i think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evil ventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to the merits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a cat over broken glass. and so, altogether apart from his services as guide, i felt louis laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage.
"the lord is with us, lad. she shall be delivered! the lord is with us; but don't you bungle his plans!" ejaculated father holland for the twentieth time; and each time the french trapper looked waggishly over his shoulder at me and winked.
"bungle! pah!" louis clapped his paddle athwart the canoe and laughed a low, sly, defiant laugh. "bungle! pah! catch louis bungle his cards, ha, ha! trumps! he play trumps—he hold his hand low—careless—nodings in it—he keep quiet—nodings worth play in his hand—but his sleeve—ha, ha!" and louis laughed softly and winked at the full moon.
"the daughter of l'aigle, she cuff louis, she[pg 410] slap his cheek, she call him lump—lout—slouch! ha, ha!—louis no fool—he pare the claws of l'aigle to-night!"
at that, little fellow's stolid face took on a vindictive gleam, and he snapped out something in indian tongue which set louis to laughing. suddenly the indian's paddle was suspended in mid-air, and little fellow bent over the prow, gazing at the moon-tracked water.
"sacredie!" cried louis, catching up water that trickled through his fingers, "'tis dried rabbit thong! they are ahead of us! they have passed while that scotch mule was balk! we must catch the englishman," and he began hitting out with his paddle at a great rate.
we had overtaken mr. sutherland's canoe within half an hour of louis' discovery, and eric wheeled about with a querulous demand.
"what's wrong? are they ahead? i thought you said they were behind," and he turned suspiciously to laplante.
"you thought wrong," said louis, ever facile with subterfuges. "you thought wrong, mister high-and-mighty! camp here and watch; they come before morning!"
"no lies to me," shouted eric, becoming uncontrollably excited. "if you mislead us, your life shall——"
"pig-head! i no save your wife for back chin! camp here, i say," and louis' fitful temper began to show signs of sulking.
"for goodness' sake, eric, do what you're[pg 411] told! we've made a bad enough business of it——"
"give the frenchman a chance! do what you're told, i say, ye blunderers! troth, the lord himself couldn't bring success to such blundering idiots," was father holland's comment.
"i'll take na orders frae meddlesome papists," began the scotchman; but little fellow had forcibly turned the prow of the canoe shoreward. i gave them a shove with my paddle. frances took the cue, and while her father was yet scolding raised her paddle and had them close to the river bank.
"get your tent up here," i called to conciliate them. "then come to the bank and watch for the indians."
a bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff.
"that's the ground," said i, as the other canoe bumped over the pebbles; and i stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water.
something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers. ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly a shudder of apprehension ran through my frame. i scarce had courage to look into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear through the watery depths. clutching the water-soaked tangle, i jerked it up. something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe.
"what's that, rufus?" asked father holland.[pg 412] "don't know." i motioned him to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. distinctly it was, or had been, red fringe.
"do you think—" he began, then stopped. our keel had rubbed bottom and hamilton was springing out of the other canoe.
"yes, i do," i replied, choking with dread. "this is too terrible! he'll kill himself! go up the bank with him! keep him busy at the tent! little fellow and i'll pole for it. the water's shallow there——"
"what do you think?" said the priest to laplante.
"t'ink! i never t'ink! i finds out." but all the same, louis' assurance was shaken and he peered searchingly into the river.
"aren't you coming? what's your plan?" called eric.
"certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" i hoisted out the camp trappings. "i want to paddle out for something."
"what is it?" he asked.
"something lost out there. i lost it out of my hand."
frances sutherland, i know, suspected trouble from the alarm which i could not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge.
"get the tent ready," i urged.
"what's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted hamilton sharply. "what have you lost?"
"don't press him too closely. faith, it may[pg 413] be a love token," interjected father holland, as he stepped ashore; but he whispered in my ear as he passed, "you're wrong, lad! you're on the wrong track!"
i leaped back to the canoe, little fellow and the frenchman following, and we paddled to the shallows where i had caught the fringe. i prodded the soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the clay bottom. louis did likewise; but in vain. only soft ooze came up on the blade. then little fellow stripped and dived. of course it was dark under water, as it always is dark under the muddy red, and the indian could not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. had my jerk disturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? i asked father holland this when i came back.
"tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'tis only a trial of your faith."
i said something about trials of faith which i shall not repeat here, but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of such trials, have said for themselves.
"faith! pah!" exclaimed louis, joining our whispered conference, while eric and mr. sutherland were hoisting a tent. "that shawl, it mean nodings of things heavenly! it only mean rag stuck in the mud and reds nearabouts here! i have told the great bear and his snarl englishman the indians not come till morning. they get tent ready and watch! you follow louis, he[pg 414] lead you to camp. the priest—he good for say a little prayer; the indian for fight; louis—for swear; rufus—to snatch the englishwoman, he good at snatching the fair, ha-ha."
he darted to the shore, calling little fellow from the canoe and leaving father holland and me to follow as best we could.
"we'll be back soon, eric," i shouted. "we're going to get the lie of the land. keep watch here," and i broke into a run to keep up with the french trapper and the indian, who were leading into the woods away from the river. i could hear father holland puffing behind like a wind-blown racer. abruptly the priest came to a stop.
"by all the saints," he ordered. "go back to the tent!"
i turned. a white form emerged from the foliage and frances was beside me.
"may i not come?" she asked.
"no—dearest, there will be fighting."
"no—lord—no," panted father holland coming up to us. "we're not swapping one woman for another. what would rufus do without ye?"
"you are going for miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "god speed you and bring you back safely!"
"say rather—bring miriam," and i unfastened the clinging hand almost roughly.
"come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded laplante impatiently, and we dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure alone against the shadowy thicket. she called out[pg 415] something, of which i heard only two words, "miriam" and "rufus"; but i knew those names were uttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope. surely, we must succeed—for the little statue's prayers were following me—and i bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blind trust. thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting, lithe figures of trapper and indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf, while father holland and i floundered through the underbrush like ramping elephants. then i found myself panting as hard as the priest and clinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the bravery out of my muscles, like champagne uncorked and left in the heat.
"brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "the lord is with us, but don't you bungle."
a long, low whistle came through the dark, a whistle that was such a perfect imitation of the night hawk, no spy might detect it for the signal of a runner. after the whistle, was the soft, ominous hiss of a serpent in the grass; and we were abreast of louis laplante and little fellow standing stock still sniffing forward as hounds might scent a foe.
"she may not be there! she may be drown;" whispered louis, "but we creep on, quiet like hare, no noise like deer, stiller than mountain cat, hist—what that?"
the night breeze set the leaves all atremble—clapping their hands, as the indians call it—and a whiff of burning bark tainted the air.[pg 416] "that's it," said i under my breath.
the smoke was blowing from wooded flats between us and the river. cautiously parting interlaced branches and as carefully replacing each bough to prevent backward snap, we turned down the sloping bank. i suppose necessity's training in the wilds must produce the same result in man and beast; and from that fact, faddists of the various "osophies" and "ologies" may draw what conclusions they please; but i affirm that no panther could creep on its prey with more stealth, caution and cunning than the trapper and indian on the enemy's camp. i have seen wild creatures approaching a foe set each foot down with noiseless tread; but i have never seen such a combination of instincts, brute and human, as louis and little fellow displayed. the indian felt the ground for tracks and pitfalls and sticks, that might crackle. louis, with his whole face pricked forward, trusted more to his eyes and ears and that sense of "feel," which is—contradictory as it may seem—utterly intangible. once the indian picked up a stick freshly broken. this was examined by both, and the indian smelt it and tried his tongue on the broken edge. then both fell on all fours, creeping under the branches of the thicket and pausing at every pace.
"would that i had taken lessons in forest lore before i went among the sioux," i thought to myself. now i knew what had been incomprehensible before—why all my well-laid plans had been detected.[pg 417]
a wind rustled through the foliage. that was in our favor; for in spite of our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. at intervals a glimmer of light shone from the beach. louis paused and listened so intently our breathing was distinctly audible. a vague murmur of low voices—like the "talking of the trees" in little fellow's language—floated up from the river; and in the moonlight i saw laplante laugh noiselessly. trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwood gave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deep foliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not at what moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. so we stretched out flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems to draw ourselves on a single pace. presently, the murmur separated into distinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that make up indian mirth. we could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormed forward like caterpillars.
there was a glare of light through the ferns, and louis stopped. we all three pulled abreast of him. lying there as a cat watches a mouse, we parted first one and then another of the fronds till the indian encampment could be clearly seen.
"is that the tribe?" i whispered; but louis gripped my arm in a vice that forbade speech.
the camp was not a hundred feet away. fire blazed in the centre. poles were up for wigwams,[pg 418] and already skins had been overlaid, completing several lodges. men lay in lazy attitudes about the fire. squaws were taking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were putting things to rights for the night. sitting apart, with hands tied, were other slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yet trusted unbound. among these was one better clad than the others. her wrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which was bowed low. in her lap was a sleeping child. was this miriam? children were with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawl appeared reddish in the fire glow.
"let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," i suggested; but louis' grip tightened forbiddingly and little fellow's forefinger pointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'twas a woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conquering warrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. the fire shone against her girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red. father holland breathed only one word in my ear, "agates;" and the fire of the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being till brain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if every nerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out to destroy that creature of cruelty.
"diable's squaw," i gasped out, beside myself[pg 419] with anger and joy. "let me but within arm's length of her——"
"hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder like a steel winch. "'vengeance is mine,' saith the lord! see that you save the white woman! leave the evil-doer to god! the lord's with us, but i tell you, don't you bungle!"
"bungle!" i could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "let go!" i ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "let go, or i'll——"
but louis laplante's palm was forcibly slapped across my mouth and his other hand he laid significantly on his dagger, giving me one threatening look. by the firelight i saw his lips mechanically counting the numbers of the enemy and mechanically i audited his count.
"twenty men, thirty squaws and the slaves," said he under his breath.
an indian left the fire and approached the captives.
"see! watch! is that woman miriam?" demanded the priest. "she'll take her hands from her face now."
"of course it is!" i was furious at the restraint and hesitancy; but as i said before, the experienced intriguer proceeds as warily as a cat.
"you not sure—not for sure—mon dieu—no," muttered laplante; and he was right. with the forest shadows across the captives, it was impossible to distinguish the color of their faces.[pg 420] taking a knife from his belt, the indian cut the cords of all but the woman with her hands across her face. a girl brought refuse of food; but this woman took no notice, never moving her hands. thereupon the young squaw sneered and the indian idlers jeered loud in harsh, strident laughter. this roused the big squaw. she strode up, little fellow all the while with glistening teeth following her motions as a cat's head turns to a mouse. with the flat of her hand she struck the silent woman, who leaped up and ran to a wigwam. in speechless fear, the child had scrambled to its feet and backed away from the angry group towards the ferns; but the light was fitful and shadowy, and we could recognize neither woman, nor child.
"i can't stand this any longer," i declared. "i must know if that's miriam. let's draw closer."
father holland and i crawled stealthily to the very border of fern growth, louis and the indian lying still and muttering over some plan of action.
"hist," said the priest, "we'll try the child."
unlike naked indian children, the little thing had a loose garment banded about its waist; but its feet were bare and its hair as raven black as that of any young savage. it stood like some woodland elf in the maze of heavy sleepiness, at each harsh word from the camp, sidling shyly closer to our hiding-place. we dragged forward till i could have touched the child, but feared to startle it.[pg 421]
putting his hand out slowly, father holland caught the little creature's arm. it gave a start, jerked back and looked in mute wonderment at our strange hiding-place.
"pretty boy," crooned the priest in low, coaxing tones, gently tightening his hold.
"is it white?" i whispered.
"i can't see."
"good little man," he went on, slowly folding his hands about it. drawing quickly back, he lifted the child completely into his arms.
"is boy sleepy?" he asked.
"call him 'eric,'" i urged.
"is eric sleepy?"
the child's head fell wearily against the priest's shoulder. snuggling closer, he lisped back in perfect english, "eric's tired."
at once father holland's free hand caught my arm as if he feared i might rush out. for a moment neither of us spoke.
then he said, "give me your coat."
i ripped off my buckskin-smock. wrapping the sleeping boy about, the priest laid him gently among the ferns.
"where's the mother?" asked father holland with a catching intake of breath.
i pointed to the wigwam. the big squaw had come out, leaving miriam alone and was engaged in noisy dispute with the men. louis and little fellow had now wriggled abreast of us.
"ha, ha, mon brave—your time, it come now! you save the white woman! i pay my devoirs[pg 422] to the lady, ha, ha—i owe her much—i pay you both back with one stroke, one grand stroke. little fellow, he watch for spring surprise and help us both! swoop—snitch—snatch—snap her up! 'tis done—tra-la!" and louis drew up for all the world like a tiger about to spring, but the priest drew him down.
"listen," commanded the churchman, in the slow, tense way of one who intended to be obeyed. "i'll go back and come up by the beach. i'll brow-beat them and tongue-whack them for having slaves. they'll offer fight; so'll i. they'll all run down; that's your chance. wait till they all go. i'll make them, every one. that's your chance. you rush! try that! if it fail, in the name of the lord, have y'r weapons ready—and the lord be with us!"
"they'll kill you," i protested. "let me go!"
"you? what about frances?"
"pah!" said louis. "i go myself—i trick—i trap—i snare 'em——"
"hush to ye, ye braggart," interrupted the priest. "gillespie is as flabby as dough from an illness. 'tis here you sit quiet, and help with miriam as ye'd save y'r soul! howld down with y'r bouncing nonsense, lad, and the saints be with ye; for it's a fight there'll be, and there is the fightin' stuff of a soldier in ye! never turn to me—mind ye never turn to help me, or the curse of the fool be on y'r head—and the lord be with us!"
"amen." but i spoke to vacancy.[pg 423] while a rising wind set the branches overhead grating noisily, he had risen and darted away. louis laplante, contrary to the priest's orders, also rose and disappeared in the woods. little fellow still lay by me, but i could not rely on him for intelligent action, and there came over me that sense of aloneness in danger, which i knew so well in the mandane country. the child's slightest cry might alarm the camp, and i shivered when he breathed heavily, or turned in his sleep. the indians might miss the boy and search the woods. instinctively my hand was on my pistol. it was well to be as near miriam's tent as possible; and i, too, took advantage of the wind to change my place. i moved back, signalling the indian to follow, and skirted round the open till i was directly opposite miriam's wigwam. why had louis gone off, and why did he not come back? had he gone to keep secret guard over the priest, or to decoy the vigilant sioux woman? in his intentions i had confidence enough, but not in his judgment. at that moment my speculations were interrupted by a loud shout from the beach. every indian in camp started up as if hostiles had uttered their war-cry.
"hallo, there! hallo! hallo!" called the priest. indians dashed to the river, while bedraggled squaws and naked children rushed from wigwams and stood in clamorous groups between the lodges and the water. the topmost branches of the trees swayed back and forward in the wind,[pg 424] alternately throwing shafts of moonlight and shadows across the opening of miriam's wigwam. when the light flooded the tent a solitary, white-faced form appeared in dark, sharp outline. the bare arms were tied at the wrists, and beat aimlessly through the darkness. and there was a sound of piteous weeping.
should i make the final, desperate dash now? "don't bungle his plans," came the priest's warning; and i waited. the squaws were very near; and the angular figure of diable's wife hung on the rear of the group. she was scolding like a termagant in the sioux tongue, ordering the other women to the fray; but still she kept back, looking over her shoulder suspiciously at miriam's tent, uncertain whether to go or stay. we had failed in every other attempt to rescue miriam. if the lord—as the priest believed—had planned the sufferer's aid, his instruments had blundered badly. there must be no more feeble-fingering.
"thieves! thieves! cut-throats!" bawled father holland in a storm of abuse. "ye rascals," he thundered, cutting the air with his stick and purposely backing away from the camp to draw the indians off. then his voice was lost in a chorus of shrill screams.
the moonlight shone across the wigwam opening. the captive had heard the english tongue, and was listening. but the sioux squaw had also heard and recognized the voice of a former prisoner. she ran forward a pace, then hesitated,[pg 425] looking back doubtfully. as she turned her head, out from the gloom of the thicket with the leap of a lynx, lithe and swift, sprang the crouching form of louis laplante. i felt little fellow all in a tremor by my side; the tremor not of fear, but of the couchant panther; and he uttered the most vicious snarl i have ever heard from human throat. louis alighted neatly and noiselessly, directly behind the sioux woman. she must have felt his presence, for she turned round and round expectantly. louis, silent and elusive as a shadow, circled about her, tripping from side to side as she turned her head. but the fire betrayed him. she had wheeled towards the forest as if spying for the unseen presence among the foliage, and louis deftly dodged behind. the move put him between the fire and his antagonist, and the full profile of his queer, bending figure was shadowed clear past the woman. she turned like some vengeful, malign goddess, and i thought it all up with the daring trapper; but he doffed his red toque and swept the advancing fury the low bow of a french courtier. then he drew himself erect and laughed insolently in the woman's face. his careless assurance allayed her suspicions.
"oh, 'tis you!" she growled.
"'tis i, fleet-foot, winged messenger, humble slave," laughed louis, with another grotesque bow; but the rogue had cleverly put himself between the squaw and miriam's tent.
i should have rushed to miriam's rescue long[pg 426] since, instead of watching this by-play between trapper and mountain cat; but as the foray waxed hotter with the priest, the young braves had run back to their tents for guns and clubs.
"stand off, ye scoundrels," roared the priest, in tones of genuine anger; for the indians were closing threateningly about him. "stand back, ye knaves, ye sons of satan," and every soul but louis laplante and the sioux squaw ran with querulous shouts to the river.
"cruel! cruel! cruel!" sobbed a voice from the wigwam; and there was a straining to break the thongs which bound her. "cruel! cruel! hast thou no pity? o my god! hast thou no pity? shall not a sparrow fall to the ground without thy knowledge? is this thy pity? o my god!" the voice broke in a torrent of heart-piercing cries.
i could endure it no longer.
"have at ye, ye villains! come out like men! now, me brave bhoys, show the stuff that's in ye! a fig for y'r valor if ye fail! the curse o' the lord on the coward heart! back with ye; ye red divils! out with ye, rufus! the lord shall deliver the captive! what, 'an wuld ye dare strike a servant o' the lord? let the deliverer appear, i say," he shouted, weaving in commands to us as he dealt stout blows about him and receded down the river bank. "take that—and that—and that," i heard him shout, with a rat-tat-too of sharp thuds from the staff accompanying each word.[pg 427] then i knew the quarrel on the beach was at its height; and louis laplante was still foiling the sioux's approach to miriam's wigwam like a deft fencer.
"follow me, little fellow," i commanded. "have your knife ready," and i had not finished speaking when three shrill whistles came from louis. 'twas his old-time signal of danger. above the hubbub at the river the sioux squaw was screaming to the braves.
bounding from concealment, i tore off the layer roofing of the wigwam, plunged through the tapering pole frame, shaking the frail lean-to like a house of cards, and was beside miriam. again i heard louis' whistle and again the squaw's angry scream; but little fellow had followed on my heels and stood with knife-blade glittering bare at the tent-entrance.
"hush," i whispered, slashing my dagger through the thongs around her hands and cutting the rope that held her to the central stake. "we've found you at last. come! come!" and i caught her up.
"o my god!" she cried. "at last! at last! where is the child? they have taken little eric!"
"we have him safe! his father is waiting! don't hesitate, miriam!"
"run, little fellow," i ordered, "across the camp. get the child," and i sprang from the wigwam, which crashed to the ground behind me. i had thought to save skirting the[pg 428] woods by a run across the camping-ground; but when my indian dashed for the child and the sioux saw me undefended with the white woman in my arms, she made a desperate lunge at laplante and called at the top of her voice for the braves.
louis, with weapons in hand, still kept between the fury and miriam; but i think his french chivalry must have been restraining him. though the sioux offered him many opportunities and was doing her best to sheathe a knife in his heart, he seemed to refrain from using either dagger or pistol. an insolent laugh was on his face. the life-and-death game which he was playing was to his daring spirit something novel and amusing.
"the lady is—perturbed," he laughed, dodging a thrust at his neck; "she fences wide, tra-la," this as the barrel of his pistol parried a drive of her knife; "she hits afar—ho—ho—not so fast, my fury—not so furious, my fair—zipp, ha—ha—ha—another miss—another miss—the lady's a-miss," for the squaw's weapon struck fire against his own.
"look out for the braves, have a care," i shouted; for a dozen young bucks were running up behind to the woman's aid.
"ha—ha—-prenez garde—my tiger-cat has kittens," he laughed; and he looked over his shoulder.
that backward look gave the fury her opportunity. in the firelight blue steel flashed bright.[pg 429] the frenchman reeled, threw up his arms, and fell. one sharp, deep, broken draw of breath, and with a laugh on his lips, louis laplante died as he had lived. then the tiger-cat leaped over the dead form at miriam and me.
what happened next i can no more set down consecutively than i can distinguish the parts in a confused picture with a red-eyed fury striking at me, naked indians brandishing war-clubs, flashes of powder smoke, a circle of gesticulating, screeching dark faces in the background, my indian fighting like a very fiend, and a pale-faced woman with a little curly-headed boy at her feet standing against the woods.
"run, monsieur; i keep bad indians off," urged little fellow. "run—save white squaw and papoose—run, monsieur."
now, whatever may be said to the contrary, however brave two men may be, they cannot stand off a horde of armed savages. i let go my whole pistol-charge, which sent the red demons to a distance and intended dashing for the woods, when the sioux woman put her hand in her pocket and hurled a flint head at little fellow. the brave indian sprang aside and the thing fell to the ground. with it fell a crumpled sheet of paper. i heard rather than saw little fellow's crouching leap. two forms rolled over and over in the camp ashes; and with miriam on my shoulder and the child under the other arm, i had dashed into the thicket of the upper ground.
overhead tossed the trees in a swelling wind,[pg 430] and up from the shore rushed the din of wrangling tongues, screaming and swearing in a clamor of savage wrath. the wind grew more boisterous as i ran. behind the indian cries died faintly away; but still with a strength not my own, always keeping the river in view, and often mistaking the pointed branches, which tore clothing and flesh from head to feet, for the hands of enemies—i fled as if wolves had been pursuing.
again and again sobbed miriam—"o, my god! at last! at last! thanks be to god! at last! at last!"
we were on a hillock above our camp. putting miriam down, i gave her my hand and carried the child. when i related our long, futile search and told her that eric was waiting, agitation overcame her, and i said no more till we were within a few feet of the tents.
"please wait." i left her a short distance from the camp that i might go and forewarn eric.
frances sutherland met me in the way and read the news which i could not speak.
"have you—oh—have you?" she asked. "who is that?" and she pointed to the child in my arms.
"where's hamilton? where's your father?" i demanded, trembling from exhaustion and all undone.
"mr. hamilton is in his tent priming a gun. father is watching the river. and oh, rufus! is it really so?" she cried, catching, sight of miriam's[pg 431] stooped, ragged figure. then she darted past me. both her arms encircled miriam, and the two began weeping on each other's shoulders after the fashion of women.
i heard a cough inside hamilton's tent. going forward, i lifted the canvas flap and found eric sitting gloomily on a pile of robes.
"eric," i cried, in as steady a voice as i command, which indeed, was shaking sadly, and i held the child back that hamilton might not see, "eric, old man, i think at last we've run the knaves down."
"hullo!" he exclaimed with a start, not knowing what i had said. "are you men back? did you find out anything?"
"why—yes," said i: "we found this," and i signalled frances to bring miriam.
this was no way to prepare a man for a shock that might unhinge reason; but my mind had become a vacuum and the warm breath of the child nestling about my neck brought a mist before my eyes.
"what did you say you had found?" asked hamilton, looking up from his gun to the tent-way; for the morning light already smote through the dark.
"this," i said, lifting the canvas a second time and drawing miriam forward.
i could but place the child in her arms. she glided in. the flap fell. there was the smothered outcry of one soul—rent by pain.
"miriam—miriam—my god—miriam!"[pg 432] "come away," whispered a choky voice by my side, and frances linked her arm through mine.
then the tent was filled and the night air palpitated with sounds of anguished weeping. and with tears raining from my eyes, i hastened away from what was too sacred for any ear but a pitying god's. that had come to my life which taught me the depths of hamilton's suffering.
"dearest," said i, "now we understand both the pain and the joy of loving," and i kissed her white brow.
