Part 12 (2/2)

”You think it was a tree?”

Pierre shuffled. ”There are no Hurons here. This is the Pottawatamie country. But I have thought about it all day. It was a queer tree.

Shall I go back and see?”

I shook my head. I pointed to a stale bear print, and set the men upon it. Then I turned and slipped back to camp.

I walked with uneasiness in my throat. Why did a Huron dog us in this fas.h.i.+on? Was he alone? Did he mean mischief to the Englishman? Was the Englishman in league with him? Too many questions for a slow man.

I felt entrapped and befogged. I must see for myself. And so I crept to the camp to spy upon it.

I have never seen sweeter spot for an anchorage than we had found that day. We had not camped on the open coast as had been our custom, but in a sun-warmed meadow a few paces inland, where there were birds, and ta.s.seling gra.s.ses, and all kinds of glancing lights and odors to steal into a man's blood. I parted the trees. The blur of gray ashes from our fire was undisturbed; our canoes lay, bottom upwards, waiting to have the seams newly pitched, and the cargo was piled, untouched, against a tree. All was as we left it. And there, in the shade of a maple, lay the Englishman, asleep on his scarlet blanket.

I went softly, and looked down at him. I ought to have waked him, and rated him for sleeping at his post, but I could not. It was balm to find him here safe. He was twisted like a kitten with his head in his arm, and I noticed that his dark hair, which he kept roughly cut, was curly. He must have been wandering in the woods, for he had a bunch of pink blossoms, very waxy and odorous, shut tight in his hand. I looked at him till I suddenly wanted him to wake and look at me. I picked a gra.s.s stalk, and, leaning over, brushed it against his lips.

He woke as a child does, not alert at once, but with drowsy stirrings, and finally with open eyes so sleep-filled that they were as expressionless as a fawn's. He stared as if trying to remember who I was.

I sat beside him. ”I am the owner of that cargo you are guarding,” I supplied to aid his memory, and then laughed to see the red flood his face when he came to himself and realized what he had done. But I was not at ease. He had s.h.i.+vered and drawn back when he first opened his eyes. Could he be afraid of me? I should not wish that. I tried to be crafty.

”Who did you think I was when you first woke?” I asked, taking my pipe and preparing to be comfortable.

He pushed back his hair. ”Benjamin,” he answered vaguely. He was still half asleep.

”But you told me your name was Benjamin!” I put down my flint and tinder.

He met my look. ”I have a cousin Benjamin, as well,” he rejoined. ”I was dreaming of him. Monsieur, I am humiliated to think that I went to sleep. I have never done so before.”

My pipe drew well, and I did not feel like chiding. ”It does not matter,” I said, with a yawn. ”You must not take it amiss, monsieur, if I confess that, as a guard, I have never considered you much more seriously than I would that brown thrush above you. What is your posy?” and I leaned over and took the flowers from his hand.

He smiled at me drowsily. ”The arbutus,” he explained, with a lingering touch of his finger upon the blossoms. ”Smell them, monsieur. I found them in Connecticut last spring. Are they not well suited to be the first flowers of this wild land? Repellent without,--see how rough the leaves are to your finger,--but fragrant and beautiful under its harsh coating. Life in the Colonies grew to seem to me much the same.”

I turned the flowers over, and considered his philosophy. ”You are less cynical than your wont, monsieur.” I reflected. ”May I say that I like it better in you? Cynicism is a court exotic. It should not grow under these pines.”

He put out his hand to brush a twig from my doublet. ”Cynicism is often the flower of bitterness. Monsieur, you have been very good to me. I cannot keep in mind my constant bitterness against life when I think of the thoughtfulness and justice you have shown me.”

I jerked away. ”Sufficient! Sufficient! Let us be comfortable,” I expostulated, and I turned my back, and gave myself to my pipe and silence.

The birds sang softly as if wearied, and the earth was warm to the hand. I held the flowers in my fingers, and they smelled, somehow, like the roses on our terrace at home on moonlight evenings when I had been young and thought myself in love. I watched a drift of white b.u.t.terflies hang over an opening red blossom. Such moments pay for hours of famine. It disturbed me to have the Englishman rise and go away.

”Why do you go?” I demanded.

He came back at once. ”What can I do for you, monsieur?”

His gentleness shamed my shortness of speech. ”It was nothing,” I replied. ”The truth is, it was pleasant to have you here beside me.”

I laughed at my own folly. ”Starling, I will put you in man's dress to-morrow!” I cried.

He turned away. ”As you like, monsieur. I think myself it would be best. Will you get out the clothes to-night?”

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