaped above him, the war-spear and shield of the THE BURIAL. 49 jceased, garnished with scalps, and hung with spoils the chase, formed a fitting monument to the memory the departed. This done, the Jesuit stepped for- rard, and prayed fittingly for the repose of the soul the sleeper, and then addressed his simple auditory language well fitted to reach the hearts and affect 10 imaginations of his hearers, and calculated to )untcract any doubts existing in regard to French [ower, and its ability to regain possession of its jlinquished territories* Men of the Illenoo, warriors of the Abenaqui, lildren of Jechuch-Klit, whose messenger I am to low forth his love, and make known his goodness all seasons, and at all places that his all-seeing [nowledge may direct, I stand before you to-day to )othe your sorrow, and to bid you hope for better lings. " A chief is missing from your councils ; a warrior ;eks no longer the war-path ; a mighty hunter sleeps le sleep which ends not on earth. The true faith ^ath lost a brave advocate, the friends of the deceased kind and helping hand, his nation a future leader. 'he faces of the Abenaqui are black, and their hearts [re heavy with sorrow : the Black Robe of the Wen- looch sorrows with them, but still says. Brothers, be )f good cheer. " Brothers, when the voyagers on the rough waves )f Ec'kc'taan * see the moon depart from heaven, and Hie stars grow pale, and fade one by one into the larkness, they know that the increased gloom heralds ♦ The ocean. so TWICE TAKEN. li I i,. the coming of the glad morning ; thus shall it be witli| the night of your sorrow. ^' When the uncouth insect enshrouds its body ioi its self-made tomb, and lies inert and passive — when it no longer eats or moves, — then we know that, though | apparently dead, it will soon awake to a more etherd and beautiful existence. Thus, brothers, is it with us: thus shall it be with him whose death we mourn. " Brothers, as you already know, the Anglasheom have taken the Isles oi Baccaillos * and St. Jean, and you will soon be dispersed over this island and the adjoining shores to prepare for the coming winter, You have watched Cobeet^ as he has built his winterl habitation, and dammed the stream, shallow wim want of rain, and, the dam restraining the sparse floods, the verdure below has become parched and withered ; but the heavy showers of autumn swell the springs above, and rills join the brook from hills that were barren and dry, until it becomes a foaming torrent, that bursts its bonds and sweeps its futile barriers to the sea. Thus shall it be with the enemies! of the French king. „ " Again, when the river is bound by icy bonds, when I it must be sought for a time with difficulty, and its prison must be pierced by the axe, he who ascends it to its source finds its pure springs unchained and unceasing. Such, brothers, shall you find the bount)| of the French king. "Brothers, bear well in mind the words I have I spoken, of reason for hope of the soul's welfare, of the power and generosity of the monarch whose true| * Cape Breton. t The beaver. THE BURIAL. 5« lalUcs you are. Farewell, brothers, for I shall not Imcet you all again ; let us leave the dead with God, and let the living return with strong hearts, and steady (endeavor, to the work which Providence still assigns Ithcm." ♦ Singly and in groups the mourners left the place [of sepulture, and sought their forest dwellings, until iL'Our Blanc and the missionary remained alone by Ithc grave, talking of the events of the day, and the loccupation of the island by the English. At the Irequcst of the Jesuit, the chief appointed a messenger Iwho should convey to the French posts of Canada land St. Croix a note requesting that the Indians Ishould be regularly supplied with munitions, and Ishowing the necessity of guarding against the danger )f awaking a distrust of the power of their allies. 'his message, sent the next day, reached its destination in safety, and the munitions were received and dis- tributed by Du Thet the ensuing fall. From this subject the missionary led the chief to Ispeak of his nephew, and finally ended by asking con- Icerning the ideas held by his people regarding the jsoul. The chief spoke in his low and solemn tones to the following effect: — " Father, from the earliest ages the immortality of lan has been believed by our race, and the sages )f each tribe have handed this down through many generations. We believe that man has two souls, one )f which sleeps with the body until the resurrection, the other, freed from the bonds of the flesh, and taking the weapons and food provided, starts on the 4 s» TWICE TAKEN. long journey which lies between us and the happy hunting-grounds allotted to the brave and good, Long is the road, and full of trials; the shades of fierce animals seek to terrify and devour ; shadowy rivers must be forded ; unsubstantial mountains be ascended; slender bridges, as narrow as the runners of the strawberry, be trod, over fearful torrents, amid incon- ceivable tempests. Woe to the soul stained with crime, and appalled by the pangs of conscience and the consciousness of guilt. Such may not conquer the difficulties that lie between them and bliss, but wander ceaselessly, or are consigned to unending torments in the realms of woe, the depths of Mundoo-a-ke" * " Is not such the still prevailing belief ? '* asked Du Thet. " Yes, father ; but modified in many respects, es- pecially in regard to the souls of animals, which were once believed to be immortal also." *' Does the spirit ever return to earth? What think your people in this respect, L'Our Blanc?" " The Black Robe asks something hard to explain, and seen by the sagest of men but dimly, as we saw i the English war-ships through the dense mists. Still the White Bear will strive to explain it to his father. Look at the ties which bind the souls of men to this beautiful earth : is it not natural that we should believe | that spirits should desire to revisit their earthly dwell- ing-place ? But strong must be the cause that draweth back from the realms of bliss a soul which hath once| performed the weary journey." "Of what nature, then, are the spirits which arej ♦ The Indian hell. THE BURIAL. 53 believed to have the power of disclosing themselves to mortal vision?" asked the Jesuit. " Such as still wander over the shadowy realms of space, whose journey is not completed ; those who expiate a life of wickedness under the gloomy reign of Mundoo; * such as have been murdered, whose blood is not yet avenged ; and the spirits of good men drawn from their life of bliss above to save or serve tlie faith and country to which they devoted them- selves on earth. Yet to some of our sages of the past all spirits were accessible in Mundoo-a-ke^ or Wasook^X Puctow § or Saboghwan" || " Has no tradition handed down the means they employed, the arts they exercised?" inquired Du Thet. " It is not clearly known now, for many moons have passed since such ceremonies have been per- formed among us, and the source is now unknown through which the spirits spake to our fathers." The Jesuit had described, on a piece of bark, the characters engraved on the lid of the casket so mys- teriously placed in his possession. " Can my brother read this?" he inquired. The chief started with an exclamation of surprise, as he saw the ancient characters, and after studying them intently for some time, slowly read as follows : — " The strong will readeth the fates through the will that is weak. " The concentrated glance may kill — can part the soul from its house of clay. * The devil. f Hell. J Heaven. § Fire. 1| Water. 54 TWICE TAKEN. i't i II " May dismiss it to bring back tidings from Mundoo- a-ke and Wasook, *' Let sages read and ponder, discern and use, but abuse not." The chieftain would have asked concerning the source from whence the Jesuit had obtained his knowledge of the ancient symbols of his tongue, and the meaning of the legend he had interpreted ; but a sign from the priest warned him that it would be use- less to question, and they walked homeward in silence. The next day the camp broke up, and the mis- sionary accompanied the chief and his band in their wanderings over the island, in search of game and fish, during the remainder of the summer season ; and the orphans, under the care of Ulalie, improved wonderfully, and seemed to feel no fear of their savage protectors, until the winter drew near and the tribe were again united in their winter quarters at Port la Joie. Here, in due season, arrived a small shallop from Montreal, with the supplies requested by Du Thet. The boxes were landed and placed in the hands of L'Oiir Blanc for safe keeping, a packet of letters for Du Thet delivered, and the captain, fearing pursuit by some English cruiser or Provincial letter of marque, hoisted his sails, and the missionary was again left to the solitude of savage life. The guns, knives, axes, ^eads, powder, bullets, and other presents were distributed impartially among the warriors, and Father Gilbert addressed them, with more than usual fluency, on the subjects which the gifts suggested, viz., the liberality of the French mon- THE BURIAL. 55 arch, and the return due him, which could only be paid in increased activity in annoying and de- stroying the English and their settlements. But the increasing cold warned them that it was too late to attempt anything that year, and therefore all turned their attention to preparation for the com- ing winter. The slight lodges of summer were ex- changed for the warmer wigwams, whose stout poles and heavy covering should defy the blasts and frosts. The hunters brought in hundreds of geese and ducks, and the moose, and bear, yielded up their warm furs, and nourishing flesh, to their untiring enemies. And soon the da3?s grew short, the snow covered the dead vegetation with its pure mantle, the frozen waters of river, lake, and brook afforded a safe and level road, the waters of the strait were bound in icy fetters, and winter reigned supreme. ',' i i^f- '.'"if ■ ■>•-'■: Jiiiiih iP 111 56 CHAPTER VII. WINTER IN CAMP. ALTHOUGH the intense cold and fierce snow- storms forbade any attempt to invade the Eng- lish settlements on the neighboring shores, and the studies he delighted in could no longer be prosecuted, still the Jesuit was far from being unemployed. A member, as it were, of the chieftain's household, he studied intently the language and customs of the tribe, and the personal characteristics of its members. Lis- tening interestedly alike to the traditions of the sages and the legends of the maidens, to the lore of the war- chief and the prattle of children, he won the hearts of all ; and his simple flock looked up to him with love for his kindly manner, and veneration for his office. A skilful botanist, he had gathered, from the woods and fields, remedies which relieved the sick and soothed the wounded ; and this knowledge he freely imparted to all. In like manner he taught many of the warriors to form various weapons and utensils from the iron taken from stranded vessels, and even to convert them into steel ; while the women rejoiced in the brighter colors which he enabled them to give to the plumes of the war-eagle and the quills of the porcupine. The twins, under the care of Ulalie, grew rapidly, II WINTER IN CAMP. 57 and spoke with equal fluency their mother tongue and the soft gutturals of the Micmac dialect. The favorites of the village, they were welcomed to every cabin, but lived for the most part in that of L'Our Blanc. Let us visit them there, gentle reader. It is a cold, gusty day ; the light, dry snow sweeps in suffocating clouds over the frozen harbor, enveloping objects a few scores of yards distant in impenetrable obscurity ; but the Indians have provided against the dangers of straying, and a line of young firs set in the ice indicate the way to the forest encampment. On the beach under the low clifls of red sandstone lie the birch canoes, sheltered from the drifts which cover them by a hurdle of branches ; and stepping up the cliOs, a narrow path is found leading into the dense and primeval forests. Following its intricate wind- ings through glades of evergreens loaded with snow, whose icy foliage seems heavy with ermine and dia- monds ; past huge beeches, from whose mail-clad limbs the blue jay screams as he notes the approach of man ; through copses of hazel and young maples, scaring the partridges from their meagre winter diet of buds and pine-seeds, — we at last come to a small grove of maples, whose huge trunks are surrounded by a dense under- growth of young firs ; and, sheltered by these from the cold north wind, before us lies the Indian village, con- sisting of some twenty huts. The dwelling of L'Our Blanc stands in the centre. It is square at the base (unlike the airy summer lodges), and the poles of the frame are stout and nu- merous. The bark, chosen with care, and sewed together with the roots of the hacmatac, reaches nearly hlii' S8 TWICE TAKEN. \ to the top, leaving a small orifice for the escape of the smoke. Outside of this, a layer of the flat twigs of the fir, several inches in depth, and kept in place by heavy poles, forms a wall impervious to cold or rain. A heavy bear-skin serves as a door. Let us enter. Within, a couch of soft fir twigs (whose loose ends are confined by a flexible pole fastened down by wobcl- en staples) extends around three sides of the cabin. On ' ground in the centre burns a small fire, part c" whose smoke finds its way to the sky above by means of the orifice at the top, while the remainder mingles with the purer air, respired by the inmates of the wigwam. On the left, as we enter, are seated the children and their nurse Ulalie, on the right JVuspem, the wife of L'Our Blanc, and at the end opposite the door — "the best room," the "seat of honor" — are L'Our Blanc, the Jesuit, and Loup Cervier, a visitor from a village on the opposite side of the harbor, and a noted warrior. At the feet of each lies a small bundle of old iron — bolts worn to half their original size by the sharp teeth of the corroding waves, hoops from drifting casks, and nails drawn from fragments of sea-worn wrecks. An axe-head driven firmly into a heavy block serves as anvil, and with their hatchets they shape into arrow- heads the metal softened in the fire of seasoned maple ; and as the barbs take shape and polish, they plan ex- peditions against the heretic, and recount the deeds of the past. Wuspem (the summer-lake) sits silently listening to the conversation of the men, and fastening the feathers of the war-eagle to the slender shafts of ash. \ WINTER IN CAMP. 59 A loose skirt of heavy blue cloth reaches from the waist to the knee ; and leggings and moccasons, heavily embroidered with gaudy beads and quills of the por- cupine, complete the costume, for the warmth has caused her to lay aside her heavy mantle of rich beaver. Ulalie is busily dividing the sinews of the bear and deer into threads. Rosalie occupies her lap, while Hubert plays with a tiny bow and arrows. As the afternoon wears away, the wind rises and penetrates even the dense growth that surrounds their dwelling ; the driving snow obscures the vision, drifts up the path, and sifts in at the entrance ; the gusts moan and roar by turns as the trees rock and bend be- fore their fierce assaults ; the shadows of night add new horrors to the storm, and the inmates of the Ouagan * lay aside their labors, and sit listening to the fury of the storm. The simple meal of dried venison has been eaten, and, as Loup Cervier rises as if to depart, the lodge is heavily shaken by a gust that moans and whistles through the trees, and then is lost in the roar of those that succeed it. "Let Loup Cervier remain," said the chief; "the storm spirits are abroad in anger to-night." Loup Cervier said, as he slowly seated himself, " How the cold icebergs and cruel waves will heave and seethe around the Isle of Gou-Gou to-night ! She will go hungry, however, for the sea bears no canoe at this season." " Of what do my brothers speak ? " asked Du Thet. ♦ Wigwam. 66 TWICE TAKEN. The Indians spoke among themselves in low, myste- rious whispers for several moments, as if unwilling to comply ; but at last Loup Cervier spoke thus : — " Let the Black Robe listen to a tale, which even now causes the hearts of warriors to feel the unwonted sensation of fear — a tradition of the long-ago, a legend of the tribes of the Abenaqui. Many generations have passed away since the tribes of the Souriquois * met together to carry fire and axe into the lands of the far- oft' Esquimaux, under the leadership of our great Saga- mo Mambertou. The French settlers saw with alarm the huge fleet, the fortified villages, and thousands of braves prepared for the war-path ; for then our num- bers were as the leaves of the forest. After a few days of preparation and sacrifice, the warriors set out on their perilous journey ; and ever their sharp prows held their way to the north-east, past bay and river, portage and gulf, reef and headland, until they all assembled on the Isle of Natiscotek.^ Thence, crossing to the main land, they fell like panthers upon the villages of the Innuit: scores of scalps loaded the belts of the warriors, and their canoes, laden with spoils and cap- tives, turned homeward in triumph. Among the Mic- macs none had borne a more distinguished part than Kchi Cobeet^ The Great Beaver, whose blood flows in the veins of Loup Cervier, and who was second in command to Mambertou. The love that existed be- tween them was unbroken by jealousy, and often by turns they had rescued each other from the breaking ♦ The Indians of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick were once so called, t Anticosti. ^ WINTER IN CAMP. 6x ice, the yawning waves, and the perils of the chase and the war-path. " For several days the wind had been fair, and the sea as smooth as a summer lake ; the fleet had swept past Gachepe, and were crossing the bay to the south, when a sudden storm arose. Dense clouds obscured the sun; huge banks of mist drove over the waters, at times hiding one canoe from another ; for several hours the fleet swept onward with fearful rapidity ; but no accident had occurred, and through the fog they caught glimpses of a small island, behind which they might land in safety ; and shouts of joy and words of encouragement were exchanged, when suddenly a sound, grand even in its threatening, rose high above the howling of the storm and the roar of the breakers. "A captive, who had been adopted into the tribe with fear in every word, and horror in every feature, called aloud that all was lost ; but his further words were un- heard, for the receding mists disclosed a spectacle which enchained the senses, while it benumbed the spectator with mortal fear. " In the direction of the desired haven, dimly seen through the mists, towering above the angry waves, as a pine towers above the hazels, with the foaming break- ers lashing its white waist, stood a majestic and awful being. The massive frame, the tower-like neck and white arms, the long tresses of jetty hair, the face, beau- tiful even in its terrible anger, were those of a woman, and some said that huge sea monsters played around her. And still, as the sea swept her gleaming sides, and the tempest brought the doomed canoes nearer, the song of her anger rose higher, drowning the roar of 63 TWICE TAKEN. the warring elements. Still the canoes swept towards her ; and, as the first upset in the breakers, the terrible beauty snatched its occupants from the waves, but not to save, for they were seen no more on earth. Some seized their trusty bows ; but the arrows fell harmlessly from her mountainous sides, and the canoes of Mam- bertou and the Great Beaver swept side by side for the last time within a score of yards of the monster whose form was momentarily hidden by the fog. On drove the canoes ; but just as Mambertou began to believe the danger past, he saw the flash of a huge white hand, which overturned the canoe of his friend, and he be- came senseless. When he came to himself, he lay by a fire on the main land, with a clear sky above, and the sea calm and motionless at his feet. Diligently he searched, by shore and reef, for the friend of his j^outh and the companion of his wanderings ; but a shattered paddle and a broken bow alone remained to tell the fate of the Great Beaver and his unfortunate com- panions." The warrior finished his tale, and after a few mo- ments of silent thought laid himself down to rest, and soon his listeners followed his example ; but many times during the night the howling of the storm called to the mind of the Jesuit the weird tale of Loup Cer- vier, and the terrible chant of the Indian Siren, as the green waves rocked the crashing icebergs around the Isle of Gougou. 63 CHAPTER VIII. LA CHASSE. WHEN the Jesuit awoke the next morning, he found his host busily preparing his weapons, and learned that the sudden snow-storm had been succeeded by as sudden a thaw, and that the warriors of the tribe were about to set out on a hunting expe- dition along the coast. He accordingly loaded his carbine, placed knife and pistols in his belt, ate his breakfast of dried venison, and awaited the gathering hunters. In a short time these had assembled, to the number of some two score, accompanied by as many dogs ; but these, at the word of the chief, were sent back, with the exception of his own dog Wa-abe ("Whity"), and several others equally stanch and well trained. The wind during the night had veered to the south- west, and now its warm breath was rapidly melting the snow wreaths from evergreen and maple, and the drifts from fallen log and sandstone ledge, while the snow covering of the harbor ice became discolored here and there, showing the presence of the gathering waters below. As the hunters proceeded, they began to search the snow for the tracks of game. At first, nothing pre- sented itself but the delicate imprints of the squirrels, 64 TWICE TAKEN. i;!l,4l i '111 which chattered shrilly at the intruders between the intervals devoted to their repast of pine cones, or the parallel tracks left by the velvet-shod hare, as he noise- lessly sought his feast of juicy buds. To these the warrior paid no attention ; but the boys, with their small bows, crimsoned the snowy fur of the hare with his life-blood : nor was his lofty perch and leafy screen any protection to the hapless squirrel. Soon the rain fell, and each warrior covered bow string and musket lock with the fold of his heavy blanket, while the chief informed Du Thet that such weather was most favorable ; at which announcement the missionary wondered, but patiently awaited the solution of the mystery. Soon an exclamation of gratification was heard and repeated along the line, and L'Our Blanc signified that the trail of several foxes had been found. " Surely he will now put his dogs upon the trail," thought Du Thet, as he called to mind the gay hunting parties and musical hounds of Chantilly and Sens, in dear old France ; but they were carefully called in, and half a dozen hunters followed the tracks, which converged until they entered a small thicket, which was instantly surrounded. Loup Cer- vier entered, and several foxes sprang forth, only to be speared or knocked on the head, while the warrior brought out a magnificent black fox, limp and lifeless, struck down as it emerged from the hollow log in which they had sought shelter from the rain, which would otherwise have left their plume-like tails and long, warm fur a wet and unsightly mass. Securing the skins to a high branch, they rejoined the main party, who were approaching the coast on the track J,* LA CHASSE. 6s of a white bear, whose plantigrade feet left impressions strikingly similar to tliose of the human foot. Follow- ing the trail, they soon reached the bluffs, from which L'Our Blanc peered cautiously down, and then beck- oned to Du Thet to draw near and view the scene which presented itself. From west to south all was ice — ice in level ex- panses of miles in length and breadth ; ice in broken fragments and heavy pyramids ; ice in fanciful mounds and glittering pinnacles. Still here and there a small spot of steely blue appeared, the haunts of the walrus and sea wolf. At a short distance from the land ice lay one of these pools, and on the ice near it dozed a huge seal. Du Thet threw his carbine to his shoul- der, but the chief restrained him. ** See ! we shall get both," said he, pointing to an object which, until then, the Jesuit had failed to distinguish from the surround- ing hummocks, but which he now saw was the bear, which, in his earnest pursuit of the seal, little suspected the interesi excited by his own movements. Now moving cautiously but quickly on the floes to some sheltering hummock, picking his way across the float- ing fragments which skirted the ice-foot, or rolling himself into a huge white ball when the wary seal turned his half- shut eyes landward, he at last attained a position from whence a single bound would precip- itate him upon his unsuspecting prey. Gathering himself for the effort, he sprang; and scarcely were his fangs fastened in the throat of the sea wolf, than the ice gave way, and both disappeared beneath the surface. A death struggle took place in the pool, which was lashed into foam as the combat- f mrnr 66 TWICE TAKEN. ants writhed beneath its surface ; but soon the foam grew red, and the bear came up to the light, dragging the huge carcass of the dead sea wolf, which he drew across the ice-foot to the beach beneath the bluff'. "Let my brother fire," said the taciturn chief; and Du Thet threw his carbine to his shoulder and aimed between the fiery eyes, which glared angrily at the un- expected intruder. The carbine rang, the huge mon- ster fell by the side of its victim, and the hunters, with yells of triumph, poured down the cliff' in eager race, followed by Du Thet with unloaded musket — a neg- lect nearly fatal. For, as the foremost approached, the bear, which had only been stunned by the bullet, rose to its feet and charged upon them, and, as the agile savages evaded him, held his way up the bluff*, until the aston- ished Jesuit saw his terrible foe almost within sword's length of him. Throwing down his gun, he turned and fled ; but even as he fled felt that flight was use- less, as the fiery breath of the monster fanned his cheek, and the rattle of the terrible claws sounded nearer on the icy ledge. But help was near ; for the Indian dogs, cheered on by L'Our Blanc, fell fiercely upon the haunches of the bear, and drew his attention to them- selves, as the Jesuit fell, exhausted and despairing; the keen points of a score of spears and arrows clashed in the sides and throat of the bear, and he fell motion- less, with the fierce light fading from his glassy eyes, as the hot foam congealed on his livid jaws. With a silent prayer of heartfelt gratitude, the Jesuit rose and went forward with the hunters. It were long to tell too minutely how they pierced the bounding LA CIIASSE. 67 caribou with swift arrows, or slew the stately moose, wearied by his heavy gallop through the drifts, whose icy crust gave way beneath his bounds and lacerated his limbs, or how others slew the beaver in his bat- tered fortress, and the musquash in his pond-surround- ed abode. The hunters have passed away, and the moose, the caribou, and beaver live only in the legends of the past; and although the black bear still prowls at night around the fold of the backwoodsman, his fiercer cousin has gone northward, to the wilds of Anticosti and Labrador. Unconscious of the changes which a century was to make in the numbers of their race and the denizens of their island, the hunters returned joyfully to camp, laden with venison and furs, and a grand feast in the lodge of L'Our Blanc finished the day's hunt. Huge joints and choice morsels disappeared as if by magic, and at the close of the feast many were the compli- mentary orations and wondrous stories. Many were the recitals of brave deeds done by those present and by the ancestors of the chief in the long-ago, on the stormy rocks of Labrador, the lonely isle of Natiskotek and " the country of the little dog," Mass edzick^''^ the land of great mountains." Few of my readers in these f'* nge names of the geography of an almost extinct race will recognize the modern names of Anticosti and Massachusetts. On awakening next morning, the missionary found that the fatigues of the preceding day had been too much for him ; and for several days he was confined to his wigwam, carefully nursed by Wuspem and Ulalie. 5 ''I' !!'■ ■■.'.! 11 68 mi i;: inifi;! • I ' : " i-iii':::!!! CHAPTER IX. JEAN DUREL. — SLEEP-WAKING. ON the third day, as Du Thet was lying on the deer-skins, that served him as couch and cover- ing, he heard some one in conversation with the chief, who soon entered, followed by a man, the lineaments of whose features bespoke European ancestry, though their dark hue and the savage cut of his garments told of habits assimilating to those of the Abenaqui. He was tall and powerful, clad in deer-skin leggings and hunting-shirt, both profusely fringed with the same material, but a heavy coat of homespun, with cufl's and collar of rich beaver, replaced the Indian Bia- keet^* or Petu-gan-oson, In a broad belt at his waist liung hatchet, Waghon^^ the ornamented hilt of the latter resting on his left hip ; but he carried a heavy musket, and the shining butt of a pistol protruded from its holster by the side of his knife. Crimped moccasons of sea^ -skin completed his outre costume. Even his speech partook of this semi-savage nature, as he became garrulous and taciturn, imaginative and matter-of-fact, by turns. The skilful hands of Wuspem soon prepared some food, of which he ate voraciously, while the inmates of the lodge remained silent until his meal was finished ; * Blanket. t Knife. t'^.\j: .i.,*"-'-v>-t--: -.^ JEAN DUREL. — SLEEP-WAKING. 69 then, filling his pipe, he watched the smoke curling lazily upward for a moment, and then, turning to L'Our Blanc, remarked, — " The Sea Gull has eaten and is refreshed. Has the White Bear anything to ask of him?" '^ Where has my brother made his nest for the long winter months, and why comes he hither? " '' When the snows are deep and the ocean is white with snow and ice, the braves mend their arms, and the chiefs take thought for future forays, and trace out the direction of the war-path and the course of the war-canoe." " It is well : my brother is welcome ; let him speak with the Black Robe, who is eager to speak with one of his own race ; " and the trapper, or rather voya- gcur^ — for he combined the qualities and professions of hunter and fisherman, — turned to the Jesuit. " I am both glad and surprised to find you, for I had no idea that a priest remained within a hundred leagues of here." " And I am equally glad and surprised to find that I am not the only European upon the island. Have you any companions? " " There are many such, who, like me, took to their boats, or in nitricate creeks or leafy thickets eluded the accursed heretics, and whose huts now stand by the ponds of St. Pierre, the sand dunes of Tracadie, and the wild haven of Kaskambec." "What name have you? and why did you speak of yourself as the Sea Gull?" asked Du Thet. The voyageur answered, " By our people I am called Jean Durel, Le Pecheur, but by the lUenoo the \\m I mm ill ip- :!illll! ijiijjj! 70 TWICE TAKEN. Sea Gull, for I dwelt mostly upon the sea, living by the fishery and the spoils of the English ; but since last summer I have dwelt with my wife and little ones about eight leagues to the eastward." " You spoke to the chief of some plan you had in prospect of foraging against the settlements of the English — did you not? " " Yes, your reverence ; and if the chief will accom- pany myself and my three sons, it will go hard if we do not fill the old shallop and our ammunition pouches with the spoils of the Anglasheowe* What says the White Bear?" " L'Our Blanc will be ready with four of his war- riors, who will be glad to accompany the Sea Gull in his flight, and to share with him the prey that never escapes him." " Such an enterprise," suddenly exclaimed the Jesu't, " is laudable, and generally worthy of you both ; but I am sure that y^u will abandon it when I tell you that greater honors and richer spoils await you. I may not now tell you even what little I know ; but when the summer begins we must meet here with boat and '' quetan," with pa-as-cowee * and majoctalegan^* for we must not be absent when the soldiers of the great king, and the braves of the Abenaqui, gather and sweep the hated and accursed English from the continent." " When the waves of the strait gleam unfettered in the sunlight, and the brant grow heavy with fatness, and prepare to seek the northern coasts, then the Sea Gull will fold his wings and rest on the waves of the * Gun and arrow. JEAN DUREL. — SLEEP- WAKING. 71 river of the north-east, ready for sea or wood path, flight or pursuit, feast or battle." " And the claws of the White Bear will be sharp, and his teeth ready for banquet. L'Our Blanc is eager once more to cry forth the war-whoop of his race, and to lead his braves to the attack." After a few more remarks the conversation flagged, and Durel dropped asleep, fatigued by his long march, and, on his awakening the next morning, set out on his return, promising to meet them at the time and place appointed. For several days after, the hours passed wearily with the sick missionary, who spent his time for the most part in bringing to mind the scenes of his past life, and in laying plans for the future ; but at last he turned his thoughts to the study of those around him, and especially to Ulalie. For several weeks the Jesuit had noticed a change in her manner, which had lost its former cheerfulness, and had assumed an abstraction and melancholy that at times raised doubts regarding her sanity. Often she sat with eyes half shut, or fixed on vacancy, silent for the most part, but sometimes moving her lips as if in conversation with some unseen personage ; and when her words were audible, the name of her lost lover seemed to be often repeated. One day, as he sat musing over the lore of the mid- dle ages, and the history of the oracles of Greece and Italy, he was tempted to test the case before him, and to see if similar results were not obtainable, by the power of a will acting upon a mind less powerful. To his great surprise, after several trials he found that he d ^ . ki i.kl^l^ lK. HMMaiMi^ 72 TWICE TAKEN. I Sill possessed the power of producing this somnambulistic state at pleasure, and that, while under its influence, she was entirely at his control, although all attempt to obtain knowledge of the future met with ill success, for she replied with broken sentences, or said that si: did not know. But at last, one day, noticing that she was assuming the dreamy expression that characterizes the incep- tion of the mesmeric state, he concentrated his will upon her, and after a few moments bade her come to him. She obeyed. " What does my father wish ? " she feebly mur- mured. " To learn the future," he answered. " Look for- ward. Pythoness of the New World, to the things that are to come. Rend the dark veil from the face of Destiny. Tell me the future of my race, the fate of my nation's counsels : what seest thou, Ulalie?" The maiden stood at first with bowed head and dreamy attitude ; but as the words of the priest rose higher and more entreatingly, she seemed to arouse herself, and stood with foot advanced and face bending eagerly forward, as if striving to penetrate some deep obscurity. She spoke at first hesitatingly, then more boldly, and finally in a dejected tone. " I see thick volumes of rising vapors, as on the night when Ulalie saw spirits enshrined in flame, and departed warriors in the garb they wore on earth. The vapor is broken by a faint ray, that widens and grows in glory, and within its smoke-defined halo Cubenic arises as in life, and smiles upon unhappy Ulalie ; and thus he answers the demands of the will that controls my being : ' To '^,'ZV.'''^" ' !■ > - ^'"•"v. 1 JEAN DUREL. — SLEEP-WAKING. 73 thee, servant of the church, is still vouchsafed the answer on which hinges the dominion of thy race on this con- tinent — an answer whose meaning lies hidden within it, as the fire sleeps in the cold malse: * " The sword may not decide without the hoe, the axe, and plough." The voice is silent, the vision fades ; but instead I hear the sweep of angry waves and winds, and the sullen roar of guns from storm-driven barks, which bear on their swaying spars the banner of the great king. I see them driven widely apart or ii?gulfed in the waves. And now the scene changes, and I see a quiet haven with the remnant of the sea-worn fleet within its hill- surrounded basin, and by its waters stand the wig- wams of the Abenaqui, and tents of the Wennooch like drifts on the frozen strait for number. I see the gleam of arms, and the forms of many braves, whose hearts are eager for war ; but the pestilence hovers above them, and the air is heavy with death. The charm of the Autmoin avails not, and the remedies of the French are in vain ; for the Wennooch sleep far from their kindred, and the strength of the Abenaqui is broken forever. The great chief of the Wennooch, too, falls by violence, and not in battle." Here her excitement became so intense that the missionary hastened to awake her, which he easily accom- plished, and found that she had no rec^ollection of what she had said or seen in her involuntary sleep ; but for many days after, the Jesuit pondered over the weird vision and the hidden meaning of the twice- repeated prophecy. Still, in spite of his forebodings of evil fortune, he relaxed not his efforts, but rather \\ %.t 1. i I ;',K ■'\ i i * Flint. r-' I! Ilt!iil!i 74 TWICE TAKEN. worked with renewed vigor in preparing his savage allies for the coming campaign ; and still later he sat with the warriors over the fires of maple, forging from rusty bolts and sea-gnawn spikes barbs for the swift arrow and deadly lance, or the wedge-like point of the casse-tHe^* while the old men told weird legends and stormy traditions of the heroes that were ; for with them, as with more civilized nations, the bravest and best are never among the living, but " lived long ago. » And as the days flew by, his weakness left him, and he joined again in the pleasures of his host, now spearing fish through openings in the harbor ice, or drawing the speckled trout from frozen rivers, batter- ing the winter castle of the sagacious beaver, or the isolated mounds of mud and grass m which the musk- rat spends his long nap ; or, again, hunting the state- ly moose and ferocious bear, and more rarely engaged in desperate strife with huge sea wolf, or tusky walrus on the treacherous sea ice. Thus passed the winter, until the cutting north wind gave place to a breeze from the balmy south, and the sun rose higher in the heavens, melting the snovv- wi'eaths from evergreen and beech, and wasting the drifts from path and ledge, while the half-melted snow covered the wave-worn surface and treacherous air- holes of the harbor ice. Until the hunters built their ice huts on the floe- covered points near the first ice openings, and from their shelter shot ill-fated Senunk \ as he headed his weary phalanx, seeking food and rest from their long * War-club. t The wild goose. ■Hi JEAN DUREL. — SLEEP-WAKING. IS journey, or the chattering brant as they swept and wheeled over the coveted feeding-grounds, while ducks of many species darkened the waters and sky with their myriads, and filled the camp of the Illenoo with food. Until massy floe and ciystal berg ceased to come and go with the dark tide into which they had sunk at last, and the dusky red of the clifls was unbroken by glistening drifts, while the woods were fragrant with bursting buds and vocal with the love notes of returning birds. Anu again weapons were mended and sharpened, and each long-neglected queta7t taken from its winter covering and closely examined ; worn or broken ribs replaced, unstitched fastenings repaired with tough fibres of the hacmatac, the cracked gum removed, and new melted and applied, and paddles and sails prepared for use ; for many leagues of rough sea and rocky coast lay between them and their destination. A new canoe was added to the fleet, — the work of L'Our Blanc, — full twenty feet in length, wide in the waist, full-ribbed, sharp at stem and stern, covered with unbroken bark from an enormous birch, and engirdled with figurcs curiously embroidered with quills of the porcupine variously colored. And now all was ready, and they waited only for the coming of the directions of the French leader and Jean Durel. h u \ 76 CHAPTER X. THE COUNCIL. NOR did they long await either, for when the glades were white with strawberry blossoms, and the brant grew heavy with fatness, loath to rise from their feeding-grounds, in the sunny month of June, the white sails of the Sea Gull flitted in between the red cliffs at the harbor's mouth, and glided beneath the guidance of Durcl to her anchorage in front of the picturesque summer encampment. On the deck stood the wife of Durel, and his three tall sons, clad, like their father, in the spoils of the chase, and armed with knife and rifle. Their bark was a large fishing-boat, such as may still be seen among the Acadians of the Gulf, about twenty- five feet long, with full bows, sharp stern, and carrying a mainsail, a foresail, and jib. She was half decked forward, forming a small cabin, in which her crew could take shelter from cold and wet. Of course she carried all the worldly goods of the Durels, which comprised little beyond furs and peltries, and the flax- wheel of Madame Durel. A few days passed and a canoe arrived from the main land, bringing despatches from M. De Ramsay, who was then leading a force of hunters and Indians into Nova Scotia. The bearer, a tall coureur du bois^ " . r- F-'fr-wwr'^t^ fw.<. •', ?j~\'r THE COUNCIL. 77 sprang from his canoe, and was met by Du Thct, who opened the missive, while the chief ordered that the messenger should be cared for, and then hastened to summon his braves to the Fire of the Council. One by one they gathered, and sat down on the green turf beneath a huge maple, which was sur- rounded by sombre pines. In their midst the mystical fire was kindled by an aged warrior, and as the sun declined in the west, and the shadows began to deepen, its red glare lighted up the space around it, gleaming on glittering axe and keen cassc-tete^ brazen buckle and medal of silver, giving to view some youthful form resplendent with beaded belt and plumy coronet, or lending a fiercer, craftier expression to the faces of those whose thick war-paint could not conceal the scars of by-gone battles. For there were those pres- ent who had fought the English rangers on the woody banks of the Kennebebi ; had driven the trembling settlers to the block-houses of Annapolis for shelter ; had spoiled the villages of the seal-fed Esquimaux, and seen the ramparts of Louisburg crumble beneath the cannon of Pepperell and Warren. And as they sat in patient silence, they thought ex- ultantly of the deeds of the past, and longed again to tread the war-path, again to poise the deadly rifle, and oppose the keen axe to the bayonet of the heretic. And the young warrior thought of his future glory, of the loved eyes that would fill with tears at his depart- ure, and beam with joy and pride at his return ; and in fancy he became a chief, and led his tribe to battle, his voice powerful in council, his wigwam filled with the spoils of the English and the gifts of the great ! 11 [M t 78 TWICE TAKEN. king. But neither saw above them the shadowy wings of the destroyer, whose prowess was to hiy the veteran low, whose stern hand should still the yearn- ings of a young and ardent ambition. At last the chief, accompanied by Du Thet, took his place in the circle. He spoke as follows : " Warriors, the arm of the White Bear is strong to do ; but his brother, the Black Robe, excels him in council : from him you will hear the wishes of our father, the great king." Du Thet addressed them thus : " Braves of the Abenaqui, the frozen river has burst its bonds above, the rivulet has been swollen by the bounteous rains, and their feeble barriers scarcely resist the torrent which will soon sweep them in ruin to the sea. For the fleet of my master is sweeping the ocean in strength unknown before ; its masts are as the trees of the forest, and the armies it bears as the leaves for number. " Again, as of yore, 3'ou shall sleep beneath the battlements of Louisburg, and ply the paddle along the calm waters of the Bras d'Or ; again you shall tread the fields of Port Royal, and, fearless of English cannon, bend in reverence over the graves of your fathers, and listen to the sighing of the river, as it lingers by the tomb of Mambertou. " But now there are many waters to be crossed, many leagues of rocky coast to be passed, ere we land in the quiet haven of Chebucto. Let all things be ready ere the moon rises, for to-morrow evening must find us camping by the Pass de Fronsac." Soon all was bustle and hurry, as the camps were taken to pieces, and their covering of bark rolled up THE COUNXIL. 79 and placed, with the other baggage, in the canoes which lav ready to receive their crews, when the signal for embarkation should be given. Qiiickly the canoes were loaded, and occupied by their crews, and as Du Thet followed his proteges^ the children of De Courcy, on board the Sea Gull, her an- chor was taken aboard, her sails given to the breeze, and followed by the white-winged canoes, she glided from the sliatlow of the sombre firs into the moonlit channel, and held her way past point and headland, disiirmed fortress and deserted village, to the waters of the open strait. All night long, under the mild summer moon, the litdc fleet held their way to the south-east, and the next day found them running down the coast of Nova Sco- tia, beneath the high bluffs of Cape St. George ; and the wind still continuing favorable, they landed, late in the afternoon, on the left shore of the entrance of the Pass de Fronsac, or Strait of Canseau. The voyagers, cramped by so long a confinement in the narrow lim- its of their canoes, soon restored the circulation of their blood by exercise, and, after a hearty meal, were glad to secure a good night's rest. It would require too much space to detail the events of their voyage, or to describe all the varied scenes through which they passed ; and yet the Strait of Canseau is deserving of more than passing notice. The voyager of the present day passes through a narrow arm of the sea, about fifteen miles of which is only some two miles in width, and on either side are little villages and hamlets, rustic bridges spanning moun- tain brooks, and here and there a wooded steep or 8o TWICE TAKEN. placid lake. Tlicn the primeval forest reached the water's edge ; the moose and caribou fed on its banks, and nought told of civilization, save an occasional fishing village, with its garrisoned block-house. Of course these last were avoided by the little flotilla. Again they entered the open sea, and for several days and nights voyaged past the iron-bound coast of Acadia ; now sailing with favoring breezes, again trusting to oar and paddle ; resting at night on the shore of some little cove, with their canoes drawn up by their camp fires, which grew dull and flared wild- ly by turns, as the night breezes stirred the leaves of the whispering firs above them. At times, too, a sail would gleam into view, far out to seaward ; and once they narrowly escaped capture, by a provincial galley, by taking refuge in a tortuous channel, where the boats of the galley dared aot face the rifles of the ambushed warriors. They landed, however, pitched their camps, and for weeks hunted and fished in the surrounding forests and waters, while their scouts on the headland, for leagues up and down the coast, watched unceasingly for the sails of D'Anville, who still came not. Once, indeed, one of these scouts discovered a small fleet bearing the French flag, and great rejoicing filled the little encampment ; but Durel, on communicating with its commander, M. Conflans, found that he had sailed, over two months before, with the fleet from France, but had been detached to convoy a fleet to Jamaica, with orders to sail from thence to Nova Scotia, and cruise up and down the coast three weeks. If he heard nothing from the main fleet in that time, he was to THE COUNCIL. Si return to France. " Half the prescribed time," he added, " had ah'eady chipsed, and on its completion he should of course return home." This news, and the final departure of the squadron, discouraged De Ramsay, who, shortly after, set out on his return to Canada. Du Thct resolved to imitate his example, and return to St. Jean ; but at last a scout brought intelligence of the approach of several large vessels. Admiral D'Anville, in the Renomme, with three large transports, sailed into the harbor, and cast anchor, just after sunrise, fol- lowed, later in the day, by Vice-Admiral Destournelle with four ships of the line. The rest of the fleet of seventy sail were so scattered by contrary winds, and disabled by heavy gales, that scarce a third of the original force ever reached the haven of Chebucto. 1li 82 i CHAPTER XI. .|il{:;,Hir IIP'! li Jli li;ii:';;? »'iii:| CHEBUCTO. DISAPPOINTMENT had met the admiral at every turn, from the day when his proud squadrons ghded past the shores of sunny France, until the rem- nant of the ill-fated armada rested in the sheltered waters of Chebucto. Terrible storms had sunk some of his ships, and forced others to return to France ; head winds had pro- longed the ^^oyage to three times its usual duration ; disease had claimed as its victims over a thousand brave soldiers rind skilful mariners. And so it was with joy that he viewed the placid harbor, girt by wooded heights, around whose skirts rose the curling smoke from the myriad lodges of the Abenaqui, who had gathered there from all the adjacent territories. But scarcely was his ship securely moored ere she was boarded bv Du Thet, who informed him of the sailing of M. Conflans for Europe, and the homeward march of De Ramsay and his Canadian rangers ; but he was informed by Du Thet that these last would probably be overtaken and brought back by swift run- ners, who, on the arrival of ilie fleet, had been immcdi- idely despatched to recall them. This last blow, however, was too much for the spirit of the veteran, who died broken-hearted on the fourth ('?':■ f CHEBUCTO. 83 day after his arrival, leaving the command of the fleet to Vice-Admiral Destournclle. His first act was to land the troops and to appoint a commissary to procure supplies of fresh provisions from the Acadians of Chignecto, Minas Annapolis, and Horton. For this office he selected Du Thet ; and it was on his return from these districts that the follow- ing conversation took place. The rear guard of Ram- say's force, some four hundred in number, had returned with him ; but the light-armed savages and woodsmen had proceeded homewards too rapidly to be overtaken. " Have you made satisfactory arrangements for fur- tr.er supplies after these are exhausted ? " said Destour- nclle. " I have, your excellency, but have judged it best to limit the quantity to be sent here across the peninsula until further orders. Is it the intention of your excel- lency shortly to take Annapolis?" " That question is to be decided to-morrow. La Jonquicre here and myself are in favor of it, but some of our officers counsel a return to France." " I beg that you will not leave any means untried to prevent such a disastrous decision, as it will entirely destroy our influence with our Indian allies. Lead your troops once at least to the attack, and sweep the English from the peninsula." "I think as you do, and will do all that I can, but the minds of our forces are weighed down by our many misfortunes, and all foretell disaster to our whole pro- ject. Even my own mind is so shaken by misfortune, that a dream of ill omen has haunted me for weeks past ; " and the stout soldier paled at the recollection. 6 I i ,; ■Ml m llii ii ii I ' liiiiiil I'ilr 84 TWICE TAKEN. " I, too," said Dii Thet, " have felt thus, and fear sometimes not only for the present enterprise, but even for our national existence on this continent ; " and as the shades gathered he detailed to the two officers the strange prophecy of Mambertou, and the vision of the Indian sibyl, her description of the tempest-driven fleet, the. quiet harbor, the pestilence, and the violent death of the commander. " But," said Destournelle, " the admiral died in his berth, and the warriors of the forest are untouched by the fever." '' How do you read the legend regarding the issue of the present struggle between the two nations," in- quired La Jonquiere. " As an intimation that we must change our policy, from a military colonization to a civil one, replacing the pensioners and royal favorites, who now fill all the civil offices, by men from among the colonists them- selves, as well as depending for defence on a local militia, who fight for their homes, rather than on mer- cenary bayonets and fickle savages." La Jonquiere had listened in ill-concealed impatience to the last remark of the missionary, and sr.id at his close, " Such a procedure would be a radical change of the policy which has made France until now the dominant power in this continent ; and if we are to be guided or influenced by dreams and omens, let us take a sensible explanation of the prophecy, as, for instance, that the successful power will use a brave and disci- plined army on the ofiensive, while its colonists con- struct abatis and throw up fortifications. Good even- iiiii ill--.. I CHEBUCTO. 85 ing, Monsieur Commissaire : you will attend us to-mor- row, after the council has decided our future course." Du Thet retired, and after reaching his camp sat hy the smouldering embers of the fire, in front of the lodge, until late at night, thinking of the past and dreading the future. Below him he saw line upon line of lodges, some lit up by the camp fires before them, and others a darker shadow on the shades of night. Lower down he saw the white tents of the French, whose snowy angles brought to mind the ice-packs, of the frozen straits ; in front of them stretched the shadowed waters of the harbor, and glimmered the lights of the war-ships. iVnd as he sat there, he thought of the scores who lay tossing in sickness, under the canvas of the huge hospital tents, and he called to mind the scenes he had witnessed that day in visiting the sick and giving con- solation to the dying. He remembered the sad faces and weary eyes of the surgeons, as fresh cases occurred hourly, and the fears expressed by them lest the con- tagion should spread to their allies ; and as the cold air of night condensed in icy dews upon his brow, he re- called the vision of the forest maiden, almost fearing k'st he should see above him the huge and dusky pin- ions of the destroyer ; and after his devotions, wearily sought his couch. The next day he saw the barges of the officers as they, sped to the admiral's vessel on their way to the council, then went to the hospitals to help the over- tasked surgeons, and after several hours had passed in this employment, was suddenly called by a messen- ger from Destournelle, who was awaiting him at the landing. I 86 TWICE TAKEN. On arriving he was informed that the council had determined to retake Annapolis before returning, but to wait where they were until the epidemic abated. In vain he urged the folly and danger of further stay at a place so isolated as to be useless as a military po- sition, so far from the base of supplies, and so distant from any objective point of attack. " My officers have decided, and I must not and dare not take upon myself the responsibility of disregarding their advice altogether. You will at once set off to procure more supplies. You will take such guard as you think proper, but will start to-night." And so Du Thet commended his proteges^ the or- phans of De Courcy, to the care of Wuspem and Ula- lie, and bespoke the careful attendance of a surgeon, if they should require it, the filling his pouch with venison and coarse bread, shouldered his carbine, and with L'Our Blanc and half a score of warriors set out for the Acadian settlements. Three hours after, De Ramsay, at the head of his four hundred regulars, followed him with orders to besiege Annapolis, and with instructions to Du Thet to act as commissary to both parties ; and so it was that three weeks had nearly elapsed before he knew that the races of the Abenaqui had melted like snow before the hot breath of the destroying angel. He had gone down with his body-guard to convey provisions to the assailants of Annapolis, for De Ram- say, tired of awaiting the arrival of the fleet, had laid siege to the place, and with his trusty lieutenants, Le Corne and Couton, had driven the settlers to their 111 Miiilill CHEBUCTO. 87 block-houses, and skii*mished with their riflemen, draw- ing nearer each day to the town. As he stood talking with Dc Ramsay and his of- ficers, and congratulating them on their success thus far, a warrior sprang from the woods and came swiftly towards them. He appeared worn with fatigue and sorrow, and the vermilion was lacking from his war- paint ; but they knew long before he stood among them that he was Loup Cervier. Just as he reached the lit- tle group he staggered, and would have fallen, but was caught .in the arms of Du Thet, whose quick eye de- tected the ravages of fever. " I have come, O chief,'* said he, feebly, " as the bearer of heavy tidings." The scourge of the French became the destruction of the Illenoo ; warriors and women alike fall before it ; the wigwam of L'Our Blanc is deserted, for the blasts of Death have dried up the life-springs of the Summer- Lake, and Ulalie has fled, with the children of the dead captain, to the lodge of the Sea Gull. The camps of the French are deserted, and the Abenaqui are seek- ing their homes over ocean and war-path, and none of them r.re left by the waters of Chebucto save the war- riors of St. John, and the sleepers who awaken no more. I came here to hasten the return of the chief to his braves, and to bring to the Black Robe this package from the grep'' >;hief of the French, but the fever attacked me o. ^.le way, and I must sleep far from my kindred." At that moment a few rifle-shots were heard in the direction of the city, and seemed to give new life to the dying warrior, for, rising, he said, " Many braves have died the death of women, but the Wild Cat may not v^r 88 TWICE TAKEN. j jijj iijiii i|!!l!' iliiiNill die thus. Once more he shall cry the war-whoop, once more bury his teeth in the flesh of the foe." Hastily he replaced the black hues of his mourning with the vivid colors of battle, and seizing his rifle, sprang lightly away in the direction of the firing, which sounded nearer. The spectators of his unnatural strength attempted in vain to overtake him, and learned from a soldier that a small party of the be- sieged had sallied out, and were now firing sharply at the French outposts. Hastening on, they were sud- denly fired upon, and immediately sought cover, and from thence watched the movements of Loup Ccrvicr, who was rapidly, yet cautiously, nearing the English riflemen. Gliding noiselessly through every thicket, and behind every bush and hillock, he at last gained a position some twenty yards from a party of four, who were sheltered by a log. Loup Cervier raised his plumed headdress above the mound behind which he lay ; it was instantly riddled with bullets. Springing to his feet, he rushed on the surprised rangers, pealing out the terrible war-whoop, as a soldier fell at the crack of his deadly musket. A second fell beneath his hatchet ; but a dozen jets of fire shot from the ambushed riflemen in front and on either side, and the Wild Cat died as he had lived, an unrelenting foe of the heretic to the last. A volley from the French, followed by a charge headed by L'Our Blanc, amply avenged the fallen war- rior, and drove the English to their block-houses ; after which Du Thet hastened with De Ramsav to learn the tidings conveyed him in the packet brought by the dead warrior. I^J -T •■.'.-f,. CIIEBUCTO. 89 It was opened hastily, and found to contain several missives. The first in date was from Destournelle, who informed him that the fever had spread among the Indians, and was raging with terrible fury. " Hun- dreds die daily, and it spares neither age nor sex. The wife of your friend, the White Bear, was one of its first victims ; and your proteges and their Indian nurse have taken refuge with that strange half savage Durel, who lives on one of the little islands in the harbor. We have at last decided to attack Annapolis, and you will accordingly prepare for our arrival im- mediately." The next was an order to De Ramsay to lay siege to Annapolis, if he had not already done so. Like the other, it was signed by Destournelle. The third, dated several days later, read thus : — " Monsieur Du Thet : It is with a heavy heart that I pen these lines to inform you of the utter failure of our expedition, and the death of Admiral Destour- nelle. Shortly after your departure, we determined to sail for Annapolis, and did so ; but our allies were so much demoralized by the deaths which occurred hourly among them, that they received no orders to cooperate with us. The fleet sailed at the time ap- pointed, but our voyage was cut short by heavy storms, which so shattered our vessels and discour- aged our men that we were forced to return ; and the admiral, worn out by anxiety and forebodings of evil, ran himself through the body with his sword. On returning here, we determined to sail for France, as we have learned from some captured despatches iiii 1 11 8{i I iilillii 90 TWICE TAKEN. that a large and formidable English fleet will soon be upon the coast, and we cannot cope with it in our present condition. Vessels have been despatched to carry the survivors of the Abenaqui to their homes. You will pay all sums due for our supplies and your expenses, and, if you have not enough, will give bills for the same. You will receive funds to pay these from Quebec. I remain, Monsieur, Yours, &c., La Jonquiere." Du Thet ceased reading, and looked around him. The White Bear sat stern and calm, breathing no sigh, with no moisture in his eyes ; and yet it was easy to see that his heart was filled with the sorrow that ends only with life. De Ramsay and his lieuten- ants seemed almost stunned by the tidings ; but at last the knight spoke : " From the first our projects have failed. Can it be that Heaven itself is against us? Our greatest armada has accomplished nothing, and the power of our allies is broken forever ; but courage, comrades ! Another spring will bring another navy, and until then we will encamp by the fatal shores of the harbor of Chebucto. Call in the pickets to-mor- row morning, Le Corne, and see to-night that all are ready to start with the first light." When the defenders of the English settlement awoke the next morning, they found that the foe had departed, and that French musketeers and Indian bowmen were winding through the narrow paths of the forests, leav- ing behind them the broad river, the little town, the CHEBUCTO. 91 ancient burial-place of the Abenaqui, and the fresh graves of their comrades. Several days of rough marching brought them to the spot where they had left the white camps of the French infantry and the lodges of the Abenaqui ; many of the latter were still standing, but without tenants, save in some cases where the fears or weak- ness of their former occupants had forbidden the usual rites of sepulture. Side by side with the camps, a few weeks ago swarming with life and masses of armed men, lay the city of the dead, — the simple cross which marked the grave of some brave Frenchman rising next to the war-spear, which, upholding the medicine- bag of some war-chief, was the last sad memento of his deeds, as well as the inscription which distinguished his last resting-place from the hundreds around it. And as they passed, L'Our Blanc pointed out to his companions the graves of those famous among his race, — chiefs who bore the names of Moose, Bear, Panther, Stag, Hawk, Eagle, and Sea Gull, which, strange and uncouth as they may seem to us, were never given unless well deserved, and therefore were indeed titles of honor. For had not he, surnamed the Fox, baffled for days the keen scouts of the Kennebec? Had not the Wolf earned his title by his unwearied pursuit and destruction of a small band of seal-fed Esquimaux ; the Moose carried terror into peaceful settlements by his swift passage from one point of at- tack to another, and the Sea Gull hovered about the sea-coast, as the bird whose name he had assumed hovers over the breaking surges to prey upon the finny tribes of ocean ? •] '■■' ,mi,i,i,r H 11 92 TWICE TAKEN. Around them lay arms, peltries, and ornaments left by the departing survivors, while on the shores were canoes innumerable. In the harbor, where last they had seen the fleet with its huge war-ships and con- stantly passing barges, the only vessels visible were those burned and scuttled by the departing admiral, and the little shallop of Durel, which was anchored near one of the islands of the haven. Du Thet and L'Our Blanc sprang into a canoe and sought the island, on which they saw the red bark and blue smoke of sev- eral lodges. On reaching it they were met by Durcl and the remnant of the Indians of St. John, scarce fifty in number, less than a third of those who had but a few months before set out joyously, to seek, as they hoped, riches, fame, and the expulsion of the heretic from their father-land, to find, as it proved, unexam- pled misfortune and defeat. Many years elapsed before the English flag floated triumphantly over the fortalices of Montreal and Qiic- bec, and often the warriors of the Abenaqui joined battle with the defenders of the red-cross flag ; but the power and consequence of their race met with a fatal and irremediable blow when its bravest and best died, like plague-stricken cattle, by the silent waters of Chebucto. A few days after the chief took leave of his tribe, who had determined to return to the Isle of St. John, or, at least, as far as Cape Breton, and who, accordingly, in company with Durel, set out on the return voyage, which they accomplished in safety. L'Our Blanc and Ulalie, with Du Thet, set out across the peninsula to Chebucto, where the mission- ary had determined to settle for the purpose of annoy- CMEBUCTO. 93 ing the English, and, if possible, of driving them from the country. Here for many years he lived, a man of mystery, loved by few, respected by the French Neu- trals,* and feared and hated by the English. L'Our Blanc would not live with him, but had a lodge near a small lake in the neighborhood, which he occupied when not employed in scouting expedi- tions or forays on the English settlements ; for in the years that intervened between the fall of 1749 and 1759, the Jesuit, at times, wore sword and pistols for months, and wrote of successful plots or political intel- ligence, far oftener than he conned his Breviary or performed mass. Our next chapter will be devoted to the story of his first exploit in the peninsula of Acadia. ♦ The French of Nova Scotia were so termed by the English. MilB 94 CHAPTER XII. CHIGNECTO. FAR to the westward of the Bay of Minas, in the district of Chignecto, Du Thet had chosen his home, and with little difficulty purchased it from the occupant, whose love of adventure led him eagerly to accept the liberal terms otitied by the missionary for the small cottage, which he was quite glad to ex- change for the lodge of the wood-ranger. It contained but one large room ; but by the priest's direction an upper room was added by a light, strong ceiling, and the ground floor divided by partitions into three compartments. In the kitchen, or outer room, was a large fireplace, a table, and several chairs ; on the wall hung muskets, fishing-tackle, a saddle and bridle, a pair of snow-shoes, and several other articles of daily use. One of the interior rooms was allotted to the twins and their nurse ; the other was, of course, that of Du Thet. Around the house were several fruit trees, and a small copse surrounded it on three sides, — shutting off the force of the winds in winter, and affording a cool shade in* summer. A small stream ran near the house, and joined the river some hundreds of yards below the road. The neighbors were few, the nearest half a mile CHIGNECTO. away ; but the district, though not closely, was very generally settled, and a hundred armed men could be collected at a day's notice. They were all Frenchmen, who had been, by an arbitrary treaty, transferred to the rule of a sovereign against whom they had often fought, whose religion they hated, whose sincerity they doubted: good listeners to anything which savored of French rights, good subjects for the incendiary attempts of Du Thet, good instruments in his hands, as the sequel showed too well. The coming of the great fleet of invasion, whose total want of success has been chronicled in the last chapter, had not been unnoted or unfeared by the then English colonies, the conquest and wasting of which had been the main object of the enterprise. Active preparations were made ; forces levied ; forts strengthened, and their armaments increased ; the mili- tia inspected and exercised ; while the ministers exhort- ed their hearers to humble themselves, that the danger might pass away, and prayed that the wrath of the Lord might be averted from his people, that the children of the Babylonish woman might not prevail. As was to have been expected, the news of the strange series of misfortunes by sea and land, which had exhausted the strength and destroyed the forces of the French, filled the colonists with the joy which follows that suspense which accompanies imminent and total ruin. The land was filled with mirth and exultation, and the churches rang with sermons of joy and thanksgiv- ing to Him who had thus, as of old, overwhelmed the persecutors of his people in the depths of ocean, and smitten the hosts of the French by the hand of the Ik': ■' : 96 TWICE TAKEN. destroying angel. But still the wise rulers of the eastern colonies knew that another spring would probably bring with it new perils, and it was decided to send forces to Nova Scotia forthwith ; and three vessels set sail with the contingents of Massachusetts, Rhode Island, ^nd Connecticut. But the winter had set in. They found the Bay of Fundy filled with ice ; and at last two of the vessels put about ; but the third, with the Massachusetts forces on board, held her way up the shore until she could go no farther. So the knapsacks were packed, the haversacks filled, ball cartridges distributed, and sleds loaded with food ; and Colonel Noble, with his little band of four hundred and seventy men, commenced their march to that destination, made immortal by the pen of Longfellow — the village of Grand Pre. For eight days they marched through narrow wood-paths and over al- most impassable roads, sleeping, after their fatigues, on heaps of hemlock branches, before huge fires, ere they reached their journey's end, where another dis- comfort awaited them. The commander found no building capable of holding so many, and he was forced to billet them among the inhabitants, until at last they were barracked in two or three buildings, unhappily too far apart to furnish prompt and mu- tual support in case of sudden attack. But this troubled them little ; for they found the habitants pleasant enough, and ready to supply food at moderate prices. The maids of the village laughed and coquetted with the men as they passed by, and at the end of a week the officers of the contingent said among themselves, that a week of severe weather > in CHIGNECTO. 97 would make them safe from attack, and insure them a pleasant season of winter garrison duty. Certainly they had no reason to complain for want of cold weather ; for the bays and rivers were all more or less covered with ice, and the trees of the forest were rent by the frost, while it had become impossible for the sentinels to do duty out of doors for nearly a week. So the men smoked, told stories, cleaned their arms and accoutrements, or played at various games of chance and skill ; while their officers sat over their wine, or chatted with the wife and daughters of their host : both, however, dreamed not that a band of de- termined men were gathering far to the northward, to expel them from their comfortable quarters, and to destroy one half of their number. It was late in the month of December that Du Thet learned from a messenger, sent by a farmer of Minas, that a detachment of troops had been stationed among them for the winter, as well as their number, the houses they occupied, and many other facts of like nature. As he sat alone in his room that evening, he thought over the forces at his command, and his prospects of success. . v. . " I have here," said he, " a small band of Micmacs, whom L'Our Blanc will easily persuade to take part in the expedition. De Ramsay is at Chebucto, in winter quarters, and it will consume too much time if we attempt to summon him. From this district some four or five hundred will join, which, with the Indians, will give us about six hundred men. Now, if we can march over the forty leagues that ■ ■i,!.'.: 98 TWICE TAKEN. intervene between us and Grand Prd, without being suspected, we can certainly conquer." Next day, L'Our Blanc donned his war gear, painted his face, and visited the lodges of all the Micmacs in the neighborhood ; and at the same time sent messengers to camps many leagues away, sum- moning every warrior who could take the war-path to meet him in twice seven days, with rifle, bow, knife, and hatchet, racket and venison, at the central chapel of the district of Chignecto, thence to march against the common enemy. Du Thet drove rapidly from house to house, from hamlet to hamlet, urging upon notary and land- lord, hunter and trapper, yeoman and artisan, the duties of the hour ; and not in vain. For the trader gave of his stores of lead and powder, the trapper of his pemmican and dried venison, the farmer from his well-filled granaries ; while the priest spoke in the pulpit of the hopes of the church, and the glories of martyrdom ; the landlord brought forth his strong ale and choicest aqua vitce for the departing warriors. From lodge of bark and house of logs, winter's camp and rural hamlet, gathered plumed warriors and coarsely-clad hunters, with weapons and food, hasten- ing to the rendezvous at the chapel of St. Marie. As they stood there in the early morning, surrounded by sad but admiring friends, Du Thet appeared clad in his serge robe, accompanied by the priest of the village, and entered the church, motioning to all to follow ; and Father Augustine, with trembling voice, went through the mass, and administered the sacra- ment to each of the band. Then rose the voices of the Fa tlia CHIGNECTO. 99 inded d clad of the all to voice, sacra- 5 of the choir, and the exultant strains of the second Psalm gave new courage to the simple people, who doubted not that they went forth to battle against the " heathen " of modern times — contemners of truth and religion, and mockers of God. As it ceased, Du Thet entered the pulpit and harangued his followers, exhorting the French to fight for their king, their religion, and their homes ; the savages to regain their fatherland, and to despoil the accursed heretic of his arms and treasures. He concluded thus : " Your father in Christ has told us often of the seasons at which we should perform the various duties of life ; and the Scripture saith that there is a time to mourn, a time to feast, a time to rejoice. I tell you to-day that we have feasted too long under the yoke of the foreign lord, rather ihan endure priva- tion for the sake of dear old France ; we have been content to mourn past glories rather than to attempt their renewal : and the season for these has gone by. This is a time for conflict, for battle, and the destruc- tion of the oppressor and the heretic. Now is the season of your trial ; after it, cometh the time of rejoicing and reward. 1 now lay aside the dress of my order, and, in the dress and with the weapons of war, will abide with you the trial of battle. Now, Father Augustine, give us your blessing, for it is time that we were already en router While saying these words, he had divested himself of his robe, and stood before them armed with rapier and pistols, and clad in the habiliments of an officer of infantry. As he finished speaking, he knelt at the feet of the good curk. All present followed his example, listening with bowed heads to the benediction ; and at lOO TWICE TAKEN. its close, the tall form of Du Thet passed down the aisle, followed by his men, who marched in Indian file through the weeping assemblage, past the log-houses of the little settlement, into the woods that skirt the < Bay of Minas and its tributaries. ■!*^ The trees, loaded with snow-flakes and glittering "^ icicles, were motionless ; for the air was still, clear, and frosty. Through the winding paths of the forest filed the plumed and fur-clad Abenaqui, followed by the hunters of Chignecto. No uniform or heavy trappings were there to impress the eye of the be- holder ; no bayonets to present a spiky wall to the assailant ; no field-piece to batter defences, or howitzer to sweep down scores with its shower of fatal mi- tratlle. But the homespun coats covered gallant hearts ; the keen knife and light tomahawk hung by each manly thigh ; the sharp axes, carried by a chosen few, would do all that was needed in forcing the feeble barriers of a wooden barrack ; and the muskets and rifles of all present rarely spoke in vain. All knew these things; so by day they struggled unweariedly through the drifts, or crossed the treacherous surfaces of half-frozen rivers, at night halting in some wood of snow-enwreathed pines, and, laying aside their arms and packs, prepared their resting-place for the night. Soon the drifts were stamped into hard floors, on which the flat twigs of the fir, spread to the depth of several inches, formed a comfortable carpet, while huge fires of immense logs lit up the sombre pines, glittering with icy gems, the wild garbs and horrid war-paint of the Abenaqui, and the hardy forms of the voyageurs^ as they ate their simple meal, or smoked . ■• ■ ■ ■ ' ■ •■■„ ■• ■ "''V; ;- ■ , CHIGNECTO. lOI at its close ; and then, wrapped in their blankets, the warriors slept to dream of home, of friends, of vic- tory and happiness — but not of death. So for a score of days passed the time, as through tangled thicket and drifted wood-path, over craggy hill and dangerous ice-floe, the little army slowly, but surely, approached the fated garrison of Minas, until the night of the 31st of January found them encamped, | without fire, within five miles of the village; a star-' less sky above, a fierce wind increasing hourly in in- tensity, and the fine snow-flakes falling thickly around them. Cold, weary, without food, or even a fire to warm their stiftening joints, they awaited the hour of action, each carefully covering with coat lap- pel, or blanket fold, the lock of the trusty musket ; their feet tramping the drifts into compact levels, as they moved about, in the vain effort to keep warm until their leaders should order an advance. In the village, the English were comfortably quar- tered in two parties, there being no one building in the village capable of containing their whole force. One of these, commanded by Colonel Noble, occupied a house near the centre of the village, while the senior captain, Morris, held one nearer the woods occupied by the French. In each barrack the laughter rose loudly as tales of warfare and merry ballad -whiled away the winter's evening ; and as it grew late, and the storm increased in fury, the sentinels were called in, and only those in the halls and corridors paced wearily, with heavy muskets, inwardly cursing their supposed unnecessary vigil. Around lay their broth- ers in arms, wrapped in their heavy blankets, the * f" 102 TWICE TAKEN. knapsack pillowing each weary head, the bright mus- ket gleaming in its rack above ; and they slept as those only sleep who eat the plain, wholesome food, and lead the regular life, of a soldier in garrison. But in the barrack in charge of Captain Morris \ one there was who slept not, — Sergeant Hamlin, a \ hale, weather-beaten son of Cape Cod, a true descend- ant of the pioneer settlers of New England, and a fearless soldier. He had fought under Pepperell at Louisburg, had toiled through the morasses of Cape Breton, and coolly pulled in the flotilla of whale-boats to the fatal attack on the terrible " Island Battery," and had always been noted for his calmness and intre- pidity. But on this night he tossed uneasily to and fro ; when he slept, his mind seemed troubled, and broken words of command issued from his lips, until at last he awoke with a half-smothered cry that *' the French were upon them.'* A dozen men awoke ; then, swearing at the in- terruption, turned to sleep again, while the sentinel spoke to the sergeant, and asked him what he had dreamed. "O, of surprise and desperate fight, in which I saw the faces of our officers and comrades by the light of blazing houses. It is all nonsense, no doubt, but I can't sleep to-night." Taking from his pocket ' a small Bible, he essayed to read by the light of a lan- tern, but had scarcely opened it before he shut it again, and sprang to his feet. " I can't sleep unless I take a look outside, to see if ' all is safe," said he, as, putting on his overcoat and cap, he went outside, and after a few moments returned. CHIGNECTO. 103 and asked to see the captain immediately, saying that there were lights in several of the neighboring houses — a suspicious circumstance at so late an hour, as it was nearly three in the morning. As he stood waiting, the sentinel asked why he ceased reading so suddenly. " I had scarcely placed my eyes on the page when I found these words : ' The Philistines be upon thee, Samson.' " ^ Even as he spoke came the crash of musketry, the shaking of splintered pane and shattered sash, the ring of axes on oaken panels and barred shutter, the cries of the Acadian hunters, the terrible war-cry of the Abenaqui, mingling with the groans of those wounded by the volley, and the shrieking storm without. Morris sprang from his chamber, sword in hand, crying, " To your feet, boys ! the French are upon us ! " while Hamlin, and the few on duty, fired upon those engaged in hewing at the entrance. The men sprang from the floor, and, notwithstanding the sud- denness of the attack, were soon engaged in a gallant defence. With the other party it had been otherwise, The force assigned to that portion of the village had had no intimation of danger, no kindly disturbance to awaken, no vision to alarni ; all had slept in fatal security until awakened by the crash of falling doors, an4 the rush of armed men. Then in yain was the strong arm and dauntless heart, the keen sword and heavy musket; down \vent ofllcer and man before the knife and dead- ly hatchet, and fevy escapee^ therp. As Morris and 111'' '. '!'.:•■■ II 104 TWICE TAKEN. his men fought in their smoke-dimmed citadel, over the noise of their own conflict came the din of their comrades* struggle for life ; and their eyes glared more fiercely, their faces grew sterner, as they poured from shattered window and rude loophole the fiery stream of wounds and death. Until the storm ceased its fury, and the winds sank to rest, while the clouds broke into rifted masses, through which the pale moon threw her rays of light, until the east grew radiant with coming day, and the increasing light gave new advantages to the be- sieged, whose fire hourly grew fiercer and more deadly, until the brave officer saw that the other portion of the garrison had been cut to pieces, that resistance was useless, since his men were outnum- bered, and there were none to relieve him or to raise the siege. Then he displayed the white flag, and received from Du Thet liberal terms of capitulation, to which he agreed ; and his men, with full cartridge-boxes and haversacks, but heavy hearts, marched past the captured barracks and the corpses of their comrades; the jeering villagers ; the disappointed savages, who were with difficulty restrained from seizing the spoil taken, as it seemed, from their very grasp ; by log-house and frozen streamlet, into the snow-wreathed pines, through which lay the trail to their city of refuge, Annapolis. - f Shortly after this, Ramsay returned to Canada with his forces, and Du Thet remained at Chignecto, labor- ing among the Indians, plotting against the English, and, whenever there was an opportunity, laying waste CHIGNECTO. 105 their settlements with fire and sword. The autumn of 1747 witnessed the cessation of hostilities between the two powers, caused by the treaty of Aix-la-Cha- pelle, and in 1749 the He Royale was returned to France. The children of De Courcy, under the care of Ulalic, the teachings of Du Thet, and in the sports of the forest and river, found the food of strength and beauty, far above that of the average. Now, reader, we must leave untold the story of their childhood ; its joys and sorrows, its noble aims and bright imaginings, and hasten to relate their story of trial, of love, of happiness, and of separation — a tale for the most part of disappointment and gloom. t (: al -v?iij.ir, h^>.^ i) it'M^ ^:4^u^i^i^. iiii 1 06 CHAPTER XIII. FATHER AUGUSTINE. I HAVE said time would not allow a narration of the events connected with the history of the child- hood of Rosalie and Hubert : still a short account of some of them may not be uninteresting. Their earlier years were spent almost entirely under the care of Ulalie, and the language of her race was as familiar to them as their own, and many days they spent in the woods with the Indian children, many nights be- neath the shelter of the frail lodge of fragrant birch bark. As they grew older, the Jesuit taught them in his leisure hours ; and they mastered not only the com- mon branches, but the works of those who sang and chronicled in other tongues, and the wonders of as- tronomy, and geography. But the time of Du Thet was so taken up with his political schemes, that had it not been for Father Augustine, their education would have been very limited. He it was who nearly every day heard them read from the many volumes around them ; patiently heard them explain the problems which puzzled their young minds; or made them count beach nuts, or divide apples, to make clear the mysteries of " vulgar fractions ; " who hung a ball by a thread near a lighted candle, to show them how the ^ -fm FATHER AUGUSTINE. 107 sun is made to rise and set by turns, leaving men in darkness, or ushering in the glorious day. And he spoke to them of God, the Creator of all things ; of the world, young and beautiful as it first came from his hands ; of our first parents, happy and sinless — of Adam strong and wise, of Eve beautiful and loving ; of the temptation, the fall, the terrible retribution. Then of the long years that passed of sorrow, war, and death to our race, when men could gain heaven only by compliance with arbitrary rules of life, and faith in a Redeemer to come ; of the coming of that Redeemer ; of his love for men ; his pity, his purity, his sacrifice for us. Then he would speak of his disciples ; of the labors of Paul, the teachings of Peter, the martyrdom of Stephen ; the glories supernal which made the crags of Patmoe a paradise to the " beloved apostle ; " until, as he thus spoke to them, sitting beneath the birches by the brook, or in the porch, lit by the rays of the declin- ing sun, his venerable face seemed transfigured by the faith within, and his lessons fell deep into the young hearts of his listeners. Would that he had lived longer thus to teach, for many sad events might thus have been averted from the history of their lives. Between Du Thet and himself there grew up a feel- ing of estrangement ; for the old man, in after years, repented himself of his part in stirring up the French Neutrals to the attack on Minas, and grieved much at the loss of life which attended it, blaming himself as an unfaithful shepherd, who had lost a part of his flock. When the Jesuit, in his Linplacable hatred to the io8 TWICE TAKEN. t English, cut off their out-lying settlements, and sur- prised unguarded boats' crews, he remonstrated with him, and saved many a life, which else had been sac- rificed ; and, indeed, his desire to alleviate the horrors of guerrilla warfare was the cause of his death. For, some five years after the attack on Colonel Noble's detachment, there moved into Nova Scotia an Englishman by the name of Percy, who, with his family and several servants, purchased a tract of land in Chignecto, and regardless of a warning from Du Thet, and the advice of the English commandant at Annapolis, settled thereon. The summer passed quiet- ly enough, with the exception of an attack by a war- party of Micmacs, who were repulsed with the loss of two or three of their number ; whereupon Percy be- came more indepei dent than ever, and sent a message to Du Thet, threatening him with worse treatment, should he attempt another attack. In reality. Father Augustine had dissuaded the Jes- uit from molesting Percy ; and the attack spoken of had been made by a band of marauders, led by a petty chief. Du Thet, vexed by the insult, and incensed by other acts of Percy's committed on his French and Indian neighbors, determined on revenge. In vain Father Augustine preached forgiveness and mercy ; the determined sullenness of the Jesuit told but too well of his settled purposes. So, late in the succeeding January, Father Augus- tine, while resting in a wigwam, where he had been called to visit a dying man, was awakened by the loud voice of L'Our Blanc, who called the men to arm, and to prepare to accompany the Black Robe of FATHER AUGUSTINE. 109 Chignecto, and gathered from his language that at last the Percys were to feel the power they had so foolishly defied. Scarcely had they departed, when he arose, and, putting on his heavy cloak and warm furs, went forth into the cold night air. " I will meet him on the way," he said, " and plead , with him for the lives of his victims." ^ He plunged into the heavy drifts, and threaded the narrow paths of the forests clogged with snow and embarrassed with trunks of fallen trees, until the day- light found him within a few miles of his destination, and he saw, to his joy, that none had passed that way. But he was very weary, and, seating himself to rest, bethought himself how he should be able to stand be- tween the lion and his prey. Drawing his Bible from his pocket, he turned over the pages with stiffen- ing fingers, looking anxiously over the leaves, until he came to the fifth chapter of Matthew, and read with dim eyes the Sermon on the Mount. ^ The weather was so cold that the war-party had stopped a while to warm and rest themselves, and the exertions of the good priest had weakened his physi- cal energies, while, in his efforts to save those of another race and faith, he had not noticed the effects of the in- tense cold on his own frame. But, unconscious of this, he read slowly, " Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy," and turned down the leaf at this place ; then read and mused over the following verses : " Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." " Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be <<' ■■]■■ I mf III '•■■ I'll' IIO TWICE TAKEN. Ill In called the children of God ; " when, rising, he found that he was very weary, and scarce able to move ; and then he knew that he must die unless help came soon ; but the thought gave him no fear. And kneeling, he prayed that through his death the avenger might be stayed ; he prayed for his flock, and then for himself; and a dreamy, drowsy sensation seized him ; yet he knew that he was dying, and strove to resist it in vain ; and so praying he fell asleep, the little crucifix before him, the open book on his bended knees, a smile on his cold, pale face. Down the path came the tall form of Du Thet, with sword on hip and carbine in hand, and behind him a score or more of painted and plumed Abenaquis. Silently and sternly they pressed on, as men bent un- swervingly to a settled purpose, of which nothing should prevent or hinder the accomplishment. He started as he saw the kneeling form of the Do- minican, and then muttering, " It is useless to inter- cede," was passing sternly by, when his band, with cries of sorrow and awe, fell upon their knees ; and drawing nearer, he discovered that Father Augustine was dead. He took the book from the unresisting hands, read the passage marked by the dying priest, and then, turn- ing to his band, spoke a few words in their own tongue. With boughs they made a rough litter, and laid Father Augustine in blankets thereon, bearing him sorrowfully homeward. Deep was the grief, far and wide, among French and Abenaqui ; and Percy, to whom Du Thet sent an account of the manner of his death, came with his whole family to the funeral 'Wm FATHER AUGUSTINE. Ill laid him and ;y, to er of neral which followed. He was laid in the little churchyard, with a rough cross above his grave ; and for a year after, Du Thet went but seldom on the war-path, and the English had rest ^rom their fears. But the chil- dren had lost their teacher and friend, and grew up with little teaching from Du Thet, save of worldly wisdom or mystical secrets. And in the spring of 1755 we find them, at eighteen years of age, the pride of the village, and the assistants of the Jesuit in all his schemes for the success of French domination. Rosalie was black-haired, dark-eyed, rather above the medium height, and very beautiful ; in disposition, studious, ambitious, and loving, but secretive. To her the priest had imparted much of his mystical lore, and they spent many hours together in the little laboratory which he had had constructed beneath their dwell- ing. As yet her maiden heart had felt no love beyond that of a brother's, or her affection for Du Thet and her nurse Ulalie. Hubert had grown up to be a mighty hunter ; for the White Bear had taught him to use the bow, lance, and gun, to paddle the light quetan^ to spear the spotted trout, the strong salmon, and the huge porpoise, to run down the antlered moose and swift caribou among the crusted drifts, and to bring to bay the fierce lynx and savage bear. His laugh was ever merry, nor could he be brought to imitate the taciturnity of his half-savage Mentor. He was the admired of all the village maidens from Chignecto to Minas ; but Gabrielle Renaud, the daughter of a rich farmer of Chignecto, held him cap- tive, and their betrothal was widely known. ^ Iff,'; 112 TWICE TAKEN. i Louisburg had been for many a year in the posses- sion of its founders, for England had ceded it to France in exchange for territory nearer home ; and with bat- tlements strengthened, and new armaments, protected a commerce fully equal to that of former days. L'Our Blanc had visited the Isle of St. John several times, but only for a short stay, to hunt, or to engage in some war expedition ; and now, together with Du Thet, was preparing for a last grand effort to drive the Eng- lish from Acadia. But the English were filling their settlements there v/ith troops, and Minas was again occupied by colonial rangers. Du Thet would know their force, and the purposes for which they were stationed there ; and he sent Rosalie to find out. So Rosalie sailed across the quiet bay, up the stream of the vvood-fringcd Gaspereau, starting the clamorous geese and timid wood-ducks from their haunts, and finally landing on the level meadows below the vil- lage. Her friend Christine was there to meet her, greeting her with friendly kiss and loving embrace, and led her through the budding copses and orchards to the old homestead where her father, Jacques Gallant, had lived from the day of his birth, and where /its father had lived before him. After the many inquiries about mutual friends, they ate their homely evening meal, after which they sat talking until late, and then retired, — not to sleep, but to talk longer, after the manner of young ladies of modern times. "I hear you have the soldiers here again," said Rosalie. Yes, they came last week," said Christine ; " they (( FATHER AUGUSTINE. "3 have about one hundred men, and most of them yoimg and very good looking," she added. " They are heretics ? " *' Yes, but Very civil and kind to all ; and they pay for all that they take from us." " How many officers are there?" " A major and two lieutenants ; one of the lieuten- ants is so pretty ! and, by the way, he will come here to-morrow, to see about paying for some fences burned by his men." Much more of like nature followed ; in truth it was well towards morning when Rosalie fell asleep, in the midst of a full and minute account, given by Chris- tine, of a new head-dress which she was preparing to wear at the next festival. So when Lieutenant Thorncliffe came the next morning to . see the old farmer about the petty depre- dations of his men, he saw a new face, and one which bewitched him so, that he determined to call again and again and again. Rosalie, with her woman's wit, soon learned all that the young New Englander could impart regarding English projects and forces ; while Du Thet chuckled over the success of his " pretty little spy," forgetting that Rosalie was young, beauti- ful, and loving, that he had once founB love strong enough to break his strong will, and to render him false to his promises to others. But Rooalie held to her purpose for many weeks, and it was not until the night before her visit expired, that she found her heart was no longer unfettered ; nor was it until then that ThornclifTe learned that the 114 TWICE TAKEN. iiiiiiii'lii little Acadienne had become a part of his life, without which, existence seemed lonely and cheerless. At last Rosalie's task was completed ; her visit drew near its close, and the morrow was to witness her de- parture. She sat in the door-way, silent and pensive ; by her side stood Thorncliffe, who had stopped a few moments on his return from a gunning expedition. Against the wall leaned the heavy musket ; at her feet lay the spoils of the chase — the delicate brant, the swift-winged snipe, and luckless hare. " And so you leave us to-morrow," said Thornclifle, at last. "Yes, I go home to-morrow, and Christine goes with me." " I shall miss you much." " For a time, yet you will soon forget me : it is the way of the world." " It is, perhaps, best that we part now, for we may not love each other, and hope to realize its consumma- tion," said Thorncliffe. " You speak truly — it is best." Now, both of these young people loved each other ; each meant to hide their emotions, and the hearts of both quivered beneath the stabs of this assumed indif- ference. "Will you walk with me a little way, Rosalie?" She arose, and side by side they walked down the village street, over the rustic bridge, into the dusky shadows of the forest, speaking of the incidents of the past few weeks, the merry dances, the boat excursions — the little events of a village life. Each wondered if the other was as cold and indifferent as they mutually imoik V "W FATHER AUGUSTINE. "5 Bcemed ; each burned to tell of the strong, earnest pas- sion that held and thrilled them ; yet each withstood the spell, and they returned to the house happy in hav- ing seen the object of their devotion, weary with the sadness which follows a love without return. . As Thorncliffe walked homeward, he thought of his New England home in Boston : of his father, stern, just, and cold ; of his Puritan faith ; of the foreign tongue and strange belief of her he loved ; and as he strode along in the pale moonlight, he said to himself, " The dream is over, the spell is broken ; it were better so ; but — I am miserable." And Rosalie lay very quietly, that night, by the side of Christine ; and once, as the simple girl pressed her cheek to hers, a tear fell upon it ; and we may imagine that her thoughts of Thorncliffe were much like his of her. The morrow came. The sun rose hot and sultry, and it was decided to remain until the evening, with its cool breeze and milder light. Thorncliffe came in late in the afternoon, and sat talking, growing wildly merry and quietly sad by turns, as did Rosalie. Then, in the early gray of the evening, he walked with the little party down to the boat, and stood with them on the silent shore beneath the dark shades of the birches, gazing on the glassy waves, which scarce rippled as the tide drew nearer their feet. *" They saw the dark shadows where the tall cliffs hung above the bay, or where the low shore bristled thick with forest trees; then the moon rose slowly, throwing her gentle rays here and there through the branches, until the whole bay shone like molten silver. 8 liii ii6 TWICE TAKEN. Tlicn they drew nearer to each other, until the head of the pretty Acadienne leaned on the shoulder of the tall young officer, while his arm half encircled her waist. Neither spoke ; for the time, the hour, the place, the occasion, told of love alone, and other speech were needless. But the young boatmen launched the light boat, and placed their little packets therein, and Christine stepped nimbly aboard. Rosalie's companions awaited her, and she must go. She looked up into his face, and he saw the tears that dimmed her eyes, as she said, " I must go, mon ami; you see they await me. Adieu ! " He raised her hand quickly to his lips, placed her in the boat, and then watched it as it shot over the glassy surface, bearing from him, as it seemed, all that was lovely and desirable on earth. She, looking back, saw the tall soldier standing where she had left him, and wondered if he would ever think, in after years, of the little French girl he had met in a strange and hostile land." For neither knew that they were to meet and love again, and still less did they dream of the manner and results of that meeting. ■v-IJ*,' il . ' !', !ll!li 117 CHAPTER XIV. THE SUMMER OF '55. AT this time came news from the northward, where, five years before, the French had built a fort at Beau Sejour, that Moncton, marching by land, and Rous, with his war-galleys, were drawing near to the head of the bay. Du Thet raised with all speed what forces he could among the French, and sent them to reenforce the fort, remaining himself to gather the Abenaqui. But the Micmacs were widely dispersed, ^nd came in but slowly ; so that it was several days before they set out together through the narrow paths, that threaded the odorous pine woods. And as they marched and drew near the fort, they heard the dull, low sound of the guns far away, that spoke defiance to the heretic. ' As they heard the sound, they hastened their steps, for they knew that the works were not provisioned for a long siege. At their head strode Du Thet, grim and taciturn, even more so than was usual ; his light rapier hang- ing at its belt of plain black leather, his silver-mounted pistols gleaming in the sunlight. Behind him paced L'Our Blanc, with plumed head-dress nodding above a scarred and painted face, whose keen eyes flashed with the lust of battle at every sound of the far-off p::f!'^^'':' ii8 TWICE TAKEN. Iiii;in iiiii guns, as they came through the stillness of the calm, grand woods, and then followed the war-party in single file, silent and steady as became warriors, swiftly and earnestly pressing forward as men afraid • of being tardy at a feast. At last they reached the La Planche, and, crossing the little stream, lay down to rest, and slept heavily ; but Du Thet, before following the example of his men, reconnoitred the ground in company with L'Our Blanc, and then, with the earliest light, pressed on- ward ; for the guns were silent, and a presentiment of evil weighed heavily upon him. Leaving the dense forests, they pressed forward up the rough hill-sides, and, gaining the steep, looked down on the plains below. There lay the rival fortresses on either side of the Massaquash, across whose stream, a week before, the soldiers of either nation had exchanged bullets before the fight, promising to return them from the mouths of their muskets ; the tents of the English and New Englanders, and long lines of men, stood on either bank. But no sound of sullen gun, or rattling fusillade, came up the feteep on the cool breeze, and the sun looked down on a landscape unshrouded by the sul- phurous veil, which Bellona casts over her fearful rites. Du Thet groaned inwardly, for two flags waved over Beau Sejour — the Red Cross of Eng- land with tlie Lilies of France beneath it. On the waters of the bay lay the vessels of Rous, the terror of the coast. ^ ^ There the party remained for two days before they were discovered by the English, who immediately .* ■ \'-^' THE SUMMER OP '55. 119 pursued them with a superior force; and Du Thet, after a short skirmish, in which but two or three were killed on either side, drew off his men, and marched swiftly back by the way he came. But on the first night of the retreat, while resting among his men on the banks of the Nepan, a strange thing occurred. As he sat by the smouldering embers of the bivouac fire, he drew from his bosoni the little casket which years ago he had found lying on the breast of the slain nephew of L'Our Blanc. He examined the mystic inscription, the tiny arrows tightly cinctured with white bands, and wondered how soon one of the shafts would inform him, by its disappearance, of the coming of the mighty spirit he had once invoked ; and as he thought, he reclasped the case, replaced it m his bosom, and leaned back against the trunk of a smooth birch, listening to the rippling of the brook, and the moaning of the swaying branches. The fire burned lower, and he began to drowse, when suddenly he thought he saw a human form before him. It grew more distinct ; a shape savagely clad, yet grand in its wildness ; above the ordinary height, yet finely pro- portioned ; and by the long, white beard, the plumed head-dress, and huge silver medal, the Jesuit recog- nized the mighty ancestor of the noblest blood of the Abenaqui. Through the gloom, in low, deep tones, came words vague ai?d unsatisfactory, yet full of unhappy import : " The axe will be silent in the forests, the earth will be untorn by spade or furrow, the lilies shall fade, the cross alone remain." Deeper grew the darkness, the form faded from view, and the Jesuit slept until the 1 il JE4 I20 TWICE TAKEN. morning rays warned him that it was time to press on to the point of departure. Then, as they marched, the remembrance of his vision returned, and he' drew forth the casket. The clasp was as he had left it, the cincture closely bound ; but the mystic trio of shafts had lost one of their num- ber, and Du Thet from that moment dreaded the future : yet he warned the Acadians as he marched, and some hid their arms and munitions, so that, although Moncton, following close behind, disarmed many, he did not succeed in rendering them wholly defenceless. The Jesuit, reaching home, bade his band adieu, and, hiding his arms and accoutrements, became again the simple missionary ; while the Abenaqui washed the war-paint from their faces, and passed the time in hunting and fishing, so that there was peace for a time. The pleasant summer passed slowly away, and Hubert, Christine, and Gabrielle went on many pleas- ant excursions, from which they returned crowned with flowers and laden with berries ; or, as they paddled the canoe homeward from their quest after the speckled trout, they filled the still twilight with simple melodies and guileless mirth. In the evenings, gathered around the hearth, they listened to the his- toric story or weird legend told by Du Thet^ or oftener by his scholars, Rosalie and Hubert, while Christine would relate the legends of her own district, or Gabrielle sang the lays taught her by her mother. L'Our Blanc would sometimes stalk in, and sit listen- ing until the last story was told, the last song sung, and THE SUMMER OF '55. 121 then glide silently out of the house, and through the forest, to his lodge by the lake. But one evening Rosalie, as she finished a story, asked the chief to relate one ; and, greatly to her sur- prise, he acceded, and told them a tale of his early manhood, and his first essays on the war-path. It ran as follows : — *' The voice of the war-chief cannot charm like that of the adopted daughter of the Black Robe, for it has been rarely heard, except in the councils of warriors, the excitement of the headlong chase, or the fury of battle ; and only of such scenes may I speak ; for the life of the White Bear has been like that of the dreaded ranger of the icy seas whose name he bears — a suc- cession of wily plottings, of chasing the inhabitants of the wild forests, and of desperate enterprises ; yet the memory of the old war-chief goes back to the time when, as a boy, he roamed in the woods and by silent rivers with tiny bow, and slender fish-spear ; to the mother who fed him with the choicest food, and clothed him as became the son of a great warrior ; who spoke to him of the deeds of the past, and urged him to be worthy of the fame of his ancestors'. " He remembers the yeajs of his youth ; how with joy he obtained permission to join the warriors in the chase ; of his rambles with the beautiful Wuspem, the ' Summer Lake,' ever placid and smiling, whose sweet life-springs were dried up by the deadly fever, that turned the war-camp of Chebucto, into one huge burial-ground, and broke forever the strength of the Abenaqui. '*Then of his yearnings for fame, his desiies to go Ill ^il 122 TWICE TAKEN. upon the war-path, that he might gain the applause of his tribe, and bring back from the field the spoils of the foe ; that he might lay them at the feet of his love, and claim her hand as a recompense. " Great was his joy, when, one night, his father re- turned from the council, and told him to arm and pre- pare to go with a great war-party, which was to set out on the morrow. All night he sharpened his arrows and knife, and covered his smooth face with heavy lines of red and black. He fell asleep just as the shadows began to grow gray in the east ; arid, rising with the sun, he joined the war-party, whose light canoes were soon darting over the glassy billows in the direction of the Pass de Fronsac. " Here we were joined by many others, and, as the evening shades gathered, we glided under the darker shadows cast by the overhanging trees, towards the settlements of the Anglasheowe. A small schooner lay at anchor, and several stores and dwelling-houses stood on the bank : all was silent ; not even a dog was on the watch. A stealthy landing ; a silent ap- proach ; a gathering of canoes around the unguard- ed bark ; a moment of breathless suspense as we waited the signal shot. " A flash lighting up the dark shore ; a sharp report echoing far away among the silent caves and lofty hills, followed by the war-whoop of the Abenaqui ; the rush of eager feet to the attack ; and the cries of cow- ardly men, the scattering shots of those who dared even then to resist. -^-''t " On land the attack was soon over, and the spoil our own, the employees of the fishing station our THE SUMMER OF '55. 123 prisoners ; but the crew of the schooner, though sur- prised, made a gallant resistance. From her cabin door, and windows, flashed the deadly muskets, and several braves fell on her deck or dropped into the eddies of the swift tide. At last I was struck in the the shoulder, and, maddened by the pain, I rushed against the door, followed by my comrades. It gave way, and we entered ; I remember nothing more, clear- ly, save a mad conflict, fierce faces, uplifted knives, clouds of smoke, and cries of desperation, pain, and triumph, until I seemed to awake on the deck of the schooner, which, laden with spoil, and towing the canoes, was gliding swiftly past the shores of the He Royale to the port of Louisburg. Crowding around me, the old men told me of my bravery in the fight, and called me the White Bear, because of my strength and fierceness shown in the narrow passages of the cabins, where but one could pass at a time. Arriving safely, we disposed of the vessel and her lading of prey and captives, and then held our way to the north- ward to reach the Isle of St. John. " Our voyage homeward was interrupted by a furi- ous storm, which drove us into Aspey Bay, where we remained several days, until the storm ceased, and our little fleet started late in the evening to pursue its homeward course. " From my uneasy couch in the centre of one of the canoes I could see the glassy waters and the deep shadows which lay beneath the wooded and rocky shore. There was no breeze to fill the sails, and the canoes were gliding along in perfect silence, broken only by the cadenced dip of the paddles and the 124 TWICE TAKEN. voices of my comrades, who, impressed by the wild beauty of the scene, spoke scarcely above a whisper ; when suddenly the foremost canoe stopped, and ex- clamations of wonder, fear, and warning broke from the lips of its crew. The other canoes, as they came up, stopped also, until they formed in the shape of a crescent, the first canoe*in the centre. " Looking towards the mouth of the harbor, I saw what at first seemed to be the trunk of a huge tree ; but the agitation of the water and the undulat- ing motions of the object showed that it was some sea monster. As it drew nearer, we saw with horror that it was as long as the largest pine that grows on the banks of the Kennebebi, and that its head and part of its body was fringed with long hair, which rose and fell as it held its way towards us. With desperate speed we sought safety in flight, making for the shore, which was reached without difficulty, and through the long night watched the monster, as it swam in huge circles around the little bay. At daylight it held its course out to sea, and disappeared from our view for- ever. " We reached home safely, but for many years our canoes shunned the bay which furnished a haunt to so fearful a monster." And the old warrior stalked homeward, while Hu- bert took the opposite direction with Gabrielle, whose fancy was so full of ghost stories and sea serpents that she nestled delightfully close to Hubert's side, and started at every splash and ripple of the brook over which they had to pass on their way home. ■.■'-■-■-J-. 125- CHAPTER XV. DESOLATION. THE weeks of Christine's visit passed rapidly away, and she prepared for her return home ; Rosalie was to accompany her, for news had come that the garrison at Minas had been reenforced by troops under Colonei Winslow, and that English war-vessels and transports were gathering at the mouth of the Gas- pereau. Rumors of all kinds were rife, but no two vsjf re alike in subject-matter, and the labors of the Acadians went on as usual. So, in the last week of August, Rosalie left her home for the last time, and was soon sailing across the bay in the direction of Minas. As they passed through the fleet, they viewed with interest the cannon which protruded from the sides of the black war-galleys, their tall spars and the delicate tracery of their rigging against the sky ; then leaving them far behind, they landed beneath the shady banks, and were soon under the hospitable roof of Jacques Gallant. During the evening Lieutenant Thorncliffe came in, and he thought that Rosalie had never seemed more beautiful ; for the cool breeze had increased the flush on her brown cheeks, and her dark eyes shone like stars beneath their long lashes. Nearly every evening he came thus, until the harvest was over, the summer 126 TWICE TAKEN. ended, and the pleasant weather of that memorable September had begun. Then word came to Du Thet that a force had been detached from the fleet, and were sailing towards She- pody and Memramcook ; and again he gathered the Abenaqui, and with swift canoes reached the farther side of the bay, while yet the ships were delayed by adverse winds ; and with Hubert and L'Our Blanc he tried to raise the French to resist the advance of the expedition ; but few consented, for they desired peace and quietness. But they were doomed to disappoint- ment ; for, as the fleet sailed up the river, the settlements were plundered and burned indiscriminately ; and men came with their families to Du Thet for shelter for their loved ones ; while by night the lurid heavens, and by 4ay tall columns of black smoke, told that the English were " making a wilderness, and calling it peace." Du Thet was encamped by a small settlement, in the midst of which stood a chapel ; the forest bounded it on one side, and the river on the other. When the scouts came in to announce the approach of the flotilla, he. ambushed his men, sending the children, women, and infirm, several miles inland. The fleet moved slowly up the stream, and, anchoring opposite the vil- lage, landed a small force, who began to apply the torch to several buildings, including the chapel. From the still wobds nearest them shot a hundred jets of flame, a cloud of smoke, a volley of arrows, and pealed the terrible crash of musketry, the still more terrible war-cries of the Abenaqui, and of the frenzied habitants. DESOLATION. 127 Like a whirlwind L'Our Blanc swept down upon the doomed English at the head of his naked warriors, while the Jesuit led to the attack the farmers who had seen their houses given to the flames, the fruits of their life-labor destroyed in a single hour. Vainly the scattered band strove to avert their doom ; in an instant they were, with but two or three excep- tions, all killed or mortally wounded, and the French and their allies had gained in their forest-fortress a safe retreat from the shot and shell of the invading fleet. Though Du Thet had been victorious in this aflair, he felt that it was useless to resist the whole force which he saw preparing to land, even had not the complete desolation of the surrounding country left nothing to save or to defend ; and again he •turned homeward, while the homeless settlers held their sor- rowful way to other settlements, or betook themselves to the light lodges and predatory habits of the savages around them. Meanwhile Rosalie had walked again with Thorn- cliflfe over the rustic bridge, into the shadowy wood- lands in Minas ; again they had walked together by the landing where, weeks ago, they had parted in deep heart sadness ; and as these recollections returned, they drew closer to each other, until again her head leaned heavily on his shoulder, and his arni half encircled her waist: yet neither spoke, for they were happy, and each feared to break the spell by speaking of the fu- ture, which each felt must again sunder them. At last Thorncliffe spoke : '^ I have missed you much, dear Rosalie ; have you missed me at all?" *: 128 TWICE TAKEN. " Yes, mon ami^ very much." " I am going away soon, Rosalie ; shall you be very sorry?" he continued; but looking down, he saw the question answered by her tears. He drew her closer to his breast, kissing away the tears, and calling her his " darling," his " heart's queen ; " and then, as she grew calmer, he told her of his love so long concealed, so hopeless until that hour ; of his sufferings when she had spoken coplly of parting forever ; oi his long and melancholy musings on the beach after her departure. And she stood there enjoy- ing the bright dream of a first and ardent love, listen- ing fondly to words for which she had longed so deeply and so hopelessly, until his tale was ended, and, raising her lips to his, told him thus, that his love was very dear to her. There by the glassy bay, beneath the dark shadows of the silent night, he promised her that his love should be hers unchangeably, invoking God's reward or pun- ishment as he should be true or false to her ; and she listened, filled with deep joy, save when she thought that her errand there in Minas was to act the spy, and by means of the love of this very man. For several days she was undecided what to do, whether to confess herself to him, and go home to her guardian, or to remain, and complete her mission. At last, on the evening of the 4th of September, she walked beneath the thrifty apple trees with Thorncliffe, and de- cided to tell him all, to deceive him no longer. They walked on in silence a few moments, she from dread of the results of her disclosure, he from a burden upon his own mind. ( -\ DESOLATION. 129 " I have a secret to reveal, Eugene, and I want you to keep it sacredly," said she, timidly. " I will, darling," said he, awaking from his reverie. " I fear to tell you, but I can deceive you no longer. I am and have been here for no other purpose but to enact the spy." "For whom?" " For the Black Priest of Chignecto, my foster-father. I have broken my pledge to him, for I could no longer deceive you. I will go home to-morrow, and you will never see again the woman who repaid your love and trust with deceit," she continued ; and he felt the shud- ders that went through her frame as she stifled her sobs, and tried to speak calmly. " Darling, you shall not go home, for you have done me no wrong; and I too have a secret which you must share with me — a secret which, if known, would bring sorrow and strife to all the lands about us : as it is, desolation must reign triumphant." * The sternness of his manner, and the terrible fore- bodings awakened by his words, caused "a momentary hesitation on the part of Rosalie ; but the promptings of love, and the consciousness that he possessed her secret, determined her, and she answered, — "I am vours from henceforth. Your secrets are mine, and I have never broken my faith but once, and that was for your sake." "You see this little village, with its many roofs rising above the surrounding orchards, its little chapel, its well-filled barns, its fertile meadows with their numerous dikes, the fruits of the ceaseless toil of many generations. You know tlie people who dwell ■; -.-y- I' -m I 130 TWICE TAKEN. here, their quiet lives, their raany virtues, their lavish hospitality. You know also that they have been sum- moned to meet to-morrow at the church, to learn the pleasure of his majesty ; but you cannot imagine the terrible woe that must follow the reading of that proclamation." " O, Eugene ! how sad and stern you look I how bitterly you speak ! Tell me the worst, for I fear many things for my race. End my suspense at once." ** Well, Rosalie, in a year from now the Indian hunter will stand amid the ashes of consumed dwell- ings, the ruins of chapel and fortress ; nothing else will be left save scattered trees, and unfeiiced gardens overgrown with weeds. For your whole race are doomed to exile, and the ships now riding at anchor below are to carry them far away into other lands, where they may no longer plot against us. I must help do this ; but you must not suffer with tlie rest. Fly to-night to your friends across the bay, and, if you please, warn them of their danger, but do not reveal my breach of duty." " How can I go to the Black Priest of Chignecto, and tell him that I was false to my trust, that I owe my safety to the love of one of the hated race he has so unceasingly fought against? How can I tell him that I knew of the terrible doom that awaits my people, yet would not save them ? No ! I go also ; if I may not save, I will suffer with them." "You shall not suffer, darling, for you shall go with me to the southward, where the summer is longer, and the winter less severe. There my love shall repay you for the love of the friends you leave DESOLATION. 131 wish sum- n the e the that how [ fear >> )nce. ndian dwell- g else irdens ;e are inchor lands, '. must e rest, if you reveal jnecto, I owe le has 1 him its my so; if lall go mer is ly love leave behind; my strong arm shall shelter you from all evil." And Rosalie, heart-snck and weaiy with grief, gazed into his eyes, and saw them dimmed by his sympathy with her own deep sorrow, and softly murmured, " Be it so, Eugene ; but, for the love of Heaven, be true and kind to me, for without you I am alone on earth." Led on by his strong love, he promised never to desert her, saying, " As I am true and kind to you, love, so may the mercy of God be shown to me on earth, and at the last day." A voice near them said, sternly, " Remember ! " and turning, Rosalie saw near them the form of her nurse Ulalie. " Remember your oath, chief of the AnglasJieowe^ and be kind to her who has thus deserted her friends and her race. The old nurse Ulalie will not see the Rose of Chignecto wither away because the sun of her life shines no longer upon her, for she ever remembers the brave who sleeps at St. Jean, and the desolation liis death brought to her existence. Ulalie was lonely at Chignecto, because the Black Robe and the chief of the Abenaqui were upon the war-path, and her foster-boy with them ; and so she took her canoe, and sought her darling. She will carry back to Du Thet the news of the fate that awaits his people, and the adieus of the child who leaves him." Thomcliffe spoke in a low tone to Rosalie, who in- formed him that the intiuder w; her faithful nurse, of whom he had heard her speak ; and he turned to her, and said, " Ulalie, you have taken care of Rosalie for ■r? i 132 TWICE TAKEN. m many years, and now sh^ leaves you forever ; but I would repay you somewhat for your care and kind- ness to the treasure I take from you." And he took from his bosom a heavy purse. "Ulalie desires none of your gold; she has done but what her love prompted, and her duty pointed out. The child she nourished has grieved hcr by her will- ingness to betray her trust, to desert her friends in their sorrow ; but she will ever have the good wishes of Ulalie for her welfare." Stepping forward, she kissed Rosalie, and then turned to ThornclifFe, almost fiercely : " And to you, leader of the heretic bands, who desolate our country, Ulalie gives this warning. Be kind to the bird you have taken from its nest, lest the rapier of the Black Robe, the teeth of the White Bear, or the rifle of Hubert De Courcy, visit upon you the vengeance you deserve if you are false to her." " If I am false to her, let it be as you wish with me ; and may my sword shiver before their onset," said Thorncliffe, calmly. Ulalie turned and glided down the path ; they fol- lowed. On the Seach lay her light canoe, the white sail still flapping in the favoring breeze. She launched it, and seated herself in the afl:er part, a light paddle in her hand. She gave to Rosalie a last fond look, to Thorncliffe a stately bend of the head, and the light bark sped on its way to the northward ; but ere she was enveloped in darkness, there came back one word of warning or fondness, which, Rosalie never knew, but it haunted Thorncliffe to the day of his death. Through the shadows of night, the darker gloom of tMUM y i ■■.,.■•.. :', DESOLATION. 133 but I kind- took done d out. : will- ids in .vishes the shading trees, above the ripple of the waves, and the rush of the gliding canoe, he heard it ; not loudly or menacingly spoken ; but calmly, yet warningly, it rose above all other sounds, the single word, " Re- member I " They walked back in silence to the house, and parted, as lovers do, at the door-way ; and Rosalie, on enter- ing, found that all had retired for the night. She sought her couch, and wept long and silently, until at last she fell asleep, nor awoke until the pleasant voice of Christine broke her deep slumbers, " Come, Rosalie, get up ; your breakfast has been waiting an hour or more. Why, what is the matter with your eyes? You look as if you had been crying all night. Have you quarrelled with the young Eng- lishman?" " O, no ! nothing of that sort, only I was a little low-spirited last night ; that is all," said Rosalie, as calmly and cheerfully as she could under the circum- stances ; and dressing, she went down stairs, and seat- ing herself at the table, tried to eat. She succeeded but poorly, however, .for she remembered how soon the happy family around her must be torn from the old homestead, and borne over the cold sea to a foreign land ; and again the tears started to her eyes. "What is the matter with the girl?" said old Jacques, who came in just then. " I am sure I don't know," said Christine, " but I am afraid Lieutenant Thorncliffe was unkind last night, and that they have quarrelled ; but, Rosalie, never mind ; all lovers quarrel, and it will all come out right in the end. Come, ma ckere, let us go up stairs, and .: •■ 1' lm\ 134 TWICE TAKEN. get ready to go down to the chapel. They will not allow us girls and women within, but when the men have heard the proclamation, they will tell us coming home." Rosalie was in agony all that day, while Christine braided her dark tresses, and arranged the ribbons on her holiday cap ; while going down the road to the chapel, in company with Christine and her admirer, Fidele ; while waiting the coming of the troops, whose drums were already sounding as the men marched up from the landing. As they drew near, Rosalie saw the tall form of Colonel Winslow, who carried in his hand the procla- mation, with its heavy seals ; and in the array marched Thornclifte, with many another gallant officer ; but to the eyes of Rosalie, commandant and subaltern were objects of pity. For thouj.h they strode past in all the gorgeousness of their sh» w y uniforms, the pallor of their cheeks, and their compressed lips, showed that they realized that they had a painful duty to perform, which was little likely to add to their renown, or to gain the applause of succeeding ages. A writer whose success I may not hope for, has painted the scenes that followed — the closing of the heavy portal ; the reading of that terrible mandate ; the grief, despair, and fruitless rage which harrowed the simple hearts of that band of brothers, fathers, hus- 'bands and sons, imprisoned in the old, familiar chapel, from whose doors they were no more to depart, until they went down to the ships, sent to bear them away forever from the pleasant scenes of dear old Acadia. DESOLATION. 135 ill not e men •oming iristine )ons on to the dmher, , whose ched up form of ; procla- marched •; but to ern were And he has written in thrilling, sorrowful numbers of the grief that filled the houses, tenanted only by ago- nized women and helpless children ; of the departure of the exiles, the embarkation of the men in separate vessels, and the final sailing of the fleet, bearing a na- tion into exile. I will not, therefore, reader, attempt to recite a tale so well sung by one whose songs are as " household words " in our midst, but will only say that Rosalie partook of the sorrow that crushed so many hearts during the dreary days that followed, and that at last, by a special order, she was placed on board the good transport Echo, and was met at the gangway by Lieutenant ThornclifTe, from whom the order had emanated. He had been enabled to procure her a place in the cabin, and her lot was much more pleasant than that of the rest, who were huddled together on deck and in the hold like sheep, together with their few movables. She was not able to find Christine, but learned that she had embarked on a smaller vessel, the Arrow, which lay near them. The Arrow sailed that evening, and as it afterwards transpired, was seized by the Acadians on board, who killed a few of the guard, then, landing the crew and surviving soldiers, crossed over to the New Bruns- wick side, and left the ship in an unfrequented harbor. They separated there, and several families crossed the strait and settled in St. Jean. Among these was the family of Jacques Gallant, who thus escaped the gen- eral fate of their hapless neighbors. ^ ' The next day the Echo completed her lading and 136 TWICE TAKEN. sailed slowly down the bay, the light breeze scarcely filling her sails. Heart-rending was the grief of her passengers as they saw the old, familiar places fading away in the distance. But they knew that the inter- vening tree tops did not shut from their sight the homes of their childhood, for they had seen the mid- night heavens red with the glare of their mighty con- flagration, the noonday air foul with columns of rising smoke. Finally the last headland grew dim in the distance, and they rose and fell on the billows of the great bay. The moon arose, and at the door of his cabin stood Thorncliffe, by the side of Rosalie, whose tears had ceased to flow, for grief had exhausted its fountains of bitter waters. He spoke to her of his presence, of his love, and the protection he would give her in all time of her need, until her eyes grew brighter, something of the old happy look coming back to her face, and then they communed with each other, talking of many things, until the waning moon warned them that they must soon retire, if they would seek rest before her beams were extinguished. As Thorncliflie rose to go to his cabin, Rosalie seized his arm, and pointing to the east, said, " Look ! " Just above the level horizon, from behind a small cloud rose a bright star, even as the moon was sinking in the west ; and Rosalie said, " Thousands of years ago, the disciples of a mighty sage,* whose teachings were for ages the boasted lore of Persia and scores of kingdoms beside, gave to him a name which signified " The Living Star," because to them he was the em- ♦ Zoroaster. '! ' ' : I'' DESOLATION. 137 '•f'i carcely of her fading e inter- 3-ht the he mid- tity con- mns of •ew dim billows bin stood ;ears had ntains of .ce, of his 11 all time lething of and then of many that they Defore her alie seized ok 1 " id a small as sinking s of years teachings 1 scores of li signified s the em- hodiment of all that was wise and good ; because v/ithout him all nature was without an expounder of her mysteries, and the night of ignorance and sorrow was gloomy and rayless. " I, like them, am involved in a terrible night of sorrow and hopeless despair, save for you, who are the living' star that must dissipate its gloom." And Thorn- cliffe vowed, as oft before, that he would never fail her ; and rising, they parted for the night, while the moon's dying beams fell on the blue sea, the white sails of ships, and the smoking ruins and masterless herds of that once beautiful and happy land, which the cruelty of man had made a desolation. * ( % t*^^._ 138 CHAPTER XVI. INFELIX VICTOR. .■-%fcv I PROUDLY home came Du Thet and his warriors from the war-path, bringing with them the scalps and weapons of the slain, the ransom of those they had taken alive. Though he had been unable to cope with the whole force of the enemy, still he had cut off many valuable officers and brave men, and avenged the injuries inflicted on his hapless country- men ; and, on the whole, he felt satisfied with the results of his expedition. As they left their canoes near the encampment of the tribe, Ulalie stood on the bank to receive them, her European garments laid aside, her face painted, as if mourning for a friend. Behind her stood a group of whites of all sexes and ages, in whom Du Thet im- mediately recognized near neighbors and familiar friends. Around lay their little store of movables piled up outside of within the lodges of their Indian protectors ; and the oldest, stepping forward, told Du Thet of the sad events of the past two weeks — how the habitants of Chignecto would not assemble as they were ordered to do, remembering the events of the years before, and dreading some new treachery of the English ; of the burning of their houses and barns by the soldiery, who shot and stabbed the innocent sheep INFELIX VICTOR. 139 and gentle cattle, which came to them for the food and care their masters could not give them ; of the swift pursuit, through forest and on the rivers, after the flying families, who were too often so encumbered with the sick and helpless, that they were unable to escape, or resist the parties sent out on all sides to capture them ; of the useless resistance of a few desperate men, who, seeing the fruits of years of toil gone forever, cared little for life, if only they might first send down to their eternal doom a few of the heretics, whose cniel hands had given back to the forest the acres wrested from it by the privations and toil of many generations ; of the terrible ret- ribution which followed all such resistance — the desperate strife, where no quarter was granted to the vanquished. Then he told of the news brought by Ulalie ; how her words of warning had placed many on their guard, and her knowledge of the country had found them a safe retreat in the secluded ravines of the highlands, and the obscurity of pathless copses. And she, stepping forward, said, — "Many moons have risen and set, many times have the trees budded and shed their withered leaves, since the Black Robe placed in the -care of Ulalie two children. One stands before the good father a strong hunter and a brave warrior ; but his days must be saddened by grief, for the maiden he loves has been borne far away over the great waters. The other grew in beauty and wisdom, and was trusted as« none among our nation are trusted, for our wise men have taught us that a woman may not be a spy ; for, tw^ 140 TWICE TAKEN. say they, ' Though riches may not corrupt, love may conquer her, and pity hinder her purpose/ And even thus hath it been with her, for the love of a war- chief of the Anglasheowc has won her, and Ulalie bears her last adieu to him who bore her, from the captured city of the king, to the arms of Ulalie. " Her work is done, and she returns to the garb and lodges of her race, to keep the wigv/am, and prepare the food of her relative, the White Bear. There the Black Robe will always be welcome, unless he chooses to forsake the lodges of the Abena- qui, and return to the home of his childhood, across the great ocean." Hubert stood leaning against a tree, in an agony of grief. Du Thet's cheeks were as pale as if life had expired within him. L'Our Blanc raised his keen axQ, and, with the war-cry of his race, lopped a huge limb from the nearest tree ; then stood silent and motionless, his large eyes glowing like coals of lire. " The war-chief is right," said Du Thet, waking from his reverie ; " women may weep, but men should avenge. Houses and lands are gone from us, but the forest shall cover our lodges and give us flesh and fire ; the rivers and seas shall give of their abundance, and our good rifles shall sustain our lives and avenge our wrongs." Thus it was that Du Thet found his triumph changed into mourning, his gladness into sorrow, his plans, which had received the thought of a lifetime, Torever brought to nought. Nothing was left him now but vengeance ; and this, during the years which followed, he sought with unwearied energy. INFELIX VICTOR. 141 After the departure of the French fugitives, who sought new homes in Canada and the adjacent ishmds, he and Hubert, in company with L'Our Blanc, ranged through the peninsula, attacking the scattering settlements, and stirring up the savages to incessant warfare, spending the winter in an Indian lodge, on the banks of the Shubenacadie. Ulalie took care of their domestic wants, and Du Thet found time, during the long weeks of cold weather, to teach the Indians many things pertaining to their spiritual as well as temporal welfare ; for the class of missionaries to which he belonged were none the less desirous of the conversion of the heathen around them because they engaged in political intrigues, and led bands of warriors to battle. He saw in the dominion of France the triumph of a race of Catholic faitli, who would encourage and strengthen the prog- ress of what he believed to be true Christianity ; in the success of the English, another terrible blow to the already waning power of " Christ's viceregent on earth." Proud and fearless himself, he loved to lead others to dangerous enterprises ; ambitious of fame, he loved to mingle in the exciting contest of opposing states- men ; yearning to know more than earth's sons are permitted to learn, he had ransacked the learning of ancient mystics, and sought out new discoveries by his own daring and genius. But all these things he had concentred on one point to advance the interests and glory of his own faith and country. For this he had faced death a thousand times in all its forms ; for this he had said farewell to the hope of i ■v^-. II 142 TWICE TAKEN. earthly love, and joys of paternity ; for this he had, as he believed, risked his soul's salvation, by seeking knowledge of things forbidden, by means unholy, of intelligences unseen and devilish. And now all had failed ; and slowly, but surely, he saw the sovereignty of France fading from the continent, where it had held almost undisputed sway for a century or more. He had seen one of her fairest colonies depopulat- ed ; one of her strongest citadels captured ; enormous armadas shattered by tempests ; their crews, and the armies they bore across the seas, decimated by pesti- lence. In addition to these things, the loss of Rosalie fell heavily upon him, heightened by the forebodings of her Indian nurse ; for Ulalie, as for many years past, was subject to those strange trances, in which the intelligence seems to expand, while the senses and volition lie in a torpor more or less complete. Her influence among her tribe was great, for they looked upon her as the especial favorite of the Great Spirit ; and, indeed, on several occasions she had prescribed for the sick, and foretold approaching events, in a manner partaking of the marvellous, even to Du Thet, and altogether incomprehensible to the simple Abenaquis. One night, as they sat around the fire, Ulalie seemed deeply abstracted, and became violently agitated, as if witnessing some sorrowful or horrible event, ex- claiming, " Poor Rosalie ! " " Poor child ! " until Du Thet asked her why she spoke thus. *' I see her," she said ; and then he saw that she spoke as one who talks in her sleep ; in low, plaintive tones, as if the soul were loath to express itself, save » INFELIX VICTOR. 143 .d, as iking iy, of I had jignty dheld through the more subtile channels of thought and in- fluence. "Whom do you see, and where?" " I see Rosalie, worn and weary with grief and neg- lect; and she is witnessing, from the snow-drifted streets, the nuptials of the man whose love drew her from friends and home, to a land of strange faces and foreign speech, only to betray and desert the simple girl, who made it the treasure of her life happiness. " She sees through the unshaded windows the beau- tiful pair, as they stand before the priest ; she can see their lips move as they vow to be true to each other, and almost hear the words of the young war-chief as he repeats to another the vows he broke to her. " The ceremony is over ; the festivity begins ; the air is filled with mirth and music, and the cadence of tripping feet ; but she stands without, weak and faint with sorrow, despairing of happiness, weary of life, dreading the future. " But Ulalie sees the veil lifted from the events which are to follow, and her eyes rest on scenes new and strange to her — a city, with huge walls of earth and stone, above whose bastions wave the lilies of France amid the smoke and din of battle ; and around it stand the white tents of the English, their batteries grim with cannon. " And between them, men meet in deadly combat, hilt to hilt and breast to breast ; the air echoes with their hoarse hurrahs, the shouts of the French infan- try, the war-whoop of the Abenaquis. Death reaps a rich harvest ; but the grim king gathers a predestined offering, for there the avenger meets his victim at last, ^ 144 TWICE TAKEN. and the strong arm of death rights the injury done years before to a helpless woman. He has been sought long and vainly, but the time has come at last." Then she spoke vaguely of ruined hopes and disap- pointed expectations ; of weary waiting, and the long- ings of a loving heart for the coming of its idol ; the sweetness of unexpected fulfilment of long-cherished hopes : and as she spoke the name of Cubenic, they doubted not that she communed with the spirit of her lost lover. Then she slept long and heavily, and, when she awoke, knew nothing of what she had said or seen, save that she had had a sweet sleep, and pleasant dreams which she could not recall. But her vision of Rosalie sank deeply into the hearts of Hubert and Du Thet, and anxiously they sought news of her, but found none. Through that long winter they hunted, and pre- pared for the coming summer, drying deer's meat and making pemmican to carry on the war-path, prepar- ing deer-skins for the making of hunting-shirts and leggir'^s, that should bear the sharp points of thorns and the scraping of flinty crags, in the fierce pursuit or headlong retreat without harm to the wearer ; while Ulalie adorned their moccasons with gay beads and porcupine quills, in rare patterns and many colors. By day they sometimes chased the huge moose, or tracked the wolf to his covert, or again drew the trout and silvery smelt through holes cut in the hard, thick ice ; while, by the light of resinous torches in the long evenings, they prepared for the next day's hunt, or the next year's expedition, w^hiling away the hours with INFELIX VICTOR. H5 stories of love, war, and mystery, or listening to the prayers and teachings of Du Thet. Again, when the ice became smooth and glassy, they sped on swift skates over the miles of river and lake that lay be- tween them and other camps, and talked with the warriors about the grand foray of the coming summer. Sometimes they would meet at designated places, and have a grand hunt, surrounding hundreds of acres of woodland with a living ring of savage huntsmen, and returning laden with food and peltries. At last the summer came, and Du Thet summoned the Abenaquis from all he surrounding country to meet him, in the Basin of Minas, with their war-canoes and provisions for thirty days ; and they came in great- er numbers than they had ever collected since the tribe was shorn of its strength by the deadly fevers at Chebucto. They met at the site of the ruined village of Grand Pr^, feeding their fires with the remnants of the half- consumed buildings and fences, drawing their water from the surrounding wells, and promising them- selves vengeance for the utter ruin that had overtaken their French allies and neighbors. Fifty canoes were stranded upon the beach : two hundred men wore the war-paint, among them a score or so of Acadians, who wept as they gazed on the ruins of their homes, and vowed bitterly that the year should not pass before an English village should be devoted to the same fate which had overtaken Minas and Chignecto. At last all was ready ; and in the dim gray of a sum- mer's morning they launched their canoes, and seated themselves therein. Two hundred paddles dropped 14^ TWICE TAKEN. lightly into the water, and, used with the strength and skill of two hundred strong men, sent the little fleet rapidly on its way, headed by the canoe of L'Oiir Blanc, distinguished by its size, the beauty of its or- namentation, and the number of the paddles which propelled it. The good ship Argo, in which Jason and the flower of his country sailed in quest of the Fleece of Gold over so many unknown seas, made no more sensation among the Hellenes than the landing of this craft had excited among the Abenaquis. It measured nearly thirty feet in length, and was of faultless model and proportions, covered with bark from a tree noted for its size and symmetry, and left untouched for many generations. Her inner sheathing and braces were of perfectly seasoned ash, specially selected for the pur- pose ; and the utmost skill of Ulalie had been exercised to work the broad belt of dyed porcupine quills which encircled her, and the stars that shone on either prow. She carried five warriors besides L'Our Blanc and his comrades, Hubert and Du Thet ; and eight paddles of carved wood forced her through the water when there was need of haste. The fancy of Hubert had named her Rosalie ; and when he spoke, Du Thet grimlj^ re- joined that she should avenge her namesake : and such was her name forever after. ^ Day by day she led the flotilla up the winding course of the Shubenacadie by banks now rocky and surrounded by gravelly shoals, now heavily wooded with huge pines, amid whose trunks one might deem himself surrounded by the pillars of some holy cathe- dral, or again forcing aside the odorous lilies and dense iii INFELIX VICTOR. M7 1 and fleet .'Our its or- which flower Gold isation ift had nearly lei and )ted for f many Arere of he pur- cercised which prow. and his dies of len there named iml^ re- nd such winding cky and wooded ht deem y cathe- d dense weeds of one of the long chain of lakes through which the Shubenacadie pours its waters. On the last day of their voyage, a canoe containing several men was seen to dart from a small island some distance ahead, and of course a chase ensued. L'Our Blanc laid aside the calumet which he had been at the time dreamily smoking, threw back his mantle from his muscular shoulders, leaving himself bare to the waist, save for the war-paint which covered him, and called loudly to his men not to let the fugitives escape. Du Thet dropped his Breviary, and, carbine in hand, stepped to the bows, where he, too, took a pad- dle, as did Hubert ; and soon the " Rosalie " was far ahead of the other canoes, and rapidly gaining on the chase. The English scouts — for such they evidently were — exerted themselves to the utmost to escape their pur- suers, and, as the swift canoe drew nearer, bent them- selves to their task until the light paddles seemed in danger of breaking. At last, but a hundred yards of water intervened between the canoes, and neither appeared to gain on the other, while tree and rock seemed to fly past with the rapidity of thought. The crew of either craft worked with their utmost strength silently, with quick but regular strokes, the sharp bows parting the glassy surface before, the paddles churning it into a wake of foaming ripples visible far behind. An hour passed, and the flotilla was far away, the source of the river at hand, a refuge for the scouts only a few miles distant, and Du Thet looked several times wistfully at the carbine which stood beside him, IQ 148 TWICE TAKEN, glancing at the distance that lay between him and the chase. Gradually this had been lessening ; for nothing but the consciousness that their lives depended on their ov/n efforts had enabled the fugitives so long to evade the huge war-canoe and her stalwart crew ; and now scarce eighty yards lay between the Jesuit and the scouts. He dropped his paddle and seized his carbine ; the Rosalie .^pidly dropped astern; he raised his piece quickly — a jet of flame, a little cloud of smoke, a report echoing far away among the mountains. The hindmost scout dropped his paddle and started to his feet, reeled, caught at empty air with stiffening fingers, and fell headlong in^o the lake, upsetting the canoe as he did so. A moment or two more, and the war-club and axe had done their merciless work ; and the Rosalie swept on past an overturned canoe, around which the paddles stained with blood, and caps rent by the death-stroke, told that the White Bear of the Abenaquis had not hunted in vain. But why should I again describe the events of an Indian foray, or detail the scenes which followed ? In these days we find much to condemn in the deeds of the French and English, who, with their allies, the various Indian tribes, hunted each other down like wild beasts, and made their contests scenes of utter extermination. f Suffice it to say, that in those days, as now, a little town culled Dartmouth, lay across the harbor, some few leagues from the city of Halifax ; and that, at ihs time of which we write, it contained many comfortable homes and happy families. A company of soldiers INFELIX VICTOR. 149 and the ling but eir ov/n ade the jv scarce ; scouts. ne ; the lis piece , a report d started stiffening ;tting the , and the ork; and >e, around caps rent ar of the nts of an wed? In deeds of allies, the down like s of utter iW, a little bor, some hat, at the mfortable f soldiers watched by day and night for the coming of the Abe- naquis, who every summer left the bloody corpses of their victims under the very walls. They had had unusual quiet for a long time ; and the scouts who kept watch on the banks of the Shubena- cadie, and in the adjacent woods, had given no warn- ing of coming evil, so careless was their vigil, and fatally certain their sense of security. For, in the darkness, the warriors of L'Our Blanc glided through the gloomy woods in single file, dimly seen, as the shadowy kings which gazed unvaryingly on the af- frighted Macbeth, until they could see the lanterns of the relief, as they went their rounds, and hear the drowsy voice of the sleepy guard, as he cried, " All's well," for the last time. There was a low rustling which some curious sen- tinel may have deemed the whispering of the night wind among the myriad leaves of the trees, but which really came from the stealthy approach of painted sav- ages, through the thick herbage, until a cordon of armed men surrounded the doomed village. Then rose on one side the weird and solemn call of an owl, rising three times through the shadows, and a few moments after came the signal for the attack. On the north-west of the settlement stood Hubert, carbine in hand ; and to him Du Thet had given instructions to fire, when, by the hooting of an owl, he should in- form him of the completion of his arrangements for the attack. He raised his carbine, and fired upon the nearest sentinel, who fell. A yell arose on the still night air, as if the spirits of hell had joined in chorus ; and then, I50 TWICE TAKEN. all around him, armed and crested warriors sprang from every bush and tree, following Du Thet, who, s^yord in hand, rushed on to the assault. Then the gates went down before the axes of the frenzied Aca- dians, who that night fulfilled their vow ; for ere morn- ing dawned the little settlement was in ashes, with the corses of its defenders and inhabitants lying amid the dying embers. Vain was all pursuit of the swift canoes laden with spoil, which., headed by the Rosalie, swept down the string of lakes, and the bright stream of the Shubena- cadie. Du Thet remained in Acadia until late in that fall, and then, in company with Hubert and L'Our Blanc, crossed the straits, to the Isle of St. Jean ; finding there old friends, and the newly-made grave of the lost Rosalie. t!' 151 sprang t, who, len the ed Aca- e morn- vvith the mid the den with [own the ^hubena- l late in bert and St. Jean ; I grave of CHAPTER XVII. LIFE SHADOWS. A PRECEDING chapter left Rosalie on board of the transport Echo, just as the setting moon gave to her view for the last time the distant coasts of Acadia, as in the midnight gloom she parted from her lover, seeking rest and happiness in forgetful sleep. The next morning found them on the broad ocean, with no land in view ; and favorable winds drove them swiftly on their way to their destination. Rosalie spent much of her time among her unfortunate com- panions, and did much to alleviate their sufferings, as she was enabled to procure for the sick and infirm many little comforts. Of course, most of the remain- ing time was spent in the society of Thorncliffe. As they sat one day talking, Rosalie saw that some- thing troubled her companion, and she said, " What are you thinking of, mon cher?" "I was trying to think what I shall do with you, darling, when we arrive." "Will you not take me to your home?" said she, simply. " Alas ! I may not do so, Rosalie ; for since the death of my father's brother, who fell years ago on the Isle of St. Jean, his hatred of the French is so great that he will have nothing to say tQ one of your race." '52 TWICE TAKEN.. mm "What will become of me, then? and how will you ever reconcile him to our union, Eugene?" " I hope, darling, that you will reconcile him. He surely will not be able to resist your beauty and good- nesF, fna belle^ only we must wait until a favorable opportunity. Until then I will procure you a lodging in the city, and you must be content to trust me to bring all things right in the end." " How and when was your uncle killed, Eugene? " " He was the mate of ; n ar^ 1 schooner sent to convey the French settlers a vay from the Isle of St. Jean, and was killed, with nearly all his party, by the savages, but not until he had slain one of their chiefs and several other warriors." Poor Rosalie shuddered as she recognized, in the words of Eugene, a description of the death of the slayer of Cubenic ; and as she thought of how often the tale had been told her by her Indian nurse of the swift avengers, the death thrust from the Jesuit's rapier, the crushing blow of L'Cur Blanc, before which strong arm and heavy cutlass had been as fragile reeds, she felt her cheeks grow pale, her heart almost cease its beatings ; for between herself and the fomily of tlie man she loved lay the barrier of blood poured out by violence. "I will not tell him," thought she to herself, " for none of my kindred struck the fatal blow ; and I dare not, will not, lose the love that is all that is left to me now.** * / " Eugene," said she, aloud, '^ I know you are right, and it must be as you say ; but you must try to move your father's heart, for I shall be very lonely and heart-sick when I sit without you in the midst of that great city." I :-; LIFE SHADOWS. 153 V will i. He I good- ^orable edging me to ene r sent to [e of St. I, by the ir chiefs d, in the rh of the ow often se of the Jesuit's ic, before been as ler heart f and the - of blood t erigl Then they talked of other things, basking in the warm rays of the waning sun, until Rosalie's heart grew light again, and her laughter sounded liquid and cheery as the merry ripple of the waves against the bows of the swift bark ; they hoped and talked con- cerning the future, building castles in the air, in which their choicest treasures were to be the love and society of each other ; and still the vessel rushed on, bearing them to their destination, while the stream of life hur- ried them on to their destiny. The sun set. As they watched the gorgeous hues of his waning splendor, Rosalie spoke of the Persians, who for thousands of years had worshipped the retir- ing glories of the Giver of Good, the daily rising of the fountain of life and light ; and as she spoke of the myriads who had in ancient times thus worshipped, Thorncliffe almost fancied he could see the rich robes of the kneeling Parsees, the lofty caps and hoary locks of the stately Magi, almost hear the rattle of the drum, the clash of the cymbal, the silvery lute, the low, deep murmurs of a nation at prayer. As the stars appeared in the azure dome above them, she spoke of the beautiful banks of the fertile Nile, of Egypt, mother of nations and civilization, — how first, there, men noted the signs and constellations of the planets, dividing the year into seasons and months, and arranging with regularity the fit periods of sowing and reaping, that men might not labor in vain ; then how there rose, among those simple rustics, men of intellect, who sought more deeply into the great se- crets of nature, who formed societies of mystics, to which none but the learned were admitted, and the 154 TWICE TAKEN. knowledge was confined ; how in the stars they found a sympathy with earth, a chart of the destiny of mortals. And Thorncliffe's heart warmed with the wild, weird tale told so sweetly by the woman he loved, until in thought he seemed to see the silvery river, dark with the shadows of stately temples and stupendous mausoleums, and bent over the horoscope with the priests of Isis, or stood beneath the radiant heavens of Egypt, with the seeker of destiny ; the vessel which bore him onward, the men of the eighteenth century, who slept or watched around, were all forgot- ten, and he lived in another age of mystery and of love. Until the ship's bell, striking the hour of nine, warned them that they must part, and the lovers, with a last pressure of the hand, a parting fond embrace with words of expectation of to-morrow's meeting, each sought repose ; and sleep closed the weeping eyes of the exiles, the thin lids of the sick, who tossed and turned uneasily in the crowded sick-bay, gave happy dreams of love to Rosalie, whose little heart had be- come heavy again with uncertain apprehension, and put an end, for the time, to the musings of Thorncliffe, as to how he should approach his dreaded parent, — while the sharp prow and tapering bowsprit of the vessel steadily pointed to the iron-bound shores of New England. In a few days the voyage drew near its close, and the Echo ran slowly between the outer islands into the harbor, and anchored between the castle and the town. Some days elapsed before the exiles were allowed to land ; but before that time Rosalie had been conveyed LIFE SHADOWS. ^55 y found tiny of dth the e loved, er, dark pendous ^ith the heavens ,e vessel ghteenth 11 forgot- y and of e, warned ath a last race with r, each g eyes of ossed and ive happy had be- lision, and lorncliffe, parent,— )rit of the esofNew close, and ds into the I the town, allowed to conveyed to a commodious dwelling-house in the northern part of the city. Here she was shown every attention, and would have been happy, had she not feared, too truly as it afterwards transpired, tlrat the father's hatred to anoth- er race would effect her separation from Thorncliffe. Still, life is not made up of sorrow alone, even with the most unhappy ; and how could Rosalie, loving as she did, be unhappy, when her love was returned ! For Thorncliffe did all that he could to make her life pass happily, and he spent many hours of each day in her society. Together they drove through the suburbs and into the wood-roads hung with many-hued leaves, or rode side by side over the level sands of distant beaches. Or, again, they walked by the waters of the harbor, and heard the rippling of its currents as they broke against sunken pile or gravelly strand. Then they sat in the still moonlight, at the open lattice, and com- muned with each other of many things, — of the le- gends and history of the past, the events of their own days, the hopes of the future, the more lasting joys of the world to come. Thus weeks passed away, pleasurable as the first fruit of the tree fatal to our race, and, like it, fraught with evil in its results to a beautiful and loving pair of mortals. For it came to the ears of the elder Thorncliffe, that his son had been seen many times in the society of a beautiful Acadienne ; he had satisfied himself of the truth of the report, and learned from the lady of the house at which Rosalie staid, that her expenses were all paid by Eugene. '56 TWICE TAKEN. Angry and grieved, he called Eugene to a private conference with him. The tall lieutenant, with a feeling of fear somewhat akin to what he had experi- enced on similar occasions in earlier years, followed his father silently into the dimly-lighted library, and closed the door behind him. The old man gazed at him grimly and silently, and then said, " What is this, son Eugene^ that I hear of vou ? " " What have you heard, father?" *' That the son of Deacon Thorncliffe has imitated the vices of the Old World, and that he keeps a hired mistress within a gun-shot of his father's house." " It is false, father." " It is not false. It is in vain to add falsehood to sin. I have seen the maiden, and have learned from the woman with whom she resides, that she is sup- ported by you." " That is true ; yet she is not what you suppose her to be, but an unhappy maiden, who has left friends and home for love of me, and whom I intend to make my wife, with your permission." " Never ! Eugene, never with my consent ! " said the elder Thorncliffe, sternly and coldly. Then his coldness gave way, and he seemed convulsed with rage, as he said, " A son of mine marry a French woman ! give his hand and name to one of a hated and treacherous race, forgetting the barrier of blood unavenged that separates, the difference of faith that divides ! No, Eugene ! remember the words of Moses imto Israel : ' Neither shalt thou make marriages with them : thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, LIFE SHADOWS. ^57 nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son. For they will turn away thy son from following me, that they may serve other gods : so will the anger of the Lord be kindled against you, and destroy you utterly.* " " But, father, I have pledged to her my honor, my sacred word, that nought on earth should separate us ; and if I desert her, she is alone and friendless," said Thorncliffe. " ' And thou shalt consume all the people, wliich the Lord thy God shall deliver thee ; thine eye shall have no pity upon them ; neither shalt thou serve their gods ; for that will be a snare unto thee.' " The solemn voice of the old man, as he quoted these stern teachings of the mighty prophet of Israel in answer, impressed Eugene, even while he was shocked at the pitiless severity of his words ; still he tried to soften him. " But, father, you will not counsel me to do wrong — to desert the woman I love, so far from home and friends; she has hoped for your love and your con- sent to our union." " Send her to her friends, then ; charter a vessel, if need be, and I will bear the expense, rather than see you throw yourself away thus." "She may never return to her friends; she is an orphan, and, when I first knew her, was the protegee^ and emissary of Du Thet, the priest of Chignecto, and" — " The slayer of my brother," said the old man, sternly, his face pallid with horror, sorrow, and hatred. Eugene tried to speak, to say something that should m iHtmtit m\ 158 TWICE TAKEN. avert the coming storm that threatened so much of sorrow and desolation to himself and Rosalie ; but the announcement was new to him, and he felt appalled by the thought of forming an alliance with one so nearly connected with the slayer of his uncle. At last his father spoke : " Eugene, you may never hope for my consent to your union, or for any relent- ing from my settled purpose. Na3% more, if I ever learn that you have continued your connection with this accursed Catholic, I will disinherit you, and my dying curse shall embitter your life. I have destined you for another orphan, your cousin Helen, left father- less by the wiles of that subtle and cruel Jesuit. She loves you, I know, and she will bring you some wealth ; if you refuse, mine shall be added to it at your expense. Give up your French mistress, and in the spring she shall be sent to any port she may desire ; but my son shall nev^er wed her with my con- sent. I have finished ; our conference is over ; " and with the hard, cold, gleaming eye of one whose pur- pose is settled, he left Eugene to himself, faint at heart, uncertain, and miserable. How the day passed he never knew, for his mind was torn by conflicting emotions and desires. Happy had it been for him had he sought the Right, and, casting all selfish thoughts aside, concluded to be true to himself and his vows to the poor girl, who wondered anxiously that day why he did not come, as she bent over her task. For the day before she had asked of ThornclifTe the day and hour of his birth, and was now trying to read his fate by the stars, as Du Thet had taught her in MtiuU .IFE SHADOWS. ^59 days gone by. And as she concluded her task, she looked pale and anxious, for the chart spoke of evil to him and to herself, in this wise : *' The querent shall fall in love for the first time in his 27th year. He shall be threatened with great danger, through this love, during his 30th year. He shall escape this, should he prove true to himself and to his word. Should death overtake him at this time, he will fall by violence and in battle." She sat alone in the twilight, wearily and anxiously waiting to see the lithe form of her approaching lover, or to hear his quick step on the hidden pavement be- neath ; but he came not : and as the shadows gathered and the stars came out, one by one, she still sat, wait- ing, fearing many things, but smiling at her fears. Then brightest of all stars, the planet sacred to love, rose again as she had seen it arise from the deck of the fleet ship, and she said to herself, " Thus the star of my love shall arise ; and its rays shall dissipate all my sad memories of the dead Past, all my fears for the Future." The thought brought her cheerfulness back again ; again she turned to her task, and wrote steadily for an hour longer. Then, folding the paper carefully, she said to her- self, " I will give this to Eugene when he comes again ; but I shall scold him a little first for staying so long away from me ; " and she placed it carefully in her little desk. She drew the curtains closely, and, taking her guitar, tried to play some of the merry strains which used to sound over the still surface of the Gaspereau, in her boating expeditions with Hubert and Christine m i6o TWICE TAKEN. long ago ; but they sounded harshly, she knew not why; and she found herself playing «ad, low melodies and solemn chants. She laid aside her instrument, and sang, wearily her "Ave Maria," repeated her " Pater Noster " as one who feels as if the joys and happiness of life are slowly, but surely, departing; and fell asleep, to dream of happy meetings with her lover, and rest from jealous fears, or dread of separation, to awaken again to find that her happiness had forever departed. On her table lay a note, written in a bold, steady hand. " Boston, May i6, 1756. Miss Rosalie De Courcy : M : Your connection with my son must cease to-day, as I have long since decided that he must marry a daughter of my brother, who fell at Port la Joie, by the hands of the Jesuit Du Thet or some of his band. You will take the money accompanying this, for your expenses until spring, when a vessel will convey you to your friends. I remain, respectfully yours, Thomas Thorncliffe." e"- i6i CHAPTER XVIII. TRACADIE. THE room seemed to darken, the surrounding ob- jects to become distorted and indistinct, and Ro- salie felt her limbs and face grow cold as her life-blood ebbed swiftly back to her heart — felt the terrible pres- sure on her tortured brain ; and then, God in mercy gave her for a time to drink of the waters of Lethe, for she became unconscious. When she came to herself, she was lying on her bed, and over her bent Mrs. Forster, her kind land- lady ; while the air was heavy with the odor of cam- phor, and she felt her dark tresses and throbbing tem- ples grow wet and cool with soothinj" lotions. She seemed bewildered a few moments, looked vaguely around the room until her eyes rested upon the fatal note ; and then she remembered all, bursting into a paroxysm of tears. Mrs. Forster drew Rosalie gently to her, and, seating herself, held her to her b*- d, motherly breast, until she was calmer ; and then questioned her concerning the cause of her trouble. " What is the matter, Rosalie?" said she, kindly. " Read this note, and you will know." . Mrs. Fors- ter read it, slowly and steadily, but with a gleam of honest indignation in her eyes, that brightened 1 62 TWICE TAKEN. as she read ; and as she laid it aside, she broke out into speech. " It's rascally ! it's mean ! it's cruel ! to treat you so, poor child ; and I'd never have believed it of Deacon Thorncliffe in the world, if he had not given me the note himself. He brought it this morning, and I laid it on your table, thinking that it must be from — ." She stopped short, for she saw the ominous paleness spread- ing over the mournful young face before her, and again she reached for her salts ; but Rosalie said, with a mournful smile, " Never mind now, Mrs. Forster ; I shan't faint again, but I feel very weak, and so weary : let me sleep if I can ; " and Mrs. Forster, darkening the room, left her, to go away and cry by herself, as she sat sewing in her easy-chair, in the sitting-room beneath. Rosalie, left to herself, hoped against hope, that her lover would return ; wiping away the starting tears, ^s she gazed on the portrait given by him only a few days before, or read over the tiny notes which she had received from him, and carefully preserved. Then, as she thought of her confidence and trust so cruelly betrayed, her blood, inherited from a long line of noble, adventurous ancestors, boiled in her veins, and she longed for revenge. Her eyes fell on a tiny dagger which she had carried when she played the spy in Minas. She seized it, and said aloud in her terrible anger and despair, " I will bury this in his false heart ! " and then, softly to herself, as again the tears dimmed and softened her glorious eyes, " He would be safe from me, were he ten times as false, were I all-powerful." Then her heart grew weary of lifj ; for what was TRACADIE. 163 life attended by disgrace and separation from all that makes a woman's life a blessing to herself and to others? The tiny blade was raised with another and deadlier purpose ; for few there are, I ween, who have not, at some period of their life, wished to drink of the grateful waters of Oblivion, even though the dread Angel of Death holds the fatal cup. Many there are, great and good, to-day, who have looked into limpid depths, and seen, in them, repose from the burden of sorrow and disappointment ; or, like Cato, with ready weapon, soliloquized of pain cut short by sharp steel ; or thought how quickly the crashing voice of the pistol would call the faint, despairing sol- dier from the fierce battle of life. But Rosalie thought of the day on which she had first seen the tiny weapon — the summer before the death of good Father Augustine ; how Du Thet had brought it from Montreal, and Father Augustin*^ had seen it as she received it from the Jesuit's hands ; and guessing the reason of the gift, had said earnestly, " My daughter, may the merciful God of Love and Pity grant that that blade remain unsullied by the blood of his creatures." Her thoughts wandered to the scene of his death, caused by his charity, and love of Christ; of the kneeling form, which had turned back the swift march of men unused to swerve from their purpose ; the snow-sustained crucifix ; the open book, from which the silent lips had preached so earnestly and successfully the hardest lesson of life, — forgiveness of enemies. The glittering dirk fell from the listless fingers, so tensely clenched a moment before ; and a prayei II 164 TWICE TAKEN. for forgiveness of her deadly purpose went up from her restless heart, with a petition for strength to en- dure, and patience to suffer, until the wings of Azarel the destroyer should shut out from her weary eyes all earthly sorrow and desolation. So she arose, and set her room in order, and waited, day by day, for the coming of Thorncliffe ; slow to believe that he could prove faithless to her who had trusted so much to his keeping. But he had made up his mind to forsake her, and marry his rich and beau- tiful cousin, from whom all knowledge of his love for Rosalie had been sedulously concealed. And while Rosalie, day by day, watched and waited, longingly and wearily, for a glimpse of his form, or a note in his handwriting, Thorncliffe, forgetful of the past, made the same vows to Helen which he had broken to poor Rosalie De Courcy ; and soon the day was appointed for their nuptials — the eve of the coming Christmas. Rosalie, hearing of this, determi ed to attend them, but might not enter his father's house ; so, in the drifted street she stood, opposite the uncurtained win- dows through which she saw the fair young couple standing before the venerable minister, who gave them to each other ; and as the mirth began, she reeled homeward, longing for death, yet with one event the less to dread. The other came to her in after days, in the pleas- ant spring, when all nature seems to rejoice, and hu- man hearts grow light and joyous, beholding the pleasant face of their common mother. But to Rosa- lie it brought pain, and sickness, and disgrace, hut, TRACADIE. 165 Lip from h to en- f Azarel eyes all d waited, slow to who had made up nd beau- s love for nd while longingly a note in the past, id broken day was le coming end them, so, in the ained win- ng couple gave them she reeled event tbe the pleas- :e, and hu- olding the ut to Rosa- grace, hut, nevertheless, brought something on which she could rest the remnant of her shipwrecked love ; and as the days lengthened, she grew stronger, and something of the old flush came back to her cheeks ; but good Mrs. Forster shook her head ominously, as she watched it deepen and grow pale by turns. Again there came a note from the elder Thorncliffe, telling, in short business phrases, that a vessel bound for the Gulf of St. Lawrence would sail on the next day week, *' God willing," and that she could have a passage to any port there, which she might choose. After long thought she wrote to him that she would be landed at the Isle of St. Jean, and made prepara- tions to go. Hard was it to part with her kind land- lady, and harder still to leave behind all hope of meet- ing again with her faithless lover, whose treachery had not extinguished her love. But she endured it all, and saw with dim eyes the receding wharves and tall spires of the city w^hich had been to her the scene of so much pleasure — of such great sorrow. Their voyage was unusually long and tempestuous, and their fare poor, and unsuitable for one as weak as Rosalie; and day by day her own strength failed, and she saw the death she had longed for gradually draw- ing nigh. Her child, too, seemed weakly ; and it was with joy that she passed through the still waters of the Strait of Canseau, and reentered the open gulf. She directed the captain to land her at Port la Joie ; but he would not enter the harbor for fear of treach- ery ; so, standing up the eastern shore of the isle, he hailed a small shallop, and placed her, with her few effects, on board. As she left the deck of the 'i\m m 1 66 TWICE TAKEN. schooner, she placed a packet in the hand of the mas- ter, and made him promise to deliver it safely ; then, stepping into the shallop, she saw the swift craft she had left pursuing her course to the eastward. "What is your name, madam?" The voice seemed familiar, as she turned and saw the captain of the boat standing by her side. As she saw the straight, tall form, which, but for the face, seamed with care and exposure, might have belonged to a youth of twenty- five, her thought went back to the time when, from the burial-ground of the plague-stricken camp at Che- bucto, she had seen the same man, heading, in his white-winged shallop, the home-bound canoes of the remnant of the warriors of St. Jean. "You do not know me then, Jean Durel?" " No, madam ; but I have seen a face like yours somewhere ; and, since you know me, it cannot have been in my dreams," said he, cheerily. " It was not in a dream, although it seems like one now ; for then the face was that of a happy child, and now it is a woman's, and pallid with pain and sick- ness. )» " Where, then, have I seen it? for my memory is so full of various faces that I do not always remember." " The last time you saw me, ten years ago, I stood by the side of my Indian nurse, and you kissed me good by, as you " — / " Parted with your guardian Du Thet, the warrior priest of Acadia." And he shook her hand heartily, calling aloud in his joy, — - "< " Henri ! Jacques ! come here and greet Mademoi- selle De Courcy, your old playmate at Chebucto. " TRACADIE. 167 And, as the tall, strong men greeted her kindly, and almost wept as they asked her of her friends and for- tunes, she felt, for a time, at least, the luxury of meet- ing with warm-hearted friends. " And you are married, too ! What a pretty boy ! '* but he ceased as he saw the deep crimson blushes, so soon succeeded by the livid pallor which followed them ; and they sailed onward in silence, over the foaming bar, into the serene, quiet harbor of Tracadie. The boat glided on until Rosalie could see the little chapel, with its simple cross, surrounded by the hum- ble dwellings of her countrymen. A shallop sailed to meet them, and a tall young man called across the water to Durel, " What cheer, Captain Jean, and why did the Englishman board you outside?" " The best luck of the season, Fidele, for I have brought ashore a passenger, a countrywoman, Fidele." The news was repeated, and passed rapidly from house to house, while the women and children came down to join the fishermen on the beach. The prow of the boat touched the shore, and strong hands car- ried Rosalie across the intervening shallows, to be seized, caressed, and heartily welcomed, by no less a personage than her former friend, Christine Gallant, now the happy wife of Fidele Arsenaut. Then Rosalie, wondering if so much happiness could be hers, went up to the house of her friend, although Durel urged her to stay with him for a while, at least ; and after a supper, which seemed a feast after her hard fine on board the schooner, she lay down to sleep, and awoke not until the sun had been many hours above the horizon. liiHK I II 1 68 TWICE TAKEN. When she arose, she found breakfast awaiting her, and with it Christine, anxious to hear the story of her life since they had been separated at Minas. She told her of much of what we have here related, and Christine spoke words of consolation and friendship, sweet indeed to one so long denied them. The evening came, and with it Fidele home from his work ; and after the evening meal he told of his own trials, and of the surprise of the English crew by himself and his fellow-exiles, — how, unarmed, they had seized the arms of the heretics, and turned them against themselves ; how women, in their anguish and despair, had fought like the men ; and how Providence had guarded them from recapture, supplied them with food, and blessed their labors in this new land, where nothing terrified save the fear of English cruisers. While he was still speaking, the Durels came in, and listened to his story of the weak and sick, who had been unable to support their sorrows, and died in the lonely woods, or on the pitiless surges ; and tears fell like rain while he spoke. Then Rosalie was asked to tell her story ; and she told it as it had been, from the first of the mutual confidence, the night before the reading of the king's Proclamation, the removals, the voyage, and her de- sertion. She saw the faces around grow hard and cold ; the old, fierce look wreathing the face of Durel; and Christine, even, seemed uncertain whether to blame or to pity. But Fidele rose, his face flushed with anger, and said, " Rosalie, as friends we have received ycJu : we thought you a sufierer from the same cruel cause as TRACADIE. 169 ourselves ; we find you false to us and your brave guardian. Had you told us the fate that threatened, how many lives would have, perhaps, been spared us, whose light was quenched by the despair and suffering of that terrible year of woe and misfortune ! On you I lay the death of my dear father, whose old age could not sustain our hurried march across the wooded hills of Shepardie ; on you, the blood that stained the decks of the Arrow ; the desolation which broods over the ruins of dear old Minas. In your desertion and disgrace I see the justice of Heaven ; and from my roof I desire you to depart as soon as may be." Rosalie looked around her, but saw no ray of pity to cheer or encourage, and, taking her babe, went forth into the cold rain and dense darkness of the night, — for a storm had set in since noon, — weary of life and utterly hopeless. But her mother's love still lived, and she wrapped her child in the thin mantle she wore, regardless of herself, as sadly she walked with trembling steps over the wet turf. % " When shall my weariness and misfortunes end ? " she exclaimed ; and she heard the waves answer, as they broke on the shores below, " With death alone." " I accept the answer, for in truth on earth sorrow and shame alone are my portion. Father in heaven, forgive me, if I seek in another world a refuge from the cares and anguish of this." She was hurrying down to the shore : the hoarse roar of the ocean surges sounded nearer, the waves of the haven broke less loudly, almost at her very feet ; but she remembered her child. Life to him might yet ' i: liiii Hi ' "■' i r, \\MU i! sill •F ■ liiii 170 TWICE TAKEN. be sweet ; in the years of the future, careless of the love of a mother he had lost too early to know, he might become rich, famous, and happy. Near her a darker shadow loomed up in the darkness, and in its large, unlighted walls she recognized the chapel of the settlement. The rude cross of the grave- yard attracted her eyes, and turned her from her purpose of suicide. " In the house of God I will seek the shelter denied me by men," she thought, as she tried the door, which opened easily ; and she entered the chapel, where, on one of the rude benches, she passed that terrible night. In bitter tears of shame, in agonies of sorrow, in prayers for forgiveness, in abasement of spirit, in hope of rest in death, and the joys of another life; until, wearied in body, and stupefied with emotion, she sank into a deathly sleep, from which she awoke not until the villagers had assembled the next morn- ing, and her awaking ears were greeted by the voice of the priest, as he commenced the ritual of the sa- cred mass. When Rosalie left the house, no one had entreat- ed her to remain ; and after she had gone, they sat looking at each other in sullen silence, during which the priest entered. They bowed reverentially as he gave them his blessing : his first inquiry was for the new comer. " Where is your guest, Christine? " Christine did not answer. ^ " She has left us," said Fidele, coldly. *' Left you ? Impossible ! " said the priest. TRACADIE. 171 f sorrow, in of spirit, in another life; ith emotion, ;h she awoke next morn- by the voice lal of the sa- *' Is it not so? " said Fidele to those around him. They replied by silent nods, and the blushes came back to the cheeks of some, as they thought of the cool winds and piercing rain without. The priest frowned. " Explain your words, Fidele Arsenaut. Where is the guest who sought your hospitality? the un- fortunate, sent by God to receive our consolation and assistance." " I will tell you. Father Jerome, and you will see that she is altogether unworthy our kindness, rather worthy of death." Then he detailed her whole story, dwelling especially on her guilt in not divulging the secret imparted to her at Grand Pre. He concluded, " And now, holy father, can any one blame us, who have lost so much of worldly happiness, who have been separated from loved ones, and kind neighbors, when a word from her might have saved us all that we have lost? Can any one blame us, I say, if we refuse to harbor so guilty a creature?" i. " Fidele," — and the priest's voice tremblld as he spoke, — " I know you to be a pious man, and that, every night before you sleep, you ask God to bestow his forgiveness on you, as you bestow pardon on others ; and yet you, who by his blessing have found here a happy home, while hundreds of others wander disconsolately in distant lands ; you, who have heard the touching story of the many misfortunes of this poor girl ; you, who have never known such misery as she must daily suffer, — yet you, I say, have driven her out from among you shelterless, weary of life, friend- less, and despairing. 172 TWICE TAKEN. " Let U9 go ! " said he, rising. '•*■ A lantern, Fidele ! " It was brought, and the men, taking their heavy coats, went out with him to search for the woman they had so cruelly scorned — but in vain. In vain they searched the whole settlement — in sheds, in barns, in the angles of the chapel building itself; no one thought of trying the door ; and, after hours of search, they returned to their respective homes as anxious for the safety of Rosalie now, as they had been indignant and cruel a few hours before. Fidele left the priest at his door. " If she should die to-night, her blood will be on my head. Pray God, that this sin of want of charity and forgiveness be not laid to my charge." " Hope for the best, my son, and earnestly seek for- giveness. Many such sins are forgiven, for few there are who have learned the greatest lesson taught by the Savior of men." And with his blessing, he bade him good night. 173 CHAPTER XIX. THE LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART. tly seek for- )r few there I taught by ng, he bade THE people gathered in the little chapel, unmind- ful of Rosalie, who still slumbered in her obscure corner, until awakened by the voice of the priest, as' he commenced the solemn service of the mass ; and she arose, and seated herself upon the bench on which her head had been pillowed during her long stupor. Glad were the hearts of Christine and Fidele ; and looks of kindness greeted the poor girl from faces the night before black with anger and cold with scorn. But all were silent as the service proceeded. With lowly head and clasped hands, Rosalie joined in the Confiteor, mindful of the dead past, and feeling that the future had little space for repentance or change of life ; for she felt faint and dizzy, and her temples were throbbing with fierce pain. Then, with a calm and grateful awe, she heard the words of Father Jerome, as he repeated the " Absolution of sins to those who truly repent;" for to her the world had nought in the future. No darling temptation, no cher- ished idol, to impair the sincerity of her repentance for the sins which had brought so fearful a punish- ment. ,, The service proceeded ; and, with varied emotions, she listened to entreaties for mercy, and the deep and li i i 'I'l'ic'in I H I ijiii;i;ii; 174 TWICE TAKEN. solemn chanting of the choir, until it began the " Lit- any of the Sacred Heart of Jesus" — not a part of the regular service, but sung or read at certain seasons of the year. As the chant began, Rosalie listened to the words earnestly, and remembered how she had heard them in the happy past, at Chignecto and Minas ; and, in- audibly, she joined in the words which beseech the listening car of the Most High : — " Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, hear us. Christ, graciously hear us." Then followed the numerous attributes of the great, kind heart of Him to whom every mortal heart must turn for consolation in sorrow and desolation. " Heart of Jesus most meek. Heart of Jesus most humble. Heart of Jesus most obedient. Heart of Jesus most chaste." And Rosalie, recognizing her own want of humility and resignation, bent lower before her Savior as she sang, and each adoring sentence was a prayer for for- giveness. Still swelled the chant, and as it rose, the song of Rosalie rose with it, growing audible by degrees. - " Heart of Jesus, source of contrition ; Heart of Jesus, treasure of wisdom ; Heart of Jesus, ocean of bounty ; Heart of Jesus, throne of mercy ; Heart of Jesus, abyss of all virtue." THE LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART. '75 Then the same chant grew sad and mournful, placing before men the sorrows of the Savior's heart. " Heart of Jesus, sorrowful in the garden ; Heart of Jesus, spent with bloody sweat ; Heart of Jesus, filled with our reproaches ; Heart of Jesus, consumed for our sins ; Heart of Jesus, made obedient unto the death of the cross ; Heart of Jesus, pierced with a lance." Rosalie felt, as she never before had felt, the great love of the Son of God. Her tears fell freely as she sang on with the choir, and the low moanings of her babe mingled with her own sad tones. The people listened, and tears broke from many eyes ; but the chant continued : — " Heart of Jesus, refuge of sinners ; Heart of Jesus, fortitude of the just ; Heart of Jesus, comfort of the afflicted ; Heart of Jesus, strength of the tempted ; Heart of Jesus, terror of devils ; Heart of Jesus, sanctify our hearts." Her voice became husky and tremulous, but still she sang on to the end, her eyes cast upward and onward, as if she already saw before her a welcome rest in the arms of the Good Shepherd. " Heart of Jesus, perseverance of the good ; Heart of Jesus, hope of the dying ; Heart of Jesus, joy of the blessed ; Heart of Jesus, the delight of all the saints." As she ceased, she stood trembling for a moment with emotion and weakness, and then sat down quietly, ii ' i fillii '!)!' ' I ' ;liii i!!;. ' ^im I fli'r mm ' ii ii I'lli! 'ii!! ili m0 ilii! iijliiilij!'!! ' %m ij|i|: i!;!i|,; i U) m I ! 176 TWICE TAKEN. sinking back as if wearied ; but the good priest saw the white lines widening and covering her fiice. " Fidele," said he, pointing to RosaHe, " I say unto you, ' Feed my sheep.' " And Fidele, rising, with tears in his eyes, raised her in his strong arms, and, followed by Christine with the babe, bore her gently home, and laid her on the bed, from which she was never to rise again. She revived from her swoon to receive the kind words and caresses of Christine, and the apologies of Fidele, whose attentions strove in vain to restore the health and strength lost by her on that terrible night. Day by day she grew weaker ; yet her mind was little disordered by her illness, and she talked often with Christine of her happiness in* the far-off Acadian land ; and, in her short intervals of deliiium, she seemed to be again in thought amid the scenes of her girlhood ; now listening to good Father Augus- tine, now rambling with Hubert after berries or flow- ers, or gliding ver the shallows of the little lake, among the odorouS water-lilies. " Stop, brother," she would say, " and let us gather some of these lilies. How beautifully pure and sweet they are. It is true they will fade and wither soon, and it seems a pity that they should die to give us a few moments of pleasure." *' Father Augustine," she would say, at another time, " they told me you were dead, and I dreamed I saw you lying cold and still, your little crucifix on your breast." " Do you say you did die? and why, father? " Andl she waited a few moments, as if for an answer. THE LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART. 177 priest saw ice. I say unto y'cs, raised r Christine aid her on igain. e the kind e apologies 1 to restore that terrible et her mind d she talked 11- the far-otY of deliiium, the scenes of ather Augus- ;rries or flow- :,e little lake, brother," she >f these lilies- re. It is tnie seems a pity f moments of ■Y' at another idldreamecU tie crucifix on father?" Anc answer. "From love of God, and chanty to -iCn? I am dying of love ; pray for me, father, that the love of God may give me rest with you in heaven." But one night " a change came over the spirit of her dream," and she seemed stern, calm, and emotion- less, as she spoke for the first time of her faithless lover. She seemed to imagine him standing before her, and to have been asking him if he had received something she had sent him. " Then you have not received the package I sent you, and the captain was false to his trust : then I must tell you of its contents. There were, first, your letters, noble and true, as you were when first I knew you. Read them once, and you are sufficiently pun- ished, for you will never again believe yourself to be an honorable man. Next, your gifts, excepting your picture. \our wife need not be jealous, for it will soon lie on the bosom of the dead. Lastly, your own destiny, and the warning of her who read your fate in the stars. Stay at home when the lilies of France threaten your flag ; seek not again the shores of the Gulf; avoid the city twice besieged, the perilous trenches, the desperate r ^ly, until your thirtieth year be past; then you may ..afely indulge your love of adventure or ambition." She then spoke vaguely of sunken fleets, and barks wrapped in flames, until she slep., and awoke to speak calmly and rationally as ever. A fo^night before she died, a canoe arrived at the little settlement, and one of its occupants, a woman of tall form, and regular, noble features, asked if Chris- tine Gallant lived in that part of the island. She was I Hi i I ilniili li n I I i ll ! illiiiiiii ; ill! ill 'if! if I'liii m\mm> Illiiiiiii m liii liila!' ti!;i I 78 TWICE TAKEN. directed to the house, and walked in without knock- ing, but stopped suddenly, as she saw the pale face of Rosalie before her ; and then stepped quickly forward to embrace her long-lost darling. Rosalie threw her arms around the neck of her old nurse, and cried and laughed by turns. " Ulalie has been lonely, for she has missed the songs and caresses of the bird which left its nest at Chignecto, and went, no one knew whither." "Ah, Ulalie! your bird has come back with shat- tered wings, and wishes only to nestle a while in your arms, before it takes its flight into the world of shadows." " Ulalie will take care of her bird, and its wings will grow strong again, as in the happy days at the old cottage in Chignecto. The Black Robe and Hu- bert will soon be here, and their hearts will rejoice to learn that the lost one has returned to them again. But Rosalie must not talk more. Ulalie will tell her about all that has happened ; but she must rest." And Rosalie, knowing that it was useless to con- tend, listened as Ulalie spoke of the life led by Du Thet and Hubert since the year before, and fell asleep as the sun was setting. Ulalie, rising, went to the assistance of Christine, and of her learned all that had happened to Rosalie. As she listened, her face became terrible with resolve. " The eagle may slay the robin with safety ; but who shall save the eagle from the arrows of the Abenaqui?" Christine knew that the fate of Thorncliffe was little short of certain. As the invalid grew worse, she talked often with iiijiiii ■:~\' "!7 lyn'' -^^T-^^yvi^j^^.f- vfi^'^'Y'^yrf^r'rr^ri.^\*r r-'y-' -'^.p . ■.^'-;f. ■ THE LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART. 179 ed the nest at h sliat- hile in orld of :s wings s at the ind Hu- ejoice to n again. . tell her St." s to con- ;d byDu fell asleep good Father Jerome, and she became strangely quiet and calm as her sickness increased : talking, some- times, mournfully of the past, it is true ; but of death as a welcome messenger, bringing a summons to a brighter life. She was troubled only about two things : first, the concealment of their fate from the people of Minas ; and secondly, the future of her child. " Do you think there was anything to excuse my treachery, Father Jerome?" said she, one day, as he sat by her bedside. " You do not know how I sutlered, how I wept. For I foresaw, if I kept the secret of my lover, the desolation which lies over that fair land ; and it seemed to me that worse results would follow if I revealed it. I saw the angry and astounded farm- ers gathering to the battle against the trained masses of the foe; the swift runners, calling to their aid the fierce warriors of the forest ; the hopeless and san- guinary conflict; the houses torn by the huge missiles from the black war-ships. And I knew that the life of Thorncliffe might be sacrificed, my own ended, by the ignominious death of the spy. So my woman's heart failed me ; and I dared not fill the sacred and peaceful stillness of that quiet night with the terrible sounds of the fierce anger of man. " Another thing troubles me : death is near, and I welcome him ; but I am anxious for my child. Would that my brother were here to see me once more, to tolu me in his strong arms, and to tell me that he will care for the helpless babe, so soon to be motherless." "Daughter," said Father Jerome, " you may not be harshly judged for the past ; perhaps } our motives 12 lll ■ i in ';i i 1 1 ii I '! ii'i 'I I js lljll! !| iiiiii m III I So TWICE TAKEN. were more worthy of praise than censure ; for, * Bless- ed are the peacemakers/ Christ, who hath suffered as thou hast suffered, and who reads the hearts of all, will be thy judge, and not we ; who, weak and erring, see only with selfish eyes, and hearts unmindful of the mercy shown to us." Ulalie said, " In the lodges of the Abenaquis there shall ever be a place for the child of Rosalie ; in the care of the Black Robe he will not want. Chris- tine also has said that the babe of her dearest friend shall never want for care while she lives ; so the wings of the dove may be folded in peace." As the nurse and Father Jerome went out together, they heard, rising on the still air, the longing apostro- phes of the Litany of the Sacred Heart. " Heart of Jesus ! hope of the dying ; heart of Jesus ! joy of the blessed ; heart of Jesus ! hope of all the saints." " God grant us forgiveness," said Fidele, who over- heard her, "for our sin; when once before we heard her sing, with our hearts untouched by pity, and hers was breaking." At last came the day so long expected ; if not long- ingly, at least unfearingly, by the patient invalid. It came, balmy and beautiful as those of the Indian sum- mer, when the leaves are dying, and the flowers are fading away ; and yet all nature seems bright and beautiful. The}' sat in the quiet chamber. Fidele no longer angry, but kind and regretful ; Christine with the old love in her eyes, red with weeping ; Durcl, stern, as was his wont, but grave and sympathetic ; Father Jer- liiii THE LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART. l8l ' not long- iivalid. It idian sum- lowers are bright and no longer ith the old el, stern, as Father Jer- ome, who had performed the solemn services meet for the dying ; Ulalie, who, to the last, would serve the child she had nourished ; and Rosalie, who, awaiting with patience and contentment the coming of the Lord's messenger, lay on her couch, speaking kind words of consolation. " Do not weep, Christine, for me. I have long waited for death ; and, in wicked despair, have, at times, determined to anticipate his long approach : but now I am of a difierent mind. Life to me has lit- tle to offer but sorrow ; and the consolations of reli- gion, the joy of pious works, can only alleviate the long and weary journey. In a better life, a happier land, I shall find rest and peace ; and I hope to welcome you all there when you too cross the mysterious river. " Let me ask of you a favor, and do not let my words grieve you. When, in the future, you sing that chant you heard me sing at the chapel, think of those who may be weak and erring, as I am, and for my sake try to soothe and comfort them ; knowing that the great Heart you petition is full of mercy for the worst of his creatures. Do you promise?" They all answered, " We do." " Ulalie, tell my guardian and dear brother, ^ a- bert, that I died loving them; and ask them, ii .ver they should meet in battle the man to whom I owe all my sorrow, to forgive him for my sake. I may not love him now, for another possesses his affections ', but I may save his life, for in the future he must meet with the avenger. Tell them this, Ulalie ; f-^r it seems as if I should not rest even in the quiet grave, should he die for his sin against me." Ill :§'i 182 TWICE TAKEN. lit! 'If;!: ill m i i ! HI ill; ill!!! iii a! iSiiil ! ill ■'liii'i I nil fc i ill Mir!! '1! I' iiiiliil li^i-l I i Mil! I :;::!::;: ' : Hit li:0!>'li; 'i!!i'' MM " I will tell them," said Ulalie. " I am tired. I will sleep now ; " and she sank into a sort of stupor, from which when she awoke, she seemed to be singing from her favorite chant, through which her deep agony had floated to heaven, on the first Sabbath of her stay at Tracadie. As the shades grew deeper, and the sun's last rays threw their faint gleams of ruddy light on the western sky, the weary eyes closed forever to the scenes of earth ; the little hands lay pale and nerveless on the motionless breast; the heart which had so often beat wildly with love and pleasure, or almost stood still with fear and anguish, ceased its allotted task. Another bark lay a wreck on the shores of time. Another soul sailed the unseen ocean of eternity. She was laid to rest in the little churchyard, and Fidele placed a simple cross of cedar at the head of the grave ; for, save the ledges of soft sandstone, no more lasting material could be found in that beautiful island. All the inhabitants of the settlement attended her burial, and few eyes were dry as Father Jerome spoke of the sorrowful experiences of the dead, — her patience in her last sufferings, her glorious hope of another and happier land ; finishing with a fervid ex- hortation to be warned and profited by her example. As the green turf covered her last resting-place, the mourners went back to their homes, each to sufter and enjoy, as fate decreed, the life which to her would bring nothing more of joy or sorrow. Ulalie alone remained by the grave : Ulalie, whose heart was now almost desolate, whose mind was fuH of sad and bitter reveries ; and as she remembered the TIIK LITANY OF THE SACRED HEART. 183 ; sank into woke, she it, through en, on the the shades • their ftiint , the weary i; the little ilcss breast ; ith love and nd anguish, r a wreck on the unseen rchyard, and the head of andstone, no hat beautiful nent attended ather Jerome dead, — her ious hope of a fervid ex- er example, resting-pl^c^' each to suffer to her would Ulalie, whose mind was full imembered the great wrong which had culminated thus in sorrow and death, she thought scornfully of the new faith which taught licr forgiveness for injuries. " Ulalie has long tried to listen to the teachings of the white priests, and she has bent before their God in sorrow and repentance ; every evening her petition has sought Mali^* the mother of ycchuch Kllt.^ Yet Cubenic went from her, when her love had wound itself around him, as the ivy embraces the elm ; the plague struck down her aunt, when the war-paint was changed to sorrowful black at the fatal camps of Chcbucto ; and now, the bird she nourished for many seasons, the dearest of her love-treasures, has left her, struck down by treachery and ill-requited love. He who has done this wrong lives happily, unpunished by an avenging God, while she who died in the Chris- tian's faith seeks with dying breath to screen him from the just vengeance of man. Shall he escape? No! " Rather let Ulalie hold the faith of her fathers, be- heving in Kesoulk^ the merciful, the loving, the benev- olent Creator ; in Mundoo^ the spirit of evil ; in the faith that teaches us to be just, to be kind to our friends, to avenge their wrongs and our own. " Hear my oath, spirit of Rosalie, and forgive, if the love which I bear for you cannot change my purpose. Ulalie, daughter of kings ; Ulalie, prin- cess of a race of warriors ; Ulalie, prophetess of the Abenaqui, pledges herself to this purpose. By the memories of her past love, never to return ; by the tor- ments of love deceived, suffered by her who sleeps be- low ; by Kesoulk^ the war-god ; by Him to whom the ♦ Mary. f Jesus TLrist. 1 iJ -^:' < i {'.■liiM iiii !i III ^ ill 184 TWICE TAKEN. Christian bends the knee, — the false lover shall meet the doom declared to him by the fates, as read in the stars by the woman who loved him. For this the rapier of the Black Robe shall gleam in the press of battle ; the carbine of the brother hurl its messengers of death ; the axe of the White Bear break the hedges of sharp steel ; and the arrows of Ulalie find the hearts of the Anglasheowe. I have sworn it." And rising, she sought the lodges of her tribe ; and from that hour she abode no more with civilized man. 11 III ill iiiili:: , . ; I .nil |i-,i!ib.!i M!l,!.i CMII': liiiiiii ■iliii;:;M:;l;^:if:: '^••MrrT^ 185 CHAPTER XX. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. THE summer passed away, and the grass stood green and tall on the grave of Rosalie, and on a little mound beside it, — for her babe did not long survive her, — when Durel determined to revisit Port la Joie, and went gliding down " La Riviere de la Nord-Est," as the Hillsborough was christened by its French discoverers. Passing through the broad meadows which stretched back for rods, until termi- nated by the green wall of the primeval forest, stopping an hour or two at the armed stockades, whose ruins are still to be seen on the northern bank, he landed at the rude jetty at Port la Joie, just as the sun cast his last rays on the placid surface of the harbor. Far out between the cliffs of red sandstone that stand on either side of the harbor's mouth, his keen eye caught the flash of dipping paddles, as their spray reflected the gleams of the setting sun. One after another, five canoes sped up the glassy haven, borne on by the swift tides and the sinewy arms of their octu- pants. As they drew nearer, Durel saw that two Europeans were among them, one wearing the long black robes of a priest ; and he immediately conjec- tured that the long-expected chief and Du Thet, his t>rother in arms, had at last arrived. 1 86 TWICE TAKEN. U ; ' i'lii l.^ 'ii.'ii' iff iiililiiiiiii!! lie was right; for the first canoe was the Rosalie, and contained L'Our Blanc, Du Thct, and Hubert, besides four stout braves belonging to the families who occupied the other canoes. Swiftly the long, grace- ful bark glided in among the dirty fishing vessels, and clumsy boats, and pirogues, which were moored to the jetty. The careful hand of Hubert caught the rough logs, and prevented a collision which might injure the frail prow of the Rosalie, which was quickly moored; after which her occupants landed, Du Thet and the chief last of all. Durel saw that they did not recognize him, and, stepping forward, offered his hand to the Jesuit. '' You do not remember me, then ? " said he. "What! is this Durel? the Sea Gull, the terror of the English fisliermen, and the ally of the Abenaquis," said Du Thet, shaking him warmly by the hand. "The White Bear is glad to see an old comrade;" and the tall, erect form of L'Our Blanc seemed to the eyes of Durel to have defied the ravages of time, whik> his hand was almost crushed by the grasp of the war- chief. " This is Hubert De Courcy, my adopted child, whom you will recollect as the boy who sailed with you on our voyage to the rendezvous at Chebucto." He looked at Hubert with interest. In age scarcely nineteen, he was still strongly made, yet finely pro- portioned ; and his curly, brown locks were brushed back from a high, massive forehead, beneath which a pair of dark eyes gave interest to features expressive of strength and character, rather than regular or pleas- ing. He shook hands with Durel warmly ; and for a A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 187 e Rosalie, d Hubert, le families ong, grace- cssels, and ored to the the rough t injure the .ly moored; bet and the e him, and, the Jesuit. . :1 he. ;he terror of Abenaquis," 3 hand. J comrade;" eemed to the )f time, while of the war- moment a boyish smile lit up his face, tanned by ex- posure, and then became grave and thoughtful. *' Do you know where Ulalie is now?" inquired Du Thet. " She is at Tracadie, where she has been nursing a sick friend of yours." " A sick friend of mine ! I do not understand you, Durel." " Prepare yourself for the worst, old comrade, for I have sad tidings for you and the boy by your side." " Speak ! I am always ready to hear of misfortune," said Du Thet, bitterly. " Let us hear at once," said Hubert, mournfully. " A few weeks ago," continued Durel, " I was fish- ing off the harbor, when I was boarded by an English vessel, from which two passengers were transferred to my boat, — a young woman, and a babe of a few weeks. The lady knew me, although many years had passed since I had seen her, as she stood by her brother's side on the little island where we parted last. She had been deserted by her lover, and sought pity and consolation among her own people ; but a fever seized her, and all we could do was useless : she was buried three weeks ago." All v\'ere silent ; but tears stood in the eyes of Hu- bert, until Du Thet's voice, husky and tremulous, said slowly, " Let us go." "Where?" said DureL Du Thet pointed towards the source of the river. " I have just come dowm, and you are all weary. Let us start to-morrow," said Durel. " To-night we will sleep at the cabaret of Monsieur Tricot." IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^ 1.0 1.1 La 12.8 ISO ^■* ■ 25 U£ 1^ 12.2 - iiiii 1.8 I U lii lit IL25 III 1.4 III 1.6 V] V%^. 'V 7 r^.^^v [v ,' > ''VII''''W ~^ ■••■ ' - V !', V,^''^''^''W*P"'^,'-7'' "'^>; .•&.,'"';•<•;" ■■ >■ '>• . ,»'■ i'" » -■ -'" ■\j~>" Ill''': 'n5% 1 88 TWICE TAKEN. Hubert stood looking toward the mouth of the harbor, his mind full of sad and bitter thoughts; but as he was about to turn away, he saw a canoe approaching. " Another canoe," said he to L'Our Blanc. *' Are our people all here ? " " Yes," answered the taciturn Indian ; and the group passed up the street, and entered the tap-room of the cabaret of Monsieur Tricot, who hastened to welcome them, and to provide for their wants. As they sat awaiting their repast, two Micmacs en- tered the room, and with them a captive, an English soldier ; while at their belts hung several scalps, one, at least, freshly taken. With these worthies L'Our Blanc held a long con- versation, and learned that they had surprised their captive, who was a soldier of the garrison at Halifax, while wandering with his comrade in the woods ; and pointing to his belt, the warrior said, "The other did not escape ; " all of which created much admiration on the part of the fishermen, who filled the room with strange oaths and loud expressions of approval, while a dozen glasses of brandy were offered to the victori- ous braves by the bystanders. Just then the hostess announced that the supper was ready for the party, who gladly lefl the noisy crowd, and were soon seated at the table, where a meal await- ed them, which, if not delicate, was certainly plenteous ; and laying aside their weapons, they ate, talking but little, but thinking of sorrowful and bitter experiences. Suddenly the hoarse laughter of the half-drunken sail- ors rose wildly on the air, increasing until it seemed as A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 189 )f the ughts ; canoe supper was oisy crowd, meal await- \f plenteous ; , talking but experiences. Irunken sail- it seemed as if their orgies shook the solid rafters ; and above it rose the war*cry of the Abenaqui, and cries for mercy. Du Thet drew his rapier and rushed out, followed by the rest. A strange tableau met their eyes, ludi- crous even in its horror. One of the warriors whom tlicy had left drinking, intoxicated to the verge of mad- ness, held by the forelock his unfortunate captive, who knelt before him, asking a respite from the fatal knife suspended above his head, and howling for mercy. Du Thet seized the uplifted arm, and the Indian turned in fury upon him. "Who dares hold the hand of Le Loup?" said he, fiercely ; but his eyes fell before the calm, stern glance of the Jesuit. " He who speaks the words of Kchi Nlxkam " (the Great Spirit), answered Du Thet. An explanation ensued, in which it appeared that one Jerome Le Blanc, the captain of a fishing vessel, and an inveterate enemy of the English, had made the Indians, if possible, more intoxicated than he was him- self, until they were filled with a mutual admiration, and embraced each other, to the great satisfaction of all present. " What will Monsieur Le Loup do with his pris- oner?" said Le Blanc, with the indescribable polite- ness of a man, who, conscious that he is very drunk, still imagines that he has perfect control of himself, and tries to preserve it. " Le Loup will keep him to work for his squaw. No ! he will sell him to his white friend for beads, powder, and fire-water.* )» H^ .1 1 lis -', ■* 190 TWICE TAKEN. " I have an idea, Monsieur Le Loup. I have no use for your captive, but I have long desired to see an Englishman scalped ; here is an opportunity." " It shall be as my brother wishes," answered the staggering warrior, with a praiseworthy spirit of ac- commodation, while the spectators roared with laugh- ter, and gathered around the terrified soldier, whose cries soon brought Du Thet to his assistance, as we have related. " So you see. Sir Priest, that you are in the wrong to interfere," said the Breton, insolently. Du Thet turned to the Micmac. " I will give you the price of two scalps for him," said he. " Le Loup has promised the captain, and cannot speak in two ways," answered he. " Le Loup seems to have forgotten the fight at Dart- mouth, and who it was that saved his life when the knee of his foe was planted on his breast. Du Thet demands the prisoner." " It is well ; but Le Loup will never forget that he who gave him life again, also darkened his life with the stain of a broken promise, which has destroyed his love for him who saved. He gives a life for a life. He owes nothing more." Du Thet beckoned to the soldier to rise ; to his party, to follow ; but Le Blanc and his friends gath- ered around with savage cries of insult and disappoint- ment. L'Our Blanc drew his heavy hatchet, Durel and Hubert their Spanish knives, and the long rapier of Du Thet kept a broad, open space between them and their drunken assailants. Le Loup sat there scowling with hate, on a rude bench against the side A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 191 lave no see an 2red the it of ac- h laugh- r, whose e, as we le wrong give you ^d cannot t at Dart- when the Du Thet et that he s life with itroyed his for a hfe. se ; to his ends gath- disappoint- het, Durel long rapier ween thetn p sat there 1st the side f of the room. But the four friends, with their new acquisition, reached the street unmolested, and walked quickly down to the camp of their Indian allies, where they passed the remainder of the night. As they sat by the camp fire, L'Our Blanc said, after musing a while, " The Black Robe has made himself an enemy of a friend, and such an enemy is more to be feared than a dozen ordinary foes." " It is the will of Kesoulk. He will protect me as long as it is his pleasure ; " and the Jesuit turned to the soldier. "Your name? " he said, in fair English. " My name is George Thompson. I am a soldier of the garrison at Halifax. You have saved my life, and made an enemy thereby ; in me you shall have an attached servant or a faithful friend." " I choose the friend ; for I have need of all the friends I can obtain." " Then I am yours to the death." Each lay down to rest, until, in the early morning, the camps were struck and the light canoes loaded, which at sunrise bore the whole party up the winding channel of La Riviere du la Nord-Est. In silence they sailed up that noble river, until the stream grew narrow, winding among broad meadows, amid whose rank sedge and rushes the black duck concealed her tender brood, the snipe found a welcome haunt, and on whose banks the tall heron and awkward bittern lazily awaited their finny prey. In silence I say, — the Jesuit and Hubert, because they were sad ; L'Our Blanc and his braves, from habit ; Thompson, because he had no one to talk with ; ' '' m ^111 HI ■ Pi I 192 TWICE TAKEN. and the women, from fear or sympathy. At last the party landed, and encamped near the head of the river ; but Durel led his friends through forest paths until they came to the tranquil bay and quiet settle- ment of Tracadie. There they were greeted by Cliristine and many others, with joy at present meeting ; with tears, grate- ful tribute to the dead ; with hospitable offers of rest and food ; but these they refused. " There are a few moments of daylight left," said Du Thet : " take us to Rosalie." Christine gave a glance of mute inquiry to Durel, who replied by a silent nod of assent ; and rising, she led the way to the little burial-ground beneath the shadows of the pines, and they stood, in silent grief, over the grave of Rosalie. There Du Thet heard the story of her wrongs, her sufferings, her death, as described in preceding chap- ters ; and his face grew stern and pale with sorrow, and the thought of vengeance. He drew his rapier slowly from its sheath, and knelt above the little cross at the head of the grassy mound. Hubert drew his knife, and knelt also. L*Our Blanc, axe in hand, fol- lowed their example. " We swear," said Du Thet, " that we, the instru- ments of a just vengeance, will visit upon the author of all the misery of her who sleeps below, measure for measure, and life for life, by the mothers who bore us, the king we serve, the steel of our weapons, and Him who reigns over all." f r And all answered, "We swear." ; ; * -. * " Swear not at all," said Father Jerome, who, ap- A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 193 last the I of the 3st paths let settle- [id many TS, grate- rs of rest left," said rrongs, her ding chap- th sorrow, his rapier little cross t drew his n hand, fol- , the instru- the author w, measure rs who bore 'capons, and preaching, had heard the last words, and guessed their import ; " above all, swear not that you will take from our common Judge his attribute of our common Aven- ger. She whom you mourn, whom you promise to avenge, with her last breath conjured you to leave him with God." Du Thet listened with patience, but slowly answered, " We have sworn ; " and rising, they went back to the house of Christine, and ate heartily of the food she placed before them ; after which, she showed them the few effects left by Rosalie, and among them her writing-case. In it were the little dagger, a few trin- kets, a rouleau of gold, and a few papers. Du Thet opened one of the latter : it proved to be the horoscope of Thorncliffe, of which Rosalie had sent a copy by the captain of the fishing schooner. He read slowly, and handed it to Hubert, who started, and then said fiercely, " I trembled at the words of the good priest, but the fates have ordained us as her avenger. Hear ! " and he read slowly, — ^' ' The querent shall fall in love for the first time in his twenty-seventh year. " ' The querent shall be threatened with great danger through this love during his thirtieth year. He shall escape this should he prove true to himself and to his word. " ' Should death overtake the querent at this time, he will fall by violence and in battle.' " Who shall obstruct the work of fate, the resistless decrees of destiny? A voice from the grave calls Eu- gene Thoniclifle to his doom, and who on earth shall save him from us, the chosen ministers of justice ? " •>■ ^■i If i 194 TWICE TAKEN. Father Jerome, just entering, had heard the last part of the conversation ; and even he was impressed with the idea that the injury done to one so trusting and lovely, was to be avenged by mortals, whom the hand of fate might not allow to wait the sure vengeance of the Judge of all. Weeks lengthened into months, and still the Jesuit lingered amid the scenes of the little settlement ; and the fall came, bringing death to leaves and flowers, and messengers who brought to Du Thet arms and muni- tions to be given to the faithful warriors of the forest. Then winter covered the earth with crested drifts, the rivers with icy chains, the broad ocean with piles of many-hued and many-shaped ice-crafts ; and again the pleasures of the chase, the study of books and men, and preparations for months of coming labor, occupied the busy minds of Du Thet, L'Our Blanc, and Hubert, until the spring came, and in due succession of months and days brought round the first anniversary of the death of Rosalie. It chanced that it fell on Sunday ; and all were gathered in the little chapel. The air without was heavy with the odor of the firs, and vocal with the voices of birds, while the sunshint fell through the open windows on the rude picture of the Crucified, above the altar. As the choir proceeded, they took up in its order the Litany of the Sacred Heart, while the thoughts of many went back to the day when one — no longer with them — had joined in the chant, bearing to heaven, in its sublime apostrophes, the passion- ate entreaties of a broken heart ; and, joining in the A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 195 last part sed with ting and the hand eance of he Jesuit lent; and wers, and ind muni- le forest, ited drifts, . with piles and again s and men, r, occupied nd Hubert, [I of months sary of the ,d all were A^ithout was ) in its order the thoughts ^n one — n^^ bant, bearing the passion- joining in the strain, they sang with solemn pathos the Savior's sorrows. Then, strange to say, above the deep, strong current of harmony rose a silvery voice, as of one in sorrow, yet not without hope, mingling with low moans and child-like cries of weariness and pain. Christine fainted, and was carried home ; Du Thet Diirel, Fiddle, and Hubert turned pale, and gravely looked at each other, yet said nothing : and the services ended. But as the people went homeward, they talked in low and fearful tones with each other ; and Christine said, when she came to herself, that Rosalie had left her grave to sing again the Litany of the Sacred Heart. Be that as it may, for generations after, the chapels of the Isle of St. Jean, were, with but two exceptions, haunted by two voices, one of which rose clear and bird-like above the voices of the choir, while the other wailed in weariness, or uttered low moanings, like a babe in pain. When in after years the red cross floated over the broad territories of New France, a worthy bishop, as he visited his parishes, heard from hundreds of faithful and honest men and women the weird tale of the twin voices of the chapels of St. Jean. 13 m d\ ''r ■' 196 CHAPTER XXI. THE CONFESSION BY THE SEA. IN the stillness of that Sabbath evening, good Father Jerome sat musing beneath the wide porch above his door, when he was joined by Du Thet ; and to- gether they walked through the little orchard, under the cool shadows of the odorous firs, through narrow lanes bordered by green pastures and waving grain fields, past herds of sleek cattle and rows of yellow flax, until they stood upon the level sands of the beach. Becween them and the sea rose huge dunes, ever shifting, ever varying, as by turns the tempest hurled their loose sands over the surrounding levels, or the sea cast up supplies of yellow sand and many-hued pebbles from the sand-bars and sunken ledges beneath its restless tides. To the right lay the woods which skirted the shore ; and they knew that within those dark forest shadows lay lakes of clear water bordered by treacherous morasses and shifting quicksands, around whose shores myriads of wild fowl found shelter, whose waters teemed with fish and aquatic birds. They saw the break between the sand-hills where lay the harbor's mouth, and beyond the tranquil waters of the Gulf, which scarce broke as the ocean swell THE CONFESSION BY THE SEA. 197 rippled gently on the opposing beach ; and no sail appeared on the broad horizon ; no boat lay at anchor in the harbor, at least in sight ; no human habitation or wreath of curling smoke, rude fence or stranded wreck, spoke of the presence or proximity of man. They were alone with God. Before them lay the bay, skirted by red banks of sandstone, with here and there broad belts of reed, and acres of low marsh, on whose edges the tall heron waited for its finny prey, while the bittern uttered her lonely cry from the coarse sedges. Above them wheeled the gray gulls, and the lesser tern, filling the air with their graceful gyrations and hoarse screams, while flocks of dusky crows passed in scat- tered files over the glassy harbor to the dim forests beyond. In the west the setting sun flooded the horizon with flames of gorgeous light, tinting the borders of the scattered cirri with purple and gold, and casting over the still waters a spell of glory. " ' And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire,' " said Father Jerome, slowly. " Since such is the glory of God on earth, what must it be in his kingdom above? I love to wander here at such times as this ; for it is as if I were alone on earth, like Adam when first created," continued he. " I think of the world to come, the glories seen by the beloved dis- ciple, when, from the imprisoning crags of Patmos, he rose on the wings of the unfettered spirit, and, beneath the guidance of angels, saw the glory and beauty of the world eternal, the mysteries of the dread future, the final scenes of the redemption of the world. 198 TWICE TAKEN. Then I forget the sorrows of the past, the cares of the present, the bustle of our struggle here for exist- ence ; and for a while, at least, I enjoy a foretaste of the tranquil rest of the hereafter, and going back again I renew my efforts to be worthy of that life to come." Thus the good priest discoursed ; and Du Thet listened, absorbed in the contemplation of the pure soul of this humble priest over a rude and scanty flock, who seemed to have found happiness in a lot at which he himself would have ceaselessly repined. He thought with bitterness of the blasted hopes of his youth, of his early manhood spent in arduous study and blind obedience, of the perilous intrigues and strange adventures of later years, and the utter failure of his most cherished hopes ; and he felt, as all foel at times, a restless, passionate longing to confide his sor- row and his repentance to some sympathizing ear. " Father Jerome, I would confess to you," said he. " To me ! — and why? I am not a bishop, and we are not in the confessional." " Because you have more of the spirit of Him who died to save, than any I have met, except, perliaps, my old friend who died in trying to turn me back from my march against the heretic at Chignecto. And here beneath the broad heavens, with none near but God, I ask you to hear the story of my life, and to absolve me wherein I have sinned." ** I am content ; be it as you will." " I was born near L , where, for centuries, my race have lived and died, save those who fell on foreign shores, some who lingered in Algerian chains, and one who died a century ago at Mount Desert, a. THE CONFESSION BY THE SEA. 199 Jesuit like myself, — Gilbert Du Thct, — whose name I bear, whose example I have followed. Yet I dreamed not, at eighteen, of entering the church ; but was famed for my love of manly pleasures, my skill in arms, and my undaunted energy. Loved by my friends, and feared by my enemies, I was happy ; and it seemed as if my life was to flow on forever like a tranquil stream, until it mingled with the ocean of eternity. I loved, and was loved in return, as I be- lieved ; and I, who had ever been reserved and un- demonstrative, became the most ardent of admirers. But it does not become me, who years ago bade adieu to love and all its joys, to dwell on the day-dreams of the dead past. Suffice it to say, that my idol found another worshipper, and that his adoration was more pleasing than my own. He did not escape my ven- geance, for my rapier nearly put an end to his exist- ence, and I was hunted like a wolf by the officers of justice, until he recovered his strength ; and 1, disgust- ed with human frailty of affection and purpose, and pleased with the life of De Loyola, the founder of our Order, like him, laid aside the sword, to become a soldier of the church militant. " For many years I have toiled here, preaching among the Souriquois, and doing all that lay in my power to insure the triumphs of our holy faith. To this end, I believed the sovereignty of France neces- sary, and all my energies have been devoted to the defeat of all English and heretic enterprises. " I have seen blood run like water in battle ; the pestilence shatter the strength of armies, and convert the cafnpg pf our allies into deserted burial-places ; I srn 200 TWICE TAKEN. and in my z'^al I have called the dead from their rest, and sought knowledge of the future by means for- bidden. They told me truly — and well I understood the omen that warned me — that the real basis of political strength in this New World was in the freedom, the bravery, the wisdom of the people. " But in vain I attempted to impress this upon our leaders. Some called me a dreamer; others heard in polite indifterence, and did nothing ; while of those who believed, few remain alive. And I, who have slain in battle scores of our enemies, who have risked my soul's safety in forbidden search of knowledge, who have given way to the promptings of ambition, pride, and revenge, ask from you absolution of my past guilt." Father Jerome stood still a moment, and then said, " Have you no thought of sin to be committed, no purposes of sin to be consummated? Have you for- given as you desire forgiveness?" A slight flush passed over the pale face of Du Thet, as he answered, '* I know what you refer to ; but I may not swerve from my purpose. I have sworn, and must fulfil my oath. The justice of Heaven will be visited on a wretch unfit to live, and we are but the instruments of God's vengeance." " Brother ! beware of these wiles of the tempter, and recall your rash determination to fulfil a vow wrong in its inception, whose stern purpose — if we may believe our ears — has disturbed the repose of her who, dying, forgave, and directed you too, to forgive. Remember the voices of the chapel, whose well- known tones thrilled us all to-day, and leave to God ■ni^==«ps^jt THE CONFESSION BY THE SEA. 20 1 his prerogative of Judge and Avenger — * forgive and be forgiven.' " The pale face of Du Thet was visibly convulsed : the stern lips quivered for a moment ; but his strong will conquered, and he said, " It may not be. I will not break my oath." " Then, brother, for the sins of which thou hast truly repented and confessed thyself, may the Lord grant thee full forgiveness. And for all events of thy future life, may his Spirit enlighten thee, and lead thee through a life of pious works to an eternity of bliss." They walked home beneath the shadows of the fragrant woods, and parted with a mutual blessing at the door of the good priest's cottage. At Fidele's, Du Thet found Ulalie awaiting him. " Ulalie has a request to make to her father," said she. " Speak on ; if right, you shall not be denied." " She who sleeps had a little knife — a present from her guardian. Ulalie would have it, to remind her of her lost darling." Du Thet went to the little escritoire^ and took from it the tiny dagger, drawing it from its sheath of velvet and silver. Even by the dim light of the smouldering fire, its mother-of-pearl hilt and silver mountings, set with garnets, reflected rays of many-hued light. " It is best. Father Augustine wished that it might never shed human blood. If I kept it, it would impel me to vengeance ; with Ulalie his wish will be ful- filled," he muttered, as he gave it to Ulalie, who placed 111 I 202 TWICE TAKEN. il!^ it in her belt ; and simply thanking him, she glided into the shadows of the darkness without. And the summer passed away like the spring, save that Hubert, grave end sad, hunted continually alone, or with the English captive, who followed him and Du Thet as faithfully as a well-trained hound. Ulalie, too, went often to the woods ; and Du Thet, see- ing her great love of archery, brought her, on his re- turn from a trip to Louisburg, a splendid bow of rose- wood, backed with whale-bone and tipped with silver. She was profuse in her thanks, and ceaselessly prac- tised with the splendid quiver of shafts which accom- panied it ; and among all the warriors of the tribe, none could excel her in accuracy of aim, although in strength of arm she was of course deficient. And so she was commonly clad in her huntress garb, and walked like Diana, bow in hand, quiver at shoulder, with the dagger of Rosalie glittering in the beaded baldric at her waist. So that the warriors gave her a new name Ulali-ak-A-abe (Ulalie of the Bow). But none knew her stern purpose of vengeance, for well she kept her secret ; and all wondered that she, so gentle in the past, should now fearlessly hunt the fierce loup-cervier and the shaggy bear with her keen shafts, while so good a hunter as the White Bear supplied her lodge with plenty. And time rolled on, bringing change and death, and the hours appointed by the Fates, — the day of Nemesis, the Avenger. 203 CHAPTER XXII. THORNCLIFFE. AFTER a long cruise, the schooner, in which Rosalie had made her last voyage, returned to Boston, laden with fish ; and her stout skipper in due time delivered the little packet, intrusted to him by Rosalie, into the hands of Thorncliffe himself, who colored as he beheld the well-remembered handwriting, and thrusting the packet into his pocket, went slowly up the wharf, unmindful of the rain, which fell in tor- rents; for a north-easter had covered the sky with leaden-hued clouds, and the turbid waves of a swollen tide lashed the wooden piers and threw clouds of spray far across them. He reached home wet and cold ; and his wife came with loving anxiety to scold him gently for his care- less exposure, and to repair the mischief by a^ing him to change his clothes. He obeyed, speaking not unkindly, but in a sad and thoughtful abstraction, which she could not but perceive. *' What is the matter, Eugene ? " said she, anxiously. "Matter? O, nothing of any consequence." " There must be something ; for I never knew you to be so abstracted and anxious before." " It is nothing ; but I have some business to attend IP ii 204 TWICE TAKEN. to, and I must be alone," said he ; and Mrs. Thorn- cliffe left the room silenced, but not convinced. He locked the door and opened the package, laying the contents on the table before him. A package of letters written by himself, dating from the first days of his acquaintance with Rosalie, to the day before their final separation ; a lock of short wavy hair, tied with a tiny knot of ribbon ; a little book of songs ; a ring of gold, and lastly a note from Rosalie. It was short, and yet it spoke volumes of reproof and loving despair. " I love, I buffer, I forgive. Death will soon teach me to forget." The tiny note fell from his hands, and he bowed his head in remorse and grief for his sin ; and in his heart the old love rose like the tides of the river below. Memory reverted to the scenes those letters recalled, the circumstances under which they were written, when his word was truth itself, his honor un- tarnished, and he held his life at the service t>f his king — his ambition and avarice subservient to the Right. He remembered the long expeditions on dangerous service, from which he had despatched notes, laden with devotion and self-sacrifice, to the little maiden, whose tears had since left their mark on each page and line ; and Rosalie was almost avenged in the agony of his remorse, the terrible consciousness of his own treachery and disgrace. But another packet caught his eye ; directed long ago, it seemed, for the ink had faded. The direction was simply, " Eugene." He opened it hurriedly. Before him lay a chart of his destiny ; and he remem- T thornclifI^e. 205 bcred her promise, made to him long ago, to foretell the events of the future ; and the loving eyes, full of wen d, grave enthusiasm, as she relapsed for a moment into the dreamy mood he had seen her assume vv^hen speaking of the knowledge of the mystics; while bitter contempt of himself tortured his soul, as he thought of his words to her on that day, in answer to her promise : " If your art be correct, you will find no presage of my unfaithfulness." Then he read slovvjly the contents of the horoscope, and carefully folding it, placed it, with the rest of the contents of the packet, in a drawer of his desk, and then sat in the shadows of the gathering night, an unhappy and hopeless man ; for he knew but too well the justness of his doom ; the dictates of his own conscience approved his sentence. Happy is the man who walks alone through life, — hated or scorned by his fellow-creatures for his adhe- sion to some rule of conduct, of religious belief, or political faith, — if in his heart he feels no pang of conscience. And neither fame, riches, nor domestic comfort, can make happy the life of one who, having been true to himself for years, makes one false step into an abyss of treachery and infamy. It needs not that the busy tongues of men utter the stoiy of his wrong, or that punishment follow the same ; for every man's heart has an ever-present moni- tor, a never-sleeping judge, an unfailing avenger. Then fear fell upon him, and, seizing a pen, he hur- riedly sent in his resignation of the commission, so eagerly sought a few days ago ; and then, blushing at his cowardice, he tore the missive into tatters, and 2o6 TWICE TAKEN. rising, paced the floor, a prey to remorse and self- contempt. But with the next year he had joined the forces under Lord Loudon, and escaped shipwreck and cap- tivity, when the veering storm drove the English fleet from the very jaws of death into the open Gulf; and, spending the winter in the society of his wife and children, he awaited the time when the returning summer should permit a new campaign. " You are thirty years old next August, and I hoped to have had you at home with me," said his wife, a night or two before the day on which he was to leave for Halifax. " So I shall be," said he, dreamily ; " that is, if I live." Then he noted the white lips and tearful eyes of his wife, whose slight frame seemed convulsed with fear or apprehension. " Do not leave me, darling, this time," she pleaded, " for I am so worried about you ; and you, too, in your sleep, mutter of death awaiting you in this cam- paign." " O, nonsense ! " said he, trying to speak lightly ; " you are not going to fear for me now, after I have escaped so often, darling, — are you?" " I have always feared for you, but now I suffer still more ; for until now I have never known you to show any signs of fear for yourself. I will not try, however, to turn you back from doing your duty ; and should you fall, the only alleviation of my lot will be in the thought that you died in discharge of your obligation to your country and the right." Then the conversation was changed. But when ■:'\ THORNCLIFFE. 207 self- forces i\ cap- h fleet Gulf; IS wife :urning L hoped ,w I suffer >wn you to ill not try, duty; and ' lot will be ge of yo"'^ they separated for the last time, she mingled with her broken words of deep love and long farewell, the same noble expression of her full confidence in his loyalty ; and he, turning away, as her face became indistinguishable from the deck of the transport, sighed as he muttered, " Poor Helen ! she believes that I go to my death for the right and my country. She shall never know that I went a condemned criminal." But these presages of evil wore off by degrees, as again he trained his men in their various duties, and cared for their comfort, or listened to their stories of the first siege of Louisburg ; for several of his men, among them our old acquaintance Sergeant Hamlin, had taken part in that first great triumph of the descendants of the Puritans. Amid the officers he found old friends, who had known him at Minas, and in the disastrous cam- paigns of the previous year. So that the days passed pleasantly until they joined the rest of the expedition lying at anchor in the tranquil waters of Bedford Basin, in the harbor of Halifax. Arriving, they awaited the gathering of the vast navy, with its attendant flotilla of transports, which, on the 28th of May, sailed for the reduction of Louis- burg. Here, in the long delay in landing, Thornclifte niade himself as conspicuous for his cheerfulness and patience, as he did for his bravery in the struggle which ended in the landing of the troops, and the commencement of the siege. A friendship sprang up between him and Sergeant Hamlin ; and a vacancy occurring, he was enabled to procure the merited 2o8 TWICE TAKEN. promotion of his friend, whose faithful services had been so long overlooked. To him he talked more freely than to any o le else ; and they became nearly inseparable, sleeping side by side, and as often as possible sharing in each other's duties and their re- sulting dangers. But now we must cease to anticipate, and leave the huge fleet riding at anchor oflf the beach of Gabarus Bay ; while the officers and men of the fleet watched, with weary and impatient eyes, the long, heavy seas, as they rolled fiercely in, to break in foaming surges upon the beach and among the hidden reefs, shielding the city for a time from its assailants, whose boats might not tempt so angry a sea, still less land an army under the guns of the French batteries at the little Creek of Comorin. 200 CHAPTER XXIII. THE SUMMONS TO LOUISBURG. THE fall of '57 had brought much cheering intelli- gence to Du Thet of the success of French arms and the spread of French colonization ; for along the shores of Champlain and George, the lakes which lie between the St. Lawrence and the Father of Waters, and through the broad territories lying west of the Alleghanies, the Lilies had flourished, and the Red Cross fallen in defeat and disaster. He himself had seen, from the shores of the He Royale, the proud fleet of England, which, under Admiral Halborne, had for weeks hovered threaten- ingly around the harbor of Louisburg, driving help- lessly before the tempests, with shattering spars and breaking cordage ; their seamen throwing to the furious surges the heavy guns, whose weight threat- ened to ingulf the decks they had so often defended ; and one bark at least, whose crew found skill use- less, and human power unable to cope with the war of the elements, lying on the reefs with her despair- ing crew fearfully thinned by the billows which swept her decks every moment. And he, filled with terrible joy, stood by the side of L'Our Blanc, waiting for the doomed fleet to share the fate of the stranded frigate. He forgot for a while the misfortunes of his 2IO TWICE TAKEN. race, the omens of the past, and saw the restless surges come rolling in, the vessel vainly striving to beat to seaward, while the fierce blasts tore the can- vas from the bolt-ropes, or splintered the stout masts like empty reeds. Then, when scarce two miles of seething foam intei*vened between the heretic and destruction, he had seen the storm subside, and the veering winds waft the shattered navy to the safe waters of the open sea. His old forebodings returned with greater power, and he ceased for a time to stir up the Abenaqui as formerly, but spent the long winter in peace in the little settlements at Tracadie. In the early sum- mer, while the huge flocks of wild brant filled the air with their clamor, and the waters with their feathered navies, a single warrior came from the He Royale, with startling news and stern summons. For he told that Boscawen, with his fleet, and Amherst and Wolfe, with thousands of veterans, had sailed from Chebucto, and lain for many days oflf Gabarus Bay, awaiting a chance to land ; that, for a week, the hoarse surges had threatened death to the invaders, and the small garrison had built batteries at the Creek of Comorin to repulse the landing party, which, on the seventh day, passed the breakers in safety, and in three divisions came on to the assault. Le Loup — for it was he — spoke with kindling eyes of that gallant fight ; and perhaps you, too, reader, would prefer to hear the rest of this morsel of history, in his own wild w^ay, as he told it to Hubert and Du Thet, on the shore of the harbor, while L'Our Blanc listened with dilating nostrils and clenched fingers. THE SUMMONS TO LOUISBURG. 211 " We waited for the boats of the Anglasheowe as they came swiftly over the billows, in three files, with their bayonets glancing in the sunlight above ; their oars lashing into foam the waves below ; and our leaders said that the white governor * of Acadia, and another, led the right and left ; while in the centre came he, who, like me, bears the name of Le Loup.f " Then, as they entered the breakers, the cannon spoke until the air seemed full of the thunderings of a summer tempest, and the English boats went down amid the white foam, already becoming red, as the leaves change in autumn ; and our rifles added to the slaughter, so that on the wings they gave way, or drew back for a while. But the English Wolfe went forward, caring neither for cannon nor rifle shot ; and his men strode through the surf, and over rocky steep, or quaking morass, over dead men and bristling parapet, into the fatal battery ; and we fled to the town, having none to sustain or reenforce us. " And on that same night messengers were sent for help, and I among them ; for the numbers of the Eng- lish are as the sands of the sea, and few are the braves of the Wennooch and the Abenaquis in the city of the king." Le Loup was then furnished with food, while Dure! hastened to the river, and sped to Port la Joie, his light canoe almost flying before the increasing breeze ; but on arriving he found that the news had already preceded him. Du Thet gathered the Abenaquis and a few hunters, and followed Durel the next morning to the town, whence, with a few recruits, ♦ Governor Lawrence. t General Wolfe. 212 TWICE TAKEy. iill making some fifty in all, they set sail the same night, the Rosalie leading the way, and in her Ulalie, wlio had insisted on accompanying them, although Dii Thet had remonstrated with her, and L'Our Blanc had forbidden her. *' I will not turn back, for you will have need of me. Besides, how else can you fulfil your oaths, since none other save I have seen the face of the false war-chief of the Anglasheowe? " They said no more. While with bow in hand, and quiver at shoulder, she stood by the bright fire on the beach, painting her face with streaks of red and black, while the garnet-encrusted haft of Rosalie's dagger reflected the flames in blood-red rays of light, until the canoes were packed. In the gray of the morning she entered the canoe with the others, and, taking a paddle, joined with them in the war-song as they swept down the broad river. After a rough passage they landed on the Cape Breton shore, below the He Madame, where only an isthmus intervenes between the calm lagoons of the Bras d'Or and the rougher v/aters of the Pass de Fronsac. There, with much labor, they bore their canoes over morass and rocky banks, or through nar- row wood-paths, until again they launched them, and paddled swiftly through that quiet inland sea. Beauti- ful is that fair land in summer, with its broad glassy seas, whose low banks are covered to the white sands or rocky ledges of the shore, with odorous pines, hardy firs, or shady beech and maple. But they pressed onward as though they sought death, and THE SUMMONS TO LOUISBURG. 213 e night, lie, who Ligh Du I ir Blanc | ;d of mc. nee none ,var-chicf land, and it fire on f red and Rosalie's s of light, •ay of the thers, and, rar-song as . the Cape re only an ,ons of the he Pass de bore their hrough nar- d them, and jea. Beauti- broad glassy white sands orous pines, ;. But they t death, and heeded not those leafy temples of peace, in their stern eagerness for battle. Among them sat the Englishman Thompson and his ancient captor Le Loup, who, a year before, had given him so sullenly to Du Thet. His pride had been sorely wounded then, and now he sought for revenge ; but Thompson watched him closely, and by his oft re- peated warnings had put the Jesuit upon his guard, so that no opportunity i;)resented itself to Le Loup of avenging the fancied insult. But on the last day of their voyage, when a march of a few miles only inter- vened between them and the beleaguered city, and they were taking their packs from the canoes, previous to deserting them for a time, Le Loup found, as he thought, the opportunity he sougl.t. Du Thet stood apart from the rest, consulting a rude chart of the surrounding country, and absorbed in thought. The stealthy savage crept behind him, then raised his knife for the blow, coolly seeking with his sullen black eyes for the seat of the main arteries of the neck. He struck, — but another's arm dashed aside the knife, while Du Thet fell beneath the weight of the weaponless hand, and Le Loup, slipping from the grasp of the faithful Englishman, made for the shore, and jumping into the Rosalie, pushed off into the lake, while Thompson rushed wildly after him, asking the astonished party to shoot the Indian, who laughed de- risively. Du Thet came dowrn to the beach, and Le Loup, raising his rifle, fired at the Jesuit, who, staggering for T 214 TWICE TAKEN. a moment, reeled up against a tree, the red blood oozing down from a flesh wound in his scalp, but otherwise uninjured. A score of muskets were lev- elled, as many reports followed, and when the light smoke cleared away, they saw the Rosalie lying a riddled and sinking wreck on the still waves of the inland sea, beneath whose waters the body of Le Loup would rest until the resurrection. Thus Le Loup went no more upon the war-path ; and thus the cruisings of the Rosalie ended. But Du Thet and his men, under cover of the night, marched silently through the chill mists of gloomy swamps and sombre forests, lying between them and the town, moving more carefully and stealthily each hour, until the foremost saw the form of an English sentinel. L'Our Blanc spoke in a low tone to one of the younger warriors, who was seen to steal gently towards the unconscious sentinel, who strode wearily back and forth, thinking of home, or wishing, perhaps, for the close of his lonely watch. Du Thet saw him suddenly reel and fall, while the entire party passed as quickly and silently as possible into the shadows of the woods, until brought to a stand by the reserve of the picket- guard, whose camp-fires they suddenly came upon, and warily approached. It lay on the opposite side of a little ravine, and by its fires lay the tired soldiers, while an officer sat by one reading a letter. As he finished and closed it, the flames, striking full upon his face, revealed it to Ulalie, who started, and then, stringing her bow, raised it, and placed an arrow on the cord. •^"T V** ."-"■>' • THE SUMMONS TO LOUISBURG. 215 Du Thet seized her arm. " If you shoot we are all lost? " said he. " If Ulalie would be a warrior, she must obey her chief, and await his orders," said L'Our Blanc, sternly. " Let my uncle, the Black Robe, and Hubert, look well at the face of the English warrior, that they may know him again," muttered she. They did so, as they turned away, and then pressed on until they reached the inner trenches of the be- siegers, where, finding an almost unguarded place, they broke through the lines, and gaining the cover of the French guns, gave the war-cry of the Abenaquis, and were gladly admitted, and after being assigned their stations and duties during the siege, fell asleep in the crowded casemates. But ere they slept, Du Thet asked of Ulalie, " Why did you tell us to look at that officer to-night ? " Her eyes flashed with a fire which he had never noticed in them before, as she answered, " The foot- prints on the sands are swept out by the tides, and the snow covers the track of the bear ; but the flow of years cannot efface the recollection of those we love or hate ; and if age brings snowy locks, Ulalie's are not so gray that she did not know the betrayer of Rosalie." A yell of rage broke from the usually impassible chief. Du Thet became livid with disappointed hatred, and Hubert almost; cried with vexation. " Had I known him, he should have died had an army sprung from the ground at his death-rattle, in- stead of a paltry picket-guard," said Du Thet, as he moodily turned away, to sleep uneasily, until the Eng- lish cannon should call the tired French to defend the 2l6 TWICE TAKEN. torn and crumbling parapets, until night should again interpose her friendly curtain, bringing short peace and welcome rest to the tired garrison. Thorncliffe, ignorant of the danger that had threat- ened him, took pencil and paper, to answer the loving words of his wife, for it was her letter that he was reading when the Abenaquis stole past his bivouac. " I will write cheerfully to the poor, trusting little darling," thought he, " for indeed I need not fear, since that deserter told us that neither Du Thet nor the White Bear of the Souriquois are within the city ; and I fear none but them." So he wrote cheerfully of the future, pleasing his own mind with pictures of the happiness in store for them, in the bright days to come, when, returning, he should settle down and lead a happy, quiet life ; and closing it, he slept to be awakened the next morn- ing by a frightened sentry, who told of the sudden death of one of his men by an Indian arrow. " He was on the next post, and was killed so quick- ly, that I did not know it until daylight, when I saw him lying dead, with his musket still clenched in his cold fingers." " An Indian party has passed, for I found their tracks in yonder bushes, and where poor Lyon was killed," said a veteran scout. The news was corroborated, when Thorncliffe re- turned to camp, by a report that the French had again been reenforced ; for already some three hundred men from Canada and Acadia had found their way to the assistance of the little garrison. But Thorncliffe's pre- sentiments of evil reached their height, when, a fc\v| *■ ■ ;'■>■■;' ^/, THE SUMMONS TO LOUISBURG. 217 d again lace and i threat- le loving he was 'ouac. ing little ear, since : nor the city; and jasing his 1 store for returning, quiet life; next morn- he sudden • d so quick- rhen I saw :hed in bis days after, a deserter from the enemy, recognized as a soldier who had the year before been captured at Hali- fax, while out in the woods, brought him a small packet, containing the original of the horoscope, sent him by Rosalie. On it were four signatures, or rather three signatures and two characters — the first name "Gilbert Du Thet ; " the second, " Hubert De Courcy ; " the third, " Ulalie," followed by the figure of a bended bow ; and lastly, the rudely-pictured effigy of a white bear. Beneath them were two Latin words, and an inscrip- tion in Greek from Xenophon. The words, " Vindiccs sanguinis " — Avengers of blood. The inscription, the noble warning of Clearchus to Tissaphernes, the wily Persian satrap : " For I neither know with what speed any one could escape by flight the hostility of the gods, nor into what darkness he could run for conceal- ment, for all things are subject to the gods ; and every- where alike they rule all things." And thus it was that Thorncliffe felt again like one who treads in darkness on the verge of sea-washed cliffs. found their r Lyon was lorncliffe ve- 3h had again lundred men ir way to tlie •rnclifte's pre- when, a few *","*?! T'' '^r '• .'^, •; i-r%r,'}y-^'-'^>'. w 2l8 CHAPTER XXIV. THE SALLY. AS may be supposed, the duties of the scanty garri- son of Louisburg were by no means easy or desirable ; for, to occupy and guard the long line of defensive works around the city, to answer the heavy fire of the enemy, or to sally upon his working parties and destroy their works, the Chevalier Drucourt had but a little over three thousand men, of whom but two thousand five hundred were disciplined troops. In the harbor lay six ships of the line and five frigates, whose fire was of great use to the city until the taking of the Lighthouse Battery by General Wolfe, a few days after the landing of the English. This battery was turned by the English against its former masters, and did especial damage to the ships of the French fleet. But Drucourt, with steady pur- pose, did all in his power to delay the capture of the city until reenforcements, already nearly due, should arrive ; and his wife, with heroic bravery, seconded his efforts. One morning Du Thet and his friends sat waiting for daylight, to reopen fire on the daily increasing works of the besiegers, which, at first so distant and insignificant, daily grew more terrible with heavy bat- ' -:• 'fT ■,; ^^;i,' ,;.,.^ „ - THE SALLY. 219 Xy garri- easy or ; line of le heavy g parties ourt had 1 but two s. and five city until General English. Lgainst its the ships teady pur- Lire of the ue, should , seconded sat waiting increasing distant and t heavy bat- teries, while they drew, in contracting circles, nearer to the town, as the huge boa enfolds its prey. Then came lightly' down the tread of the banquette, a lady, with an officer of high rank by her side, in whom the soldiers and our friends recognized the governor and Madame Drucourt. The sentinel saluted, the rangers bowed respectfully, or stood silent, as the beautiful woman and her brave husband stopped by a long " thirty-two," the most powerful gun of that battery. '' I will fire this to-day," said she. At a word from the governor, the gun was loaded, and the port-fire lighted, placed in the hands of the fair artillerist, who stood waiting for the mists to van- ish, that the gun might be accurately pointed. " Gabrielle, you shall fire one, too," said madame ; and Hubert felt his blood recede from and rush back to his cheeks in torrents, as he heard the familiar name, and saw the maid of the governor's lady, as she came timidly forward, yet with a stern look in her eyes, as if she, too, had wrongs to avenge. The gunners took their places, and Gabrielle stood by the next gun, almost touching Hubert, yet uncon- scious of his presence. The fog slowly lifted, giving to view the English lines. The artillerists pointed the heavy guns, and stepped one side, raising their hats respectfully. Madame Drucourt came forward, and raising her voice, said in sweet, clear tones, " For France." Then she held the flaming port-fire to the priming, and, with an explosion that shook the ground beneath them, the huge gun sent its heavy missile into the opposing trenches. With loud cheers the French gunners sprang to their 220 TWICE TAKEN. pieces, and, loading quickly, took up the word, and with loud shouts " For France," fired with astonishing skill and enthusiasm. Gabrielle, too, fired the gun assigned to her ; but one only, of all present, heard her low words as she touched the priming with the heavy torch ; and he listened like one in a dream, as, dizzy with happiness, he heard his long-lost darling murmur, " For Hubert." The English replied almost instantly, and their hot fire filled the air with shell and shot, so that the gov- ernor's party were in great danger. Gabrielle followed them as they retreated to the huge casemates ; but a shell exploded near her, covering her with earth, and she fell. Hubert sprang forward, and raised her to her feet. "Are you wounded?" he inquired. At the well-known voice she started, and turned pale ; then saw that God in his mercy had returned to her again the lover so long deemed dead or lost to her forever. She could not speak ; and Hubert, raising her in his arms, carried her to the casemates, where he found her mistress anxiously awaiting her. " Have they killed her?" she inquired. " No, madame : she was struck by a sod torn up by the English shot ; and on raising her, she recog- nized in me her betrothed, separated from her by that cruel edict of our English enemies. Her fear and surprise seemed to overcome her, and so I brought her here for shelter." " And you are the Hubert De Courcy of whom she has told me ? " " Yes, madame." " Then you must not go back to the guns just yet, THE SALLY. 221 until the poor girl has had a chance to talk with yoq, after so long and hopeless a separation." So it was, that while the clear sky was obscured by sulphurous smoke, the air torn by missiles, and filled with cries of fierce hate and mortal pain ; while the earth trembled with the heavy reports of many cannon, and the massive masonry of the city and the thick sides of the war-ships were crumbling away before the devastating bombardment, amid wounded, sick, and dying men, and terrified women and chil- dren, Gabrielle and Hubert spent the sweetest hour of their lives. She told him how, after many sufferings, her father had reached the He Royale, and leaving her with madame, who had promised her protection, had re- turned to France, where she was to rejoin him the the next year ; for she had given up all hopes of see- ing Hubert again. "But I will not go now, unless you do," said she, smiling through the tears caused by her sad rec- ollections. He told her of his own stormy life, the fate of her old playmate Rosalie, her forgiveness of her be- trayer, and his own vow of vengeance. "You are wrong, Hubert. She forgave, having suf- fered much, and you ought not to disregard her dying wish. God will not suffer him to go unpunished. He has given us again to each other, after long and weary months of sorrow. Forget your stern vow, and be grateful for his favor, confident in his justice." And at last Hubert went back to the battery, almost persuaded to leave the future to the Judge of all. After • 4 222 TWICE TAKEN. a day of fierce and sanguinary bombardment, he re- turned to Gabrielle, and told her that he was about to take part in a sally on the advanced works of the enemy. She received the tidings calmly, as women must and do, when in the midst of the horrors and dangers of a city besieged by land and sea ; and with blessing and kind wishes, she sent him away, that he might rest a while, after the day's exertion. Just before morning he joined the band who stood near the sally-port, mustering by the light of a single lantern. The officer in charge read in low tones the muster-roll of the band. The men answered, some cheerily, but far too many seemed sullen and discour- aged. Hubert joined Du Thet, who stood with L'Our Blanc and his warriors. The drawbridge was cautiously lowered, and the men went across the yawning fosse into the chill mists of the intervening ravine, which, ere day should dawn, would become indeed, to many, " the valley of the shadow of death." Hubert felt his blood leaving his cheeks as he thought of the scenes so soon to follow ; of the dread hereafter, and his own unfitness for death ; of the hap- piness that life seeaned to offer him now ; and he almost wished to turn back, rather than face the terrible bat- teries before him. A young warrior walked by his side, bearing, instead of a rifle, a bow and arrows ; and he noted with a feeling of shame the firm step and eager gaze into the blinding fog, which showed the ardent desire of THE SALLY. 223 battle ; and looking to the lock of his carbine, Hubert went swiftly forward. A flash lit up the gloomy mists, a musket sounded dully through the thick air as a picket gave the alarm ; and as the French sprang forward like tigers, Hubert heard the long, stirring beat of the drum, calling the sleeping soldiers to battle. He felt his blood, so chill a moment ago, rushing like molten lava through his swelling veins ; and he joined the Abenaquis in their wild, fierce cry, to which the war-shout of civilized men is tame in its expression of the fierce hatred and defiance of warring mortals. Through the fog appeared a low wall of earth and gabions. It was the outer trench, and from behind came the frequent flashes of the muskets of the guard, and several of the assailants fell ; but the others swept on, over the low parapet, driving back its surprised defenders, and filling the ditch with wounded and dead. Here it was, amid the horrors of that hour, which neither thick darkness nor glorious day might claim, amid the chill mists, made deeper by the murky smoke of battle, that at last the avenger of blood brought the quarry to bay. The officers of the English fought bravely, and maintained the unequal fight some time, in hopes that relief would arrive before the French could possess the works ; and as the tall form of Thorncliffe passed by the remains of the bivouac fire, he was at once recognized by Du Thet and the others. Du Thet instantly forced his way through the press, and crossed swords with the young officer, tlirusting UIJ^W' 224 TWICE TAKEN. and parrying with, it seemed to him, fur more than his usual skill and vigor. L'Our Blanc by his side at- tempted to use his hatchet, but was met by the sword of Hamlin, who gave him all he could do to parry the quick thrusts of the stern provincial. Hubert tried in vain to reach this group, who were separated from him by the eddying tide of that fierce conflict. *' I am Du Thet, and you shall not escape my ven- geance," shouted the Jesuit, as he lunged fiercely at his adversary, whose heart was filled with his old fear and the consciousness of the unexpiated crime. But he thought of his iiniocent wife and babes at home, and determined to live for them ; fighting well and skilfully until he disarmed the Jesuit, who stood at his mercy. " I have wronged you too mtch to take your life," exclaimed he ; and the officers, side by side, retreated, while Du Thet raised L'Our Blanc, who had fallen, cut through the shoulder, but who, on reaching his feet, sprang into the fight with increased fury. Hubert saw the danger of his guardian, but could not fire his carbine without endangering him ; and when he saw him spared by the man whose life he had so steadily sought for, when he saw Thorncliffe bravely fighting his way backward, step by step, to the camp, he re- membered the words of Rosalie, and would not use his carbine. " Let God's justice overtake him, and not my blind vengeance," murmured he ; and he was about to turn away to another part of the field, when he saw the young warrior, whose bold bearing he had noticed in iuMk- THE SALLY. 225 than his side at- c sword )arry the rho wcvc iiat fierce my ven- iercely at is old fear le. babes at iting well \o stood at your lift^i , retreated, had fallen, caching his ry. Hubert not fire his leii he saw so steadily ely figbting :amp, be re- )uld not use not my blind about to turn he saw the id noticed in the morning, raising his bow. A moment the grace- ful weapon bent backward to its full tension, until the sharp barb rested against the delicate fingers of the stripling ; then the shaft flew through empty space, and the Indian bent eagerly forward, to mark its eficct. Hubert saw it strike ThorncHfle in the breast, and the tall officer fell to the ground. His comrade raised him ; but, shaking his head, laid him again where he fell, and joined the retreating English, who were soon met by others ; and again the fight raged, until the French sought their works for shelter. Hubert saw the young warrior but once after that, and that was in the retreat, and so far ofl", that he could not recognize him, even if the war-paint, which lay in heavy lines of red and black over cheek and brow, had permitted. But ere the close of the siege, he saw in the quiver of Ulalie an arrow, which he had often before noticed as perfect and stainless, whose barb and feathers were red with blood, which had been permitted to remain uncleanscd. And so the " justice of God was done," and the old wrong avenged. By the hand of a woman, who had warned him in the days of his love and truth, the false lover had fallen. But far away over the blue sea, a loving wife waited vainly for her lord, and babes lisped innocent prayers for a father cold in death ; friends were thinking of a brave, true man, who had always done his duty to them and to his country. Such thoughts -1 after times filled the mind of Hu- bert, and softened the stern heart of the Jesuit. For few there are, good and noble, whose deeds have all m 226 TWICE TAKEN. been in keeping with their lives ; and the sin of one must often be expiated by the sorrow of many. Ulalle had finished her task, and kept her vow of vengeance ; while in her lodge, until the day of her death, many years afterwards, were kept the fatal shaft, that had avenged, and the tiny dagger, whose • blade, no longer spotless, showed the corroding traces of its baptism of blood. 227 of one row of of lier le fatal , whose g traces CHAPTER XXV. "THE CITY TWICE TAKEN." THE siege progressed. Day after day the mas- sive parapets crumbled into dust beneath the fire of the English, whose trenches steadily approached nearer, unopposed by mine or desperate sally. Daily the sullen roar of the ceaseless cannonade arose from the English batteries, to be answered by the lessening artillery of the besieged, who saw their means of defence rapidly diminish, as gun and mortar were hurled from their carriages, to lie useless amid the bodies of mangled artillerists. The fleet, whose heavy broadsides had so long kept at bay the invader, had suffered fearfully, until, of the six men-of-war, but two, the Prudent and the Bienfaisant, remained ; the others, with corvette and frigates, had sunk at their moorings, lit up the gloomy night with their conflagrations, or been annihilated by the explo- sion of their own magazines. The soldiery, too, grew sullen, despairing, almost mutinous ; until, during the latter part of the siege, they could scarcely be induced to man the guns, while they utterly refused to join in a sally, however urgent the necessity. Still Drucourt would not yield, but fought on, day by day, while his heroic wife stood, purse in hand, 15 228 TWICE TAKEN. upon the splintered platforms, rewarding every deed of daring with louis-cVor or words of kind praise, and firing, with jewelled hands, the heavy cannon of the citadel, vainly trying to infuse into the hearts of men, worn out with battle and ceaseless vigil, the bravery and self-devotion of her own noble nature. L'Our Blanc, Hubert, and their savage companions, indeed, watched her with admiration, and at her ap- proach their rifles were used with greater celerity; while more than one warrior fell in the attempt to win the praises and rewards of the wife of the governor. Du Thet, as in the preceding siege, threw himself, with all his energy, into the defence of the city, and in the crowded hospitals, the councils of war, and the heat of battle, was ever the same — stern, calm, and ready for work. Of the success of the defence he scarcely doubted •cX first ; and it was only after the loss of the fleet that he despaired, and then not because of the disaster, but of the omen that preceded it. He had spent several hours in working a heavy gun in one of the batteries commanding the harbor ; had kept up the fire until the increasing shadows had rendered it impossible to fire with precision ; and, worn with excitement and want of rest, had wrapped himself in his rent cloak, and fallen asleep ; his head bowed upon the wearied right arm, which rested on the breech of a heavy mortar. As he slept, he dreamed. It seemed as if he arose and stood looking, through the shot-widened em- brasures, upon the still waters below, where the THE CITY TWICE TAKEN. 229 y deed praise, non of arts of gil, the are. )anions, her ap- jelerity ; empt to of the himself, ^, and in and the aim, and (T doubted fleet that saster, but tieavy gun rbor ; 'had idows had iion; and, d wrapped ; his head 1 rested on if he arose idened em- where the huge hulls of the Prudent and Bienfaisant loomed black and indistinct through the misty night, relieved, now and then, by the momentary glare of a battle- lantern borne past a shattered bulwark or half-open port ; but all else was shrouded in impenetrable gloom. Turning, he saw the sleepy sentinel walk- ing, with unsteady steps, along the broken way, and sleeping forms wrapped in heavy cloaks ; among them, his own. For, strangely enough, his spirit alone seemed to watch ; the grosser body lay resting from its labors. Again he looked forth upon the harbor, and his vision seemed to increase a thousand fold, until he saw the delicate tracery of the rigging of the ships, the batteries on the farther shore, the foaming bar, the hostile fleet on the heaving sea beyond. On the parapet beside him seemed to stand the form of the gigantic Mambertou, pointing with out- stretched arm to the entrance of the harbor ; and a deep, low voice uttered, " Look." Looking, he saw a long line of boats come in over the breaking seas of the bar, and silently approach the French ships ; but no watcher gave the alarm to their sleeping crew, no sentinel warned of danger from the bastions around, until the boats were close alongside. Then, too late, came the fierce flashes and sharp reports of the muskets of the ship's guard, followed by the roar of cannon, aimed too high to injure the boats, whose occupants came in at the ports, and over the nettings, to meet the inadequate resistance of out- numbered and half-naked men. The soldiery of the garrison and the dismayed citizens seemed to throng 230 TWICE TAKEN. the parapet, filling the air with curses and lamenta- tions, which deepened as the glare of the burning Prudent lit up the glassy waves, dotted with swim- mers and shattered boats, and the crowded parapets, from which the cannon-shots, aimed in haste, could not stop the Bienfaisant, which, under English colors, held her way past lighthouse and battery to the sea ; while above all rose the deep tones of the dead magician : — " Thou wilt contend longer in vain for the city twice taken." He was awakened by the rush of feet and cries of rage and despair, while the parapet above him was thronged with men, the sky above red with the glare of conflagration. He sprang to his feet, and looked down on the harbor : before him lay the reality of his dream, — a burning wreck, a fire-lit harbor, a cap- tured ship making her way to the open sea, heedless of the ill-aimed guns of the despairing garrison. He gazed dreamily upon it for a moment, and then drew forth the mysterious casket ; and again, as be- fore, another of the tiny shafts was missing. " ''Again in the city twice taken^ " said he, slowly : " the past suffering and devotion have been in vain, for Louis- burg is doomed." Five days afterwards the English held the city. But ere that time L'Our Blanc and Ulalie had again passed through the lines by night, on their way home- ward. An order from the general of his sect recalled Du Thet to France, and Hubert and Gabrielle were to accompany him ; so, the night before the capitulation, v^'>'^"^virvi"''f' *■ -tt*-»v V » ■ . ■ ■ * '^ f' THE CITY TWICE TAKEN. 231 .menta- jurning 1 swim- arapets, e, could I colors, ;he sea; iie dead the city , cries of him was the glare id looked reality of or, a cap- , heedless >on. , and then lin, as be- " ''Again " the past for Louis- 1 the city. had again way home- recalled Du ;lle were to :apitulation, he stood, with his trusty comrade, for the last time by the guarded postern of the sally-port. A short delay took place here, and L'Our Blanc urged Du Thet to leave the city with him, in tones which, tremulous with entotion, betrayed the grief which he tried to repress. " Brother, leave behind you the city of the king ; abandon it to its doom ; and let us seek our old for- tresses, — the woods, the mountain crags, — which the cannon of the Anglasheowe cannot conquer. Again we will hunt the moose and bear ; again sweep the rivers with swift quetan; again tread the war-path against the heretic." " I may not come, though the Black Robe's heart is sad at parting. The war is over here, and those who go upon the war-path will shed their blood in vain. Counsel your people to peace, brother, but hold fast to the faith I have taught you ; and from across the sea I will send to you messages of love, and tidings of my welfare." He turned to Ulalie, who stood near him with bow in hand. "Take this rocket — you know its use; should you pass the lines in safety, let me know it. And now, farewell on earth ; may we meet in heaven." The heavy step of the officer drew near, as he came with his huge keys ; slowly he opened the creak- ing postern, through which, one by one, the warriors filed into the still night air, until L'Our Blanc and Ulalie alone remained. Ulalie knelt before him ; L'Our Blanc followed her example. " Your blessing, father," she said. Du Thet did as she requested, with 232 TWICE TAKEN. the tears stealing down his pale features, while Hubert and Gabrielle could not control their sorrow. Ulalie seized his hand, held it to her lips and brow, and arose. L'Our Blanc arose also, and, pressing the hand of Du Thet, rushed into the gloom without. Ulalie raised the lantern near her, and drew the tiny dagger from her belt, holding it in ihe full glare of the light, which disclosed the blade tarnished and rusted with blood. " The oath of the old nurse has been kept, and the warning given at Minas has been followed by the punishment of its neglect. Ulalie re- turns to her tribe again ; she wishes you all blessings, . and long life here ; she hopes to meet you hereafter, where death comes not, and love is eternal." She took the light bow and the slender rocket, her lithe figure passed through the postern, and was lost in the darkness. The little party ascended to the ramparts above the postern, and watched, in silence, the midnight sky, in the direction taken by L'Oift* Blanc. At last the wished-for signal was seen ; and as the long train of fire ascended into the heavens, culmi- nating in a shower of stars, Du Thet, with a sigh of relief, turned to the nearest gun, and snapped a pistol over the priming ; and its sullen roar, echoing far in- land, bore the last farewell of the warrior priest to his faithful friends, as with heavy hearts they threaded the misty swamps between the city and " Le Bras d'Or." On the morning of the 26th of July, a body of En^;- lish grenadiers emerged from the trenches, and came, with flaunting colors and beating drums, up the lonj unused road leading to the west gate. . »S- THE CITY TWICE TAKEN. 233 [Hubert brow, ,ing the ut. :cw the ill glare hed and irse has las been Jlalie re- )lessings, lereafter, No haughty standard floated above the grim cannon, no gunners stood with lighted port-fires, ready to mow down the advancing columns with niitraille and shell ; and the Canadian rangers gazed with heavy hearts at the rifles they might not use. While the victors passed across the long drawbridge, under the massive portal, through the torn and blood-stained works, the grass-grown streets, to their several stations, the red cross floated over the humbled fortresses of fallen Louisburg, — the ruined mart, the doomed seaport, the City Twice Taken. r rocket, , and was led to the n silence, by L'Oift ind as the ns, culn^i- 1 a sigh of >ed a pistol oing far in- )riest to his ireaded the 3ras d'Or.' 3dy of Eng- , and came, Lip the long- 234 CHAPTER XXVI. THIRTY YEARS LATER. IN due time the inhabitants of Louisburg and the adjoining settlements were transported to France, as well as the settlers of the Isle of St. Jean, while the officers and soldiers of the two garrisons were sent to English prisons, to await exchange or death ; and Louisburg, the prosperous port, the mighty city, was left deserted, the He Royale without inhabitants, save the few remaining Abenaquis, and those French who, like their savage allies, had taken refuge in the forests of the interior. A hundred years and more have passed away since then, and still the desolation of the French strong- hold remains, except that a small fishing village stands over the ashes of the proud old city ; and a few schooners take shelter from the autumnal gales in that commodious harbor, once crowded with huge ships, and lesser craft of all descriptions. But we will not dwell longer on this theme, but hasten to draw our narrative to a close, and to take a parting glance at the after fortunes of our dramatis personce, Hubert and Gabrielle, on arriving in France, sought out the father of the latter, who received them with *-* :^'' THIRTY YEARS LATER. 235 and the France, 1, while ,ns were )r death ; ;hty city, labitants, e French ge in the way since :h strong- ig village ty; and a al gales in with huge theme, but d to take a r dramatis jnce, sought them with open arms. He had been successful in speculation, and gave his cordial assent to the union of the lovers as soon as Hubert should be in possession of sufficient means to warrant him in assuming the support of a wife. Hubert acknowledged the reasonableness of this condition, yet almost despaired of ever complying with it; the more so, that he had been bred to no profession but that of arms. Du Thet had disap- peared shortly after their arrival, leaving him at the residence of Gabrielle's father. He could not go to the Jesuit for advice ; and, al- though he tried everywhere, could get nothing to do, save day labor, or the poorly-paid service of the soldier or sailor. He had nearly determined to enlist, and to give up the hope of ever espousing Gabrielle, when his guardian suddenly returned. He brought to Hu- bert a commission as ensign in a regiment garrisoned near by, and insisted on the immediate solemnization of his ward's marriage. " I am ordered to a mission in South America, and must sail in three weeks. I may never return again ; certainly shall not for many years ; and I have set my heart on seeing the completion of your happiness, my children. Hubert has now a fair income, and I have discovered that some property belonging to his mother has greatly increased in value, and will be at his dis- posal as soon as he is of age." The arguments of Du Thet were hardly needed ; but his wishes were gratified, and the marriage took place. On the day of the ceremony, Du Thet presented Hu- bert with a thousand louis. 236 TWICE TAKEN. " I have saved this, not for myself, — for the soldier of the church needs not to burden himself with gold and its attendant anxieties, — but for you and she who sleeps at Tracadie. When I leave you, my children, I shall leave behind all that remains to me of an earthly home. May you make one for yourselves full of love and hap- piness, and live long to enjoy the love of each other, and of the children whom God may send you, to deep- en and sanctify your love." A few weeks after, they saw him for the last time, as he stood on the deck of a tall ship, bound for the tropics of the New World ; and returned home, to be sad for a while, but to find comfort in their own hap- piness. L'Our Blanc and Ulalie returned to St. Jean ; and the former, in obedience to the counsel of Du Thet, joined with others of his tribe in the treaty of peace and submission made at Bay Verte in 1760. They lived many years, respected by their own people, and by the English, who found L'Our Blanc as honest and quiet in peace as he had been valiant in war ; while Ulalie was consulted by many of the settlers, who had heard of her reputation as a seeress. She would never accept of compensation, and, indeed, would seldom use her strange powers, unless she felt a sympathy for the inquirer ; while, as she grew older, she seldom appeared in public, and then moved with the grace, and almost the power, of a queen among her people. L'Our Blanc did not confine his residence to any one place, but roamed, after the fashion of his tribe, over the whole of the maritime provinces. Ula- lie, of course, accompanied him. THIRTY YEARS LATER. 237 soldier old and o sleeps , I shall y home, md hap- :h other, to deep- ast time, d for the [ne, to be own hap- lean; and Du Thet, ^ of peace 5o. They leople, and as honest it in war; he settlers, eress. She lid, indeed, .ess she felt grew older, moved with n among her residence to shion of his rinces. ^^^' To the day of her death, in her lodge hung the silvcr-hilted dagger, and licr quiver, containing the shaft, whose feathers, still ruffled and stiftened with gore, told of the vow, made over the mound so often wet with her tears, fulfilled between night and day in the trenches before Louisburg. Little more can be said of these two, save that they lived faithful to the religion they had adopted ; just to all with whom they had dealings ; ever ready to re- lieve suffering or save life ; and that they died calmly, hopeful of a happier life beyond the grave. Du Thet entered upon the duties of his mission with his usual energy, and lived many years among the In- dians of Guiana, sending to his friends, from time to time, letters full of kind feeling, good wishes, and accounts of his own labors and success. Thus for years it went on, until Hubert had begun to grow gray, and wore the epaulets of a colonel ; while Gabrielle claimed as her " children " a spruce young captain, a promising young physician, and a whole bevy of laughing girls from sweet sixteen to romping eight ; and then there came to them a letter from that distant shore, addressed by a stranger's hand, while a heavy seal of black told them but too well that their old friend had found rest from his labors. Hubert opened the letter, and found two sheets close- ly written — one in the well-rernembered chirography of the Jesuit, the other in the same writing as the direc- tion of the packet. Du Thet had written as follows : — " I have told you, my children, of my past follies, and of the strange events which gave to me warnings of the future, and foreshadowings of the destiny of a con- 238 TWICE TAKEN. |j'. !■: tinent. I remember, even now, how you stood breath- less beside me, beneath the moonlit mystical night, on the deck of the ship which bore lis to France ; how strange awe filled your faces as I told of the two visions already past, of the third yet to come. "Now that it has come, and that I feel my 'days are numbered ; ' now, after I have made such disposi- tion of my few possessions as pleases me, and arrange- ments for the future continuation of the work which I leave unfinished, in the firm belief that God will raise up another worker in his vineyard more useful than I, — I write these, my last sentences, to you, that you may not only hear the sequel of my weird story, but the lesson which I have learned, thus late in life, when tlie gates of eternity are about to open to re- ceive me. " I was sitting, six hours ago, in this same glade. Above me the delicate vines, the slender shafts, and broad fronds of the graceful palms ; the air filled with the drowsy hum of insect life, the many sounds of a tropical forest. In view were the little chapel, my cottage, and, by the river, those of the settlers. " As I sat, I fell into a reverie, in which the events of my own life seemed to pass in review before me. I recalled the happy days of my childhood, the ardent love and bitter disappointments of youth, the man- hood devoted to my country and the service of the church. " I saw how, in the stern scenes of war and polit- ical intrigue, my zeal for French domination, and the success of the church, had at times led me into error. But,*on the other hand, I recalled the noble sacrifices, THIRTY YEARS LATER. 239 breath- ight, on e ; how ► visions ly ' days disposi- arrangc- whicli I vill raise ;ful than that you ,tory, but : in life, en to re- ne glade, lafts, and lUed with unds of a lapel, my irs. the events )efore me. the ardent the man- dee of the and polit- Dn, and the into error. e sacrifices, made by so many for the same interests, which have been in vain, and I asked of myself, why so much blood, so many noble lives, should be given for a doomed cause ; and I murmured against and ques- tioned the justice of Heaven. " Then I reclined in my hammock, swung beneath the matted lianas, amid whose scarlet bells the hum- ming-birds sought their food, and, with half-closed eyes, pursued the same strani of thought, until I may have slept ; for my vision came and went, and I seemed to awake, at its close, as if from profound slumber. " I saw before me the same tranquil scene I have already described ; but a strange mist seemed to arise, hiding the dwellings of men from view, and dimming the light of day. Through these vapors, and indis- tinctly seen at first, appeared a savage horde ; and I thought that the dense tropical forests to the south- ward had poured forth their myriad warriors, as of old the forests and mountain ranges of Northern Europe had deluged her southern lands with fierce Goths. But as my vision became more distinct, I saw my mistake. Instead of naked warriors, with rude war-clubs and slender gravatanas, with their slight poisonous shafts, I recognized the tribes of the Abenaquis ; and among that cloud of dark, fierce faces many well known to me in the old days spent with you, my children, in those northern wilds. "I saw L'Our Blanc's black plumes, and the features that I had seen so often brighten with the stern light of battle ; the calm face of his gentle wife, the Summer-Lake; Cubenic's slender and graceful 240 T\nCE TAKEN. 4 form ; Ulalie*s lithe figure, and dark, loving, impas- sioned eyes ; and Loup Cervier's visage, seamed with scars, and horrid with war-paint. " These I saw, with many others, and behind them myriad faces, growing more and more indistinct in the distance, but before them all stood the lofty form of the pride of their race, the mighty warrior, the wise ruler, the friend of the French — Mambertou. " The stillness was unbroken, as his low, deep tones arose, as I heard them years ago, in the city twice taken, on the wooded banks of the Nepan, in the forest shades where I watched the dead in the moon- lit Isle of St. Jean. " ' Servant of the church, I come again to redeem and fulfil the promise made years ago by the death- bier of one of our race, and to warn thee that thy life's task is ended — that thy days are numbered. One lesson remains yet unlearned by thee, for thou hast questioned the justice of Heaven. " ' Look on these who surround thee : once they blindly thought of a great intelligence, that had created and blessed all men ; of another, which harmed and tempted ; and they believed that to gain heaven, men must be brave and honest, returning good for good, and evil for evil. Your priests came among us, teach- ing a purer, holier faith : the forgiveness of our sins ; our obligation to forgive the wrong done by others ; and a clearer, higher idea of the life to come. But at the same time they taught us intolerance and bigoted hatred of those who, believing in the same God, the same Savior, still differed from you in some cere- monies and forms of worship and belief; while they THIRTY YEARS LATER. 241 \ sought to build up their country's power at the expense of the purity of the church, hoping that the power of the state would, in years to come, repay by its support those sacrifices. " * Yet, as those who lived in the dark ages before us lived not in vain, neither have we, who have seen but the glimmerings of day. Thou, too, hast given* tliy life and energies to the spread of thy church ; thou hast repented of the evil thou hast done ; thou shalt receive a servant's reward.' " The voice ceased. The huge assemblage melted into the surrounding vapors, which, in turn, fled be- fore the rays of the noonday sun ; while I lay quietly in my swaying hammock beneath the tall palms, un- certain whether I had seen or dreamed the vision I have described. I felt in my bosom for the tiny casket, but it was no longer there ; and I now know that my end is near. " Since that, I have arranged all my affairs, and I now spend a part of what remains of my existence here in writing to you, ' my children,' as I call you ; for, as you know, we may never have a home and children of our own. I have loved 3'ou as none would believe that Gilbert Du Thet, the Black Robe of Chignecto, could love or esteem any on earth save his order, or country. *' And now, I bid you a solemn and tender farewell, for I cannot question the certainty of my warning. I shall continue to perform the duties of my office ; and even now I hear the bell of my chapel calling my ^ flock to their evening prayer. I see the little group of French and Indians approaching, and I must go to '7^' ■■ • '/^*-''™"r c" .'. 242 TWICE TAKEN. meet them, as I have done for many years past ; and, hoping to meet you in a better and happier world, I bid you a loving farewell in this. From your father in Christ, %. Gilbert Du 1'het." k The other sheet was an official document, setting * -^th the fact that " the Reverend Father Gilbert Du Thet, having attended vespers, as usual, on the evening of the 14th of May, 1788, suddenly received a paralytic shock, from which he never recovered, but remained insensible until he expired at midnight, to the great grief of the residents of this district." Fidele and Christine evaded the general extradition of the settlers of St. John, after the fall of Louisburg, by taking refuge in the deep forests in the interior ; and their descendants, under the mild rule of the queen of another people, are scattered over the island — no longer L'lle de St. Jean, bul Prince Edward Island. And now the author of this fanciful dream of a past age, an historical era, — this narrative of possible events, — lays down his pen at its close, hoping that among its readers some may be able to enjoy this day-dream of a student's fancy, and feel regret at thus reaching the end. :'m^ ast; and, world, I i'HET." it, setting ir Gilbert il, on the received a ^ered, but dnight, to t. >» extradition Louisburg, e interior ; lie of the the island :e Edward •,-f «-v„. ''^ >f;:- Iream of a of possible moping that enjoy this ;1 regret at .1 -..^r"