i count it not strange, nor to my discredit, that i had, and so soon and easily perhaps, fallen prisoner to lucille. it was small time i had ever had for love, because my past life had been spent in strife of one kind or another. i was at great pains, sometimes, to escape death, and my thoughts, in recent years, had been in the way of how to strike the hardest blow, and how to take the lightest.
so, it need not be wondered at that, when i had looked a few times into lucille’s eyes, i did what any other soldier, or man, would have done. i came to love her. it had grown on me, like the buds on the trees, or the flowers on the vines. yet i had spoken no words of love to her.
our conversation, when we met, was on topics far removed from the feelings that swayed me. the weather, a reference to the affairs of the colony, to the war soon to begin, of the indians, of that day in the woods when i cast the knife, and of that well-nigh fatal heaving of the rock.
sometimes she spoke of herself, and of the sunny land 64she left to come to america. that subject was one to set her cheeks aglow, and make her eyes to sparkle. she told me of france, where she had been so happy as a girl, and i told her of some parts of it that i had visited. of her reasons for coming to this bleak shore she said nothing, seeming to hesitate as we touched on that. all she told me was, that one day her father packed up such of his belongings as could be transported, sold the rest, and, with her cousin marie and herself, had come to massachusetts.
there had been many trials, the worst of all being when m. de guilfort became ill, because of the rigors of the winter, and passed away. once, when i told lucille that her tongue found little difficulty with the english words, she blushed and seemed confused. then, with downcast eyes, she said an englishman had lodged with her father, in paris, and had been her instructor. whereat i wondered at her confusion, and, though i scented some mystery, i said nothing, being content to wait until it was made clear.
but i thought it strange that any man with english blood in his veins, should teach this french maid to say, “i love, you love, we love,” and yet let it end there. but, of a surety, i was glad that he had.
and so it came that i loved lucille more and more every day. sometimes, when i looked into her eyes, i forgot the errand that brought me to salem, and i would 65have willingly cast my commission to the winds, for the privilege of being near her always. so it is when a man loves, not alone with wisdom. and as time went by my love grew.
from moody to gay, and back again to deep despair had my spirit moved, until, at length, i resolved to put all to the proof, and learn whether i had any cause to hope. so, one pleasant afternoon i put on what best garments i had, furbished my sword up, at great labor of muscle, and walked to lucille’s house. with a hand that strangely trembled, yet with which i could, at any other time, have found the smallest nick in the wall with my sword point, i lifted the heavy iron knocker on the door and let it fall. it made a resounding racket, almost like thunder, i thought. the serving woman let me into the front room, and i sat in the window recess. i was just beginning to wish i had put the matter off until another time, when lucille entered.
“hast cast any more rocks, captain?” she asked, smiling.
“lackaday, no!” i cried, in sudden terror at the thought of one throw i had made, not far back.
“i ought to fear you,” she said, “for you are a very goliath,” and she took a seat near the fireplace. though it was not cold without, a little blaze was going and it cast queer shadows, which played about the room and on lucille’s hair.
66“my strength was like to serve me a sorry trick,” i ventured. “had e’en a fragment of the rock struck you i should have cast myself into the sea.”
“do not say that,” she responded, “it would have been no fault of yours. i should not have passed that way. i saw the men at their games, and might have known that there was danger for an onlooker.”
i made no answer, for i had none ready. i did but gaze and gaze at her, until my heart was like to thump its way through my stout jacket. of a sudden she looked up, wondering, perhaps, at the silence, and then, seeing my eyes fixed on her she dropped her lids while the color came into her cheeks like the blush of morn on the petals of a rose. i could bear it no longer. starting to my feet, my sword clattered against the casement. lucille caught her breath, and seemed to shrink away from me.
“lucille,” i said.
she did not answer.
“lucille,” i cried again, and the name went from my lips huskily, for my throat was parched and dry.
“lucille,” i spoke for the third time.
“yes, captain amherst,” she made reply.
“lucille,” i cried, and then, with an effort, such as even the lifting of the great rock had not cost me, i blurted out, like a schoolboy:
“i love you, lucille, better than i have ever loved before. better than life itself.”
67it was out now. i crossed the room, and, standing before her, i held out my hands, pouring out my story in warm words of love. i cannot recall now, nor could i a half hour afterward, what i said. only i know that as i spoke of my passion, lucille seemed in a fright, at first. and her face, that had been flushed, grew pale, and her fingers plucking at her gown, trembled. then, when my rush of words had somewhat subsided, i approached nearer and nearer to her, until i could hear her breath, and see her bosom rise and fall. i stretched out my arms, and, not waiting to see if she said yea or nay, i clasped her to me, my warm kisses falling on her lips, her cheeks, her hands.
i could only repeat over and over again that one phrase, “i love you;” until, fearful that she might weary of that strain, i paused.
she struggled from my encircling arms, then stood like a sweet flower, that the wind had tossed about. yet never before had she looked so lovely to me.
“have you no answer for me?” i asked.
she did not reply.
“can you but love me a little?” i inquired softly, anxious now, indeed, as a man whose fate hung trembling in the balance. then the answer came back, oh, so softly and sweetly:
“yes.”
the darkness fell gently, until the ruddy fire shone out 68with casts of grim shadows over the room. i sat beside lucille, and my heart was big with thoughts of love. the darkness was light to me now.
we talked of what the future might hold for us. of how, when i had returned with honors, from the canadian expedition, we would wed, and make our home in this new land. for a time we forgot the terrible tragedy that had brought us together, though it was like a little cloud in the otherwise bright sky.
the sweetness of her presence was all i thought of then, as i sat beside lucille. i had never known before what it was to love truly. many fair women had smiled at me and i had laughed in return, for i knew that it would end there. but now----
more and more dark it grew. suddenly came a sound of galloping hoofs on the road without. ere we had time to wonder who it might be, for few rode so furiously in that time, unless some danger portended, there was a knock loud and long at the door. lucille and i had risen from our seats in alarm. the servant hastened to the portal with a candle, and we heard, as the oak swung back, the voice of a man:
“is captain amherst within?” the messenger asked.
“he is,” i answered, walking to the entrance.
“your pardon for this interruption,” began the man, “but i came in haste, with a letter for you from his 69excellency, sir william phips,” and the horseman handed me a sealed missive.
wonderingly i broke the red wax. in the dim light i read:
“captain:--the indian devils are pressing hard and close on our borders. settlers from outlying hamlets have brought word that they gather in numbers on the north. it is said that de vilebon, at st. johns, is urging the red men on, furnishing them food and munitions of war. could he be driven from his stronghold (mayhap no easy task) much good would be done the colony. proceed with your company, in all dispatch. kill, burn and capture.
“given under our hand and seal, the seal of his majesty, the king.
sir william phips.”
here was likely to be a sudden end to my love making, i thought. i turned to lucille, who had followed me to the door. she had shrunk back into the corner, and in her eyes i could see a strange look of horror and fright, such as i had never seen before.
from lucille i looked to the horseman. he stood at the very door, one hand holding the bridle. with the other he stroked his moustache, and his eyes never left the face of lucille. by the light of the candle, glowing out into the darkness, i could see a mocking smile on his lips.
70“lucille!” i cried.
the horseman never heeded my exclamation, nor did he change his gaze.
“sir!” i remarked, with a step toward him, my hand on my sword, “who, and what are you, that you dare to come----”
i might as well have been a thousand miles away, for all the heed he paid to me.
“i have found you, then,” he said to lucille, with a sneer on his face and in his tones. she shrank back farther and farther into the darkness.
i half drew my sword out, determined to punish his insolence speedily, but, with never a look at me, making a low, sweeping bow, that included both of us, he leaped into the saddle, and was away down the road in the darkness at a terrific pace.
“who was he?” i demanded, turning to lucille. she put her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some sight that was hateful to her.
“he was--he was----” she began, her voice trembling. “oh, edward, mind him not. i thought he was some one i had left behind me forever. but i must have been mistaken. the candle light played me tricks.”
“but his words? what of them? what meant he?” i persisted.
“i heard nothing that he said,” she replied, as if in surprise, “but what of your message?”
“who, and what are you, that you dare to come!”
71then, though i would have pursued my inquiries further, i was recalled, by her words, to the missive i held. briefly as i could, i told her of its import. it meant, i said, that i should have to leave salem very soon; in a day or two.
“it will be hard to go from you, sweetheart, when i have only just found you,” i whispered. i kissed her, and then, after a little, i went away, her caresses warm on my lips; the echoes of her voice sweet in my ears.
out under the stars i thought of the horseman. then, with a start, i recalled who he was. i had met him in the room of governor phips, in boston, some months before. he was the man with the jeweled hilted sword, with whom i had so nearly fought, in the doorway, where we came together in no gentle fashion. clearly there was some mystery here.
