Part 6 (2/2)

Father Jogues' perplexed brows drew together. Wanderings, hunger, and imprisonment he could bear serenely as incidents of his journey. But to have his flock scattered before he could reach it was real calamity.

”We must make s.h.i.+ft to follow them,” he said.

”How will you follow them without supplies, and without knowing where they may turn in the woods?”

”I see we shall have to wait for them at Pen.o.bscot,” said Father Jogues.

”Take a heretic's advice instead. For I speak not as the enemy of your religion when I urge you to journey with me back to Montreal. You can make another and better start to establish this mission.”

The priest shook his head.

”I do not see my way. But my way will be shown to me, or word will come sending me back.”

Some sign from the lady of the fortress recalled Van Corlaer to his duty as a guest. The supper grew cold while he parleyed. So he turned quickly to take the chair she had set for him, and saw that Antonia was gone.

”Madame Bronck will return,” said Marie, pitying his chagrin, and searching her own mind for Antonia's excuse. ”We brought a half-starved baby home from our last expedition, and it lies dead upstairs. Women have soft hearts, monsieur: they cannot see such sights unmoved. She hath lost command of herself to-night.”

Van Corlaer's face lightened with tenderness. Bachelor though he was, he had held infants in his hands for baptism, and not only the children of Fort Orange but dark broods of the Mohawks often rubbed about his knees.

”You brought your men into the fort, Monsieur Corlaer?”

”No, madame. I sent them back to camp by the falls. We are well provisioned. And there was no need for them to come within the walls.”

”If you lack anything I hope you will command it of us.”

”Madame, you are already too bounteous; and we lack nothing.”

”The Sieur de la Tour being away, the conduct and honor of this fort are left in my hands. And he has himself ever been friendly to the people of the colonies.”

”That is well known, madame.”

Soft waxlight, the ample s.h.i.+ne of the fire, trained service, and housing from the chill spring night, abundant food and flask, all failed to bring up the spirits of Van Corlaer. Antonia did not return to the table. The servingmen went and came betwixt hall and cook-house. Every time one of them opened the door, the world of darkness peered in, and over the night quiet of the fort could be heard the tidal up-rush of the river.

”The men can now bring our s.h.i.+p to anchor,” observed Marie. Father Jogues and his donne, eating with the habitual self-denial of men who must inure themselves to hunger, still spoke with Van Corlaer about their mission. But during all his talk he furtively watched the stairway.

The dwarf sat on her accustomed stool beside her lady, picking up bits from a well heaped silver platter on her knees; and she watched Van Corlaer's discomfiture when Lady Dorinda took him in hand and Antonia yet remained away.

V.

JONAS BRONCK'S HAND.

The guests had deserted the hall fire and a sentinel was set for the night before Madame La Tour knocked at Antonia's door.

Antonia was slow to open it. But she finally let Marie into her chamber, where the fire had died on the hearth, and retired again behind the screen to continue dabbing her face with water. The candle was also behind the screen, and it threw out Antonia's shadow, and showed her disordered flax-white hair flung free of its cap and falling to its length. Marie sat down in the little world of shadow outside the screen.

The joists directly above Antonia flickered with the flickering light.

<script>