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Show lifiii lit fM A Romance of Early Days' h'' in the Middle West K tirAl j Authorof "Kcithof (heI5ordcr,""My Lady E' K VX" V of Doubt," "The Maid of the Forest," etc. f t'' VA-if 1 M.u.s.ursi -.;rf-.o,' t&J 'of anger into the younger man's face, although he merely turned on his heel without reply. I remain-d at St. Igna.-e three I days, busily engaged in repairing our canoes and rendering them tit for the long voyage yet before us. From this point we were to venture on treacherous treacher-ous waters, as yet seari-cly explored, tile shores inhabited by savage, unknown un-known tribes, with not a white man in all the long distance from Green Day to the Chicago portage. Once I got out the map and traced the distance, dis-tance, feeling sick at heart as I thus realized more clearly the weary journey. jour-ney. Those were dull, lonely days I passed in the desolate mission house, while the others were busy at their various tasks. Only at night time, or as they straggled in to their meals, did I see anyone but I'ere Allouez, who was always close at hand, a silent shadow from whose presence I could not escape. I visited the priest's garden, gar-den, climbed the rocks overlooking the water and even ventured into the dark forest, but be was ever beside me, suave but insistent on doing bis master's will. The only glimpse I had of D'Artigny was at a distance, for not once did he approach the mission house. So I was glad enough when the canoes were ready, and all prep-1 prep-1 arations made for departure. Yet we were not destined to escape i thus easily from St. Ignace. Of what occurred I must write as it happened I to me then, and not as its full significance signi-ficance became later clear to my understanding. un-derstanding. It was after nightfall when Cassion returned to the mission house. The lights were burning on the table, and the three priests were rather impatiently waiting their evening even-ing meal, occasionally exchanging brief sentences, or peering out through the open window toward the dark water. Cassion came in alone, yet I observed ob-served nothing strange about li is appearance, ap-pearance, except that he failed to greet me with the usual attempt at gallantry, although his sharp eyes swept our faces as he closed the door, and stared about the room. "What! not eaten yet?" he exclaimed. ex-claimed. "I anticipated my fate to lie a lonely meal,, for the rascals worked like snails, and I would not leave them rest until all was finished. Faith, the odor is appetizing, and I am hungry as a bear." The younger priest waved his hand to the servant yet asked softly: "Monsieur Chevet he is delayed also?" "He will sup with his meu tonight," returned Cassion shortly, seating himself him-self on the bench. "The sergeant keeps guard of the canoes, and Chevet will be useful with those off duty." The man ate as though nearly famished, fam-ished, his ready tongue unusually silent, si-lent, and at the conclusion of the meal, appeared so fatigued that I made early excuse to withdraw so he might rest in comfort, climbing the ladder in one corner to my own bed beneath the eaves. This apartment, whose only advantage was privacy, was no more than a narrow space between the sloping slop-ing rafters of the roof, unfurnished, but with a small window in the end, closed by a wooden shutter. A partition parti-tion of axe-hewn planks divided this attic into two compartments, thus composing com-posing the priests' sleeping chambers. While I was there they both occupied the one to the south, Cassion, Chevet and Tere Allouez resting in the main room below. As I lowered the trap in the floor, shutting out the murmur of voices, I was conscious of no desire to sleep, my mind busily occupied with possibilities possi-bilities of the morrow. I opened the window and seated myself on the floor gazing out at the night. Below extended the priests' garden, and beyond be-yond the dark gloom of forest depths. The way of egress was easy a mere step to the flat roof of the kitchen, the dovetailed logs of which afforded .'- -,-;ii Jri.ifi.fc.iini The Way of Egress Was Easy. a ladder to the ground. I had no object ob-ject in such adventure, but a restless impulse urged me. and, almost before I realized my action. I was upon the ground. Avoiding the gleam of light which streamed from the open window win-dow of the room below, I crossed the garden and reached the path leading downward to the shore. From this poin'' I could perceive the wide sweep of waer. showing siivery in the dim moonlight, and tletect the darker rim of the laid. There was fire on the point below the huts, and its red glare .".fferded glimpses of the canoes mere ' blurred outlines and occasionally the figure of a man. only recognizable as he moved. 1 I was still staring at this ,l::n picture pic-ture when some noise, o'her than the I wind, startled me and I drew silently back behind a great stump to avoid discovery. My'thought was that someone some-one had left the inissii.n lions1 Cassion Cas-sion perhaps with final orders to those on the beaeh but a moment later I realized my mistake, ye; only crouched lower in the shadow a niau was advancing ad-vancing from the black concealment of the woods and crossing the open space. He moved cautiously, yet boldly enough, and his movements were not those of an Indian, although the low bu.-hes between us and the house shadow, prevented my distinguishing more than his mere outline. It was only when he lifted bis head into the gleam of light, and took hasty survey 1 through the window of the scene with-; with-; in, that I recognized the face of j 1 1'Arf igtiy. He lingered scarcely a j moment, evidently satistied with what he saw. and then drew silently hack, hesitating a brief space, as though debating de-bating his next movement. I waited breathless, wondering what his purpose could be, half inclined to intercept and ijuestion him. Was he seeking to serve my cause? to learu the truth of my relationship with Cassion? Cas-sion? or did he have some other object, ob-ject, some personal feud in which he sought revenge? The first thought sent the warm blood leaping through my veins; the second left me shivering as if with sudden chill. Even as I stood, hesitating, uncertain, uncer-tain, he turned and retraced his stops along the same path of his approach, passing me not ten steps away and vanishing into the wood. I thought he paused at the edge and bent down, yet before I found voice or determination determin-ation to stop him, he had disappeared. My courage returned, spurred by curiosity. cur-iosity. Why should he take so roundabout round-about a way to reach the shore? What was that black, shapeless thing he had paused to examine? I could see something some-thing there, dark and motionless, though to my eyes no more than a shadow. I ventured toward It, creeping behind be-hind the bushes bordering the path, conscious of an odd fear as I drew closer. Yet it was not until I emerged from the fringe of shrubbery that even the faintest conception of what the object was I saw occurred to me. Then I stopped, frozen by horror, for I confronted a dead body. For an instant I could not utter a sound or move a muscle of my body. My hands clung convulsively to a nearby branch, thus supporting me erect in spite of trembling limbs- and I stared at the gruesome object, black and almost shapeless in the moonlight. Only part of the trunk was revealed, the lower portion concealed con-cealed by bushes, yet I could no longer doubt it was a man's body a large, heavily built man, his hat still crushed on his head, but with face turned away. What courage overcame my horror and urged me fbrward I cannot tell; I seemed impelled by some power not my own, a vague fear of recognition tugging at my heart. I crept nearer, almost inch by inch, trembling at every noise, dreading to discover the truth. At last I could perceive the ghastly features the dead man was Hugo Chevet. I nerved myself to- the effort, and turned the body sufficiently to enable me to discover the wound he had been pierced by a knife from behind; had fallen, no doubt, without uttering a cry. dead ere he struck the ground. Then it was murder, foul murder, a Idow ir) the back. Why had the deed been done? What spirit of revenge, of hatred, of fear, could have led to such an act? I got again to my feet, staring about through the weird moonlight, moon-light, every nerve throbbing, as I thought to grip the fact and find its cause. Slowly I drew back, shrinking in growing terror from the corpse, until I was safely in the priest's garden. gar-den. There I paused irresolute, my dazed, benumbed brain beginning to grasp the situation and assert itself. ! CHAPTER XII. I The Murder of Chevet ; Who had killed him? What should I do? These were the two questions I haunting my mind, and becoming more i and more insistent. The light still burned in the mission house, and I could picture the scene within the three priests reading, or talking softly i to each other, and Cassion asleep on his bench in the corner, wearied with j the day. : I could not understand, could set I imagine a cause, and yet the assassin must have been D'Artigny. How else could I account for his presence there in the night, his efforts at concealment, conceal-ment, his bending over the dead body, and then hurrying away without sounding an alarm. The evidence against the man seemed conclusive, and yet I would not condemn. There might be other reasons for his silence, si-lence, for his secret presence, and if I rushed into the house, proclaiming my discovery and confessing what I had seen, he would be left without 1 defense. Shrinking, shuddering at every shadow, at every sound, my nerves throbbing with agony. I managed to drag my body up the logs, and in through the window. I was safe there, but there was no banishing from memory mem-ory what I had seen what I knew lay yonder in the wood shadow. I sank to the floor, clutching the sill, my eyes staring through the moonlight. Once I thought I saw a man's indis tinct figure move across an open space, and once I heard vo:ees far away. 1 do not know that I was called, yet when I awoke a faint light proclaiming pro-claiming tin' dawn was in the sky, and sounds of activity readied my : ears from the room below. I felt tired and cramped from my unnatural position, posi-tion, but hastened to join the others. The morning meal was already on the I table, ami we ate as usual, no one j mentioning Chevet. thus proving the ; body had not been discovered. 1 could I scarcely choke the food down, anticipating antici-pating every instant the sounding of an alarm. Cassion hurried, excited, no doubt, by the prospect of getting away on our journey, but seemed in excel- j lent humor. Pushing back the box on which he sat he buckled his pistol belt, seized his hat and strode to the door. "We depart at once." he proclaimed brietly. "So I will leave yon here to bring tilt1 lady." Fere Allouez, still busily engaged, murmured some indistinct reply and Cassion's eyes met mine. "You look pale and weary fhis morning," morn-ing," he said. "Not fear of the voyage, voy-age, I hope?" "Xo. monsieur." I managed to an- I 7--F?' ! u "He Is Dead the Big Man,!' He Stam mered. swer quietly. "I slept ill, but shall be better presently shall I bear mj blankets to the boats?" "The servant will see to- that, only let there be as little delay as possible. Ah! here comes a messenger from below what is it, my man?" The fellow, one of the soldiers whose face I did not recall, halted in the open door, gasping for breath, his eyes roving about the room. "He Is dead the big man," he stammered. stam-mered. "He is there by the woods." "The big man dead!" Cassion drew back, as though struck a blow. "Whal big man? Whom do you mean?" "The one in the second canoe, monsieur; mon-sieur; the one who roared." "Chevet? Hugo Chevet? Wrhat has happened to him? Come, speak up, or I'll slit your tongue!" The man gulped, gripping the door with one hand, the other pointing outward. out-ward. He- is there, monsieur, beyond the trail, at the edge of the wood. I saw him with his face turned up Mon dieu! so white; I dare not touch him, but there was blood where a knife had entered his back." All were on their feet, their faces picturing the sudden horror, yet Cassion Cas-sion was first to recover his wits, and lead the way without. Grasping the soldier's arm and bidding him show where the body lay, he thrust him through the door. I lingered behind' shrinking from being again compelled to view the sight of the dead man, yet unable to keep entirely away. Cassion. Cas-sion. stopped, looking down at the object ob-ject on the grass, but made no effort to- touch it with his hands. The soldier sol-dier bent and rolled the body over, and one of the priests felt in the pockets of the jacket, bringing forth a paper or two. Cassion took these, gripping them in his fingers, his face appearing gray in the early light. Mon dieu! the man has been murdered," mur-dered," he exclaimed, "a dastard blow in the back. Look about and see If you find a knife. Had he quarrel with anyone, Moulin?" The soldier straightened up. "No, monsieur; I heard of none, though he was often rough and harsh of tongue to the men. Ah! now I recall, re-call, he bad words with Sieur d'Art:-gny d'Art:-gny on the beach at dusk. I know not the cause, yet the younger man left him angrily and passed by where I stood, with his hands clinched." "D'Artigny, hey!" Cassion's voice had a ring of pleasure in it. "Ay! he is a hothead. Know you where the young cock is now?" "He, with the chief, left an hour ago. Was it not your order, monsieur?" mon-sieur?" Cassion made a swift gesture, but what It might signify I could not determine, de-termine, as his face was turned away. A moment there was silence, as ne 1 shaded his eyes and peered out across the water. J It certainly looks bad for D'Artigny. Do you believe that J he has murdered Chevet in a fit J of temper? Is there a possibil- J ity that Cassion knows more of J the tragedy than his manner in- 1 : J dicates? J ! : : i l (TO BE CONTI.VITEO., j SYNOPSIS. H Ail-;ln la rlM-Huaync. a l" lle "f N"v t'laii'.-, i.s iuimmi' -i,n.s,ir a lefs a! li'-r ua- I,-'M Ii'jui. (.'as iia, llu; e-Uaai!S -all'-', has unlisted li--r I "..-J . - f la-.'.'t's aid nK'UIMl l-l Malle- I.'ArlUny. .I.a S'lle's toon's 'pan V Hie Journey to Hie wild. -I'll- ss .The llliete iiilerms A 1 - -1 unit lie haa Oetiellail lT t" l'a-.-.ii,n and lerliMs h-r tn see 1 il iuiiy aK-un. In 'Quebec Adi le vl.- lt.-i her lri.-nd. Sister tviese-, Kliu brings IVArliKliy to IfT. Sim tells him lier sney and tie vuus to rel- .isi- her from the bargain with c'asslen. li'Artig-nv li'Artig-nv leaven pii'iiiisinK to see her at lie-dance, lie-dance, t'asslmi escorts Aib-le t,i tile hall. She meeU the Khvernor. I.a Hat're. and hears him warn the CDliimisnaire against lCAi-llgny. D'Artlgny's ticket lo the ball has been rcc ailed, but he Kiuns enlrani e by the window. Adele informs him of the Rovernui's words lo Cassion. I'm' her eavesdropping ill the ball Ad.'le is ordered by the Ki.veni'M- In marry t.'a.ssinn at once and to. ueeiniipany him to the Illinois i iiunti-y. He summons Chevet and direris Unit he attti-nd them on the jelirney. Thev ' leave In the boats. Allele's fuliire depending depend-ing on the ilerisiiiti of Ii'Artigny whom she now knows she loves, t'assion and D'Artigny have words. Vnete Chevet Puttie Pu-ttie llrst time hears that his niece is an h-dress. and begins to suspect Cassion's motives. Adele refuses to permit her husband hus-band to share her sleeping quarters. Chevet agrees to help her. She talks se-eretly se-eretly to JJ'ArliKny. but he declines to Kive her aelivu aid against her husband. Bad luck frequently comes in bunches. Adele has been buf- feted by fate for months, nay for J several years. In this fight against Commissaire Cassion a she needs direly every aid she J can muster, yet one after an- J other her sources of help fall J away. This Is a thrilling Install- J ment, which describes how she J receives two serious shocks. One of them blackens her love affair. The other frightens her. Cassion finds his wife alone on the bill and discovers a man's fontprin'.s. He accuses her angrily. CHAPTER XI Continue, 1 "The print is frsh, not f.n'w?t. and none of the men from ny ""j'iip have come this way." He strode forward -e'.'oss the nar-vw nar-vw 'open space an disappeared into ffij fringe of trees bordering the edge of the bluff. It would have been easy for me to depart, to escape to the security se-curity of the tent below, but curiosity held me motionless. I knew what he would discover, and preferred to face the consequences where I was free to answer him face to face. I wished him to be suspicious, to feel that he had a rival; I would fan his jealousy to the very danger point. Nor had I long to wait. Forth from the shade -of the trees he burst and came toward me, his face white, his eyes blazing. " 'Tls the fellow I thought." he burst forth, "and he went down the face of the bluff yonder. So you dared to have tryst with him?" "With wdiom, monsieur?" ""D'Artigny, the young fool! Do you think me blind? Did I not know you were together in Quebec? What are you laughing at?" "I was not laughing, monsieur. Your ridiculous charge does not amuse me. I am a woman; you Insult me; I am your wife: you charge me with indiscretion. indis-cretion. If you think to win me with such cowardly insinuations you know little of my nature. I will not talk with you. nor discuss the matter. I return to the camp." His hands clinched as though he had the throat of an enemy between them, but angry as he was, some vague doubt restrained him. ."Mon dieu! I'll fight the dog!" "D'Artigny, you mean? 'Tis his trade. I hear, and he is good at it." "Bah! a bungler of the woods. I doubt if he ever crossed blades with a fwordsman. Fnt mark you this, nta lame. the lad feels my steel if ever you so much as speak to him again." There was contempt in my eyes, nor did I strive to disguise it. "Am I your wife, monsieur, or your slave?" "My wife, and I know howT to hoid you! Mon dieu! but you shall learn that lesson. I was a fool to ever give the brat place in the boats. La Barre warned me that be would make trouble. trou-ble. Now I tell you what will occur If you play false with me." "You may spare your threats they -eigh nothing. The Sieur d'Artigny is my friend, and I shall address him when it pleases me. With whatever quarrel may arise between you I have no Interest. Let that suffice, and now ( bid you good night, monsieur." He made no effort to halt me. nor I to follow, and I made my way down ' the darkening path, without so much is turning my hrad to observe his .novenients. It was almost like a play ;.o me. and I was reckless of the con-op.ienoes, con-op.ienoes, intent only on my purpose. In the early dawn we broke camp is usttal. except that chosen boatmen guided the emptied can;s through the .Mplds. while the others of the party iv.ule portage along the rough shore. !u the smooth water above we all em- ; barked again, and won slow way against the current. The advance company com-pany had departed before our arrival, nor did I again obtain glimpse of D'Artigny for many days. I I would not say that Cassion purposely pur-posely kept us apart, for the arrangement arrange-ment might have been the same hail I not been of the party, yet the only coutmunication between the two divisions divi-sions occurred when some messenger brought back warning of dangerous j wafer ahead. Usually this messenger was an Indian, but once D'Artlevy himself came ami guided our cfl.ioes through a torrent of white, raging wa-! wa-! ler, amid a maze of murderous rocks, j 1 Hiring these days and weeks Cassion : I rented mo with consideration and out-; out-; ward respect. Not that he failed to talk freely, and to boast of his exploits ex-ploits and adventures, yet he refrained from laying hand on me, nor did he once refer to the incident of the bluff. Nor was the .journey lacking in interest in-terest or adventure. Never shall I forget the charm of those days t-nd nights, amid which we made slow and toilsome passage through the desolate wilderness, ever gaining new lenities to the westward. Only twice in weeks did we encounter human beings once a camp of Indians on the'sho"e of a lake, and once a Capuchin monk, alone but for a single vnyageur as companion, com-panion, passed us upon the river. Ami when, at last, we made the long portage, por-tage, tramping through the dark forest for-est aisles, bearins: on our shoulders he-vy loads, s-'rcely able to see the suti even at mdday through the leafy screen of leaves, and came forth at twiligW un the shores of the mighty lak, 2o words can express the rap-tv.r-i with which I stood and gazed t irross that expanse of heaving, rest-'ess rest-'ess water. The men launched their 'canoes upon the surface and made camp in the edge of the forest, but I could not move, could not restrain my eyes, until darkness descended and left all before me a void. It was scarcely more than daybreak wdien we broke camp and headed our canoes out into the lake. With the dawn, and the glint of sunlight over the waters, much of my dread departed, depart-ed, and I could appreciate the wild song of delight with which our Indian paddlers bent to their work. The sharp-prowed canoes swept through the waters swiftly, no longer battling against a current, and, the shore line ever in view was fascinating in its green foliage. We kept close to the northern shore, and soon found passage pas-sage amid numerous islands, fort'st covered, but with high, rocky outlines. For four days we coasted thus, never out of sight of shore, and usually with islands between us and the main body of water. In all that time we had no sign of man not even a wisp of smoke, nor heard the crack of distant rifle. About us exteuded loneliness and desolation, great waters never still, vast forests grim aud somber, tali, menacing rocks, bright-colored in the sun. As last we left the chain of islands behind, and one morning struck out from the shore into the waste of waters, wa-ters, the prows of the canoes turned westward, the steersman guiding our course by the sun. For several hours we were beyond view of land, with naught to rest the eye upon save the gray sea, and then, when it was nearly night, we reached the shore and beached our cauoes at St. Ignace. So much had been said of St. Tgnace. and so long had the name been familiar fa-miliar throughout New France, that my first view of the place brought me bitter disappointment. The miserable little villagewas upon a point of land, originally covered with heavy growth of forest. A bit of this had been rudely cut, the jotting stumps still standing, and from the timber a dozen rough log houses hud been constructed facing the lake. A few rods back, on slightly higher land, was a log chapel and a house, somewhat some-what more pretentious than the others, in which the priests lodged. The whole aspect of the place was peculiarly desolate and depressing, facing that vast waste of water, the black forest shadows behind, and those rotting stumps in the foreground. Nor was our welcome one to make the heart rejoice. Scarce a dozen persons per-sons gathered at the beach to aid us in making landing, rough engages mostly, aud not among them all a face familiar. It was only later, when two priests from the mission came hurrying forward, that we were greeted greet-ed by cordial speech. These invited a few of us to become guests at the mission house, and assigned the remainder re-mainder of our party to vacant huts. Cassion. Chevet and Tere Allouez accompanied me as 1 walked beside a young priest up the beaten path, but D'Artigny was left behind with the meu. I overheard Cassion order him :o remain, but he added some word it fewer voice, which brought a flush |
