Part 45 (1/2)

”And they were Spatter-dash's, too,” said I, almost stifled by my jealous rage. ”Whose else they may have been I know not, and do not ask you. Good night.”

She said nothing, and presently picked at her torn ap.r.o.n.

”Good night,” I repeated.

”Good night, sir.”

And so I left her, choked by I knew not what new and fierce emotions--for I desired to seek out Spatter-dash, Jack-boots, and the whole cursed crew of suitors, and presently break their a.s.sorted necks.

For now I was aware that I hated these popinjays who came philandering here, as deeply as I hated to hear of the red-coat gallants at Caughnawaga.

Still a-quiver with pa.s.sion, I managed, nevertheless, to make my compliments and adieux to Lady Johnson and to Claudia--felt their warm and generous clasp, answered gaily I know not what, saluted all, took a lantern that Flora fetched, and went away across the gra.s.s.

A shadow detached itself from darkness, and now my Saguenay was padding at my heels once more.

As we two came to the mainland, young Spatter-dash suddenly crossed the road in front of my lantern. Good G.o.d! Was I in my right mind! Was it Stephen Watts on whose white, boyish face my lantern glimmered for an instant? How could it be, when it meant death to catch him here?...

Besides, he was in Canada with Walter Butler. What possessed me, that in young Spatter-dash I saw resemblance to Stevie Watts, and in another respectable militia officer a countenance resembling Lieutenant Hare's?

Sure my mind was obsessed tonight by faces seen that last unhappy evening at the Hall; and so I seemed to see a likeness to those men in every face I met.... Something had sure upset me.... Something, too, had suddenly awakened in me new and deep emotions, unsuspected, unfamiliar, and unwelcome.

And for the first time in my life I knew that I hated men because a woman favoured them.

We had pa.s.sed through the Continental camp, my Indian and I, and were now going down among the bushes to the Vlaie Water, where lay our canoe, when, of a sudden, a man leaped from the reeds and started to run.

Instantly my Indian was on his shoulders like a tree-cat, and down went both on the soft mud, my Saguenay atop.

I c.o.c.ked my rifle and poked the muzzle into the prostrate stranger's ribs, resting it so with one hand while I s.h.i.+ned my lantern on his upturned face.

He wore a captain's uniform in the Canajoharie Regiment; and, as he stared up at me, his throat still clutched by the Saguenay, I found I was gazing upon the blotched features of Captain Moucher!

”Take your hands from his neck-cloth, cut your thrums, and make a cord to tie him,” said I, in the Oneida dialect. ”He will not move,” I added.

It took the Indian a little while to accomplish this. I held my rifle muzzle to Moucher's ribs. Until his arms were tied fast behind him, he had not spoken to me nor I to him; but now, as he rose to his knees from the mud and then staggered upright, I said to him:

”This is like to be a tragic business for you, Captain Moucher.”

He winced but made no reply.

”I am sorry to see you here,” I added.

”Do you mean to murder me?” he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

”I mean to question you,” said I. ”Be good enough to step into that canoe.”

The Indian and I held the frail craft. Moucher stepped into it, stumbling in the darkness and trembling all over.

”Sit down on the bottom, midway between bow and stern!”