Part 22 (1/2)
”Yes, my lady.”
”Is he without?”
”My lady, he is at the outpost at the head of Fundy Bay.”
Her face whitened terribly. She knew what this meant. La Tour could get no help. Nicholas Denys denied him men. There was no hope of rescue for Fort St. John. He was waiting in the outpost for his s.h.i.+p to bring him home--the home besieged by D'Aulnay. The blood returned to her face with a rush, her mouth quivered, and she sobbed two or three times without tears. La Tour could have taken her in his arms. But Edelwald folded his empty arms across his breast.
”My lady, I would rather be shot than bring you this message.”
”Klussman betrayed us, Edelwald! and I know I hurt men, hurt them with my own hands, striking and shooting on the wall!”
She threw herself against the settle and shook with weeping. It was the revolt of womanhood. The soldier hung his head. It relieved him to declare savagely,--
”Klussman hath his pay. D'Aulnay's followers have just hanged him below the fort.”
”Hanged him! Hanged poor Klussman? Edelwald, I cannot have Klussman--hanged!”
Le Rossignol had stopped her mandolin, and the children cl.u.s.tered near Edelwald waiting for his notice. One of them now ran with the news to her.
”Klussman is hanged,” she repeated, changing her position on the table and laying the mandolin down. ”Faith, we are never satisfied with our good. I am in a rage now because they hanged not the woman in his stead.”
Marie wiped off her tears. The black rings of sleeplessness around her eyes emphasized her loss of color, but she was beautiful.
”How foolish doth weariness make a woman! I expected no help from Denys--yet rested my last hope on it. You must eat, Edelwald. By your dress and the alarm raised you have come into the fort through danger and effort.”
”My lady, if, you will permit me first to go to my room, I will find something which sorts better with a soldier than this churchman's gown.
My buckskin, I was obliged to mutilate to make me a proper friar.”
”Go, a.s.suredly. But I know not what rubbish the cannon of D'Aulnay have battered down in your room. The monk's frock will scarce feel lonesome in that part of our tower now: we have had two Jesuits to lodge there since you left.”
”Did they carry away Madame Bronck? I do not see her among your women.”
”She is fortunate, Edelwald. A man loved her, and traveled hither from the Orange settlement. They were wed five days ago, and set out with the Jesuits to Montreal.”
Marie did not lift her heavy eyelids while she spoke, and anguish pa.s.sed unseen across Edelwald's face. Whoever was loved and fortunate, he stood outside of such experience. He was young, but there was to be no wooing for him in the world, however long war might spare him. The women of the fort waited with their children for his notice. His stirring to turn toward them rustled a paper under his capote.
”My lady,” he said pausing, ”D'Aulnay had me in his camp and gave me dispatches to you.”
”You were there in this friar's dress?”
Marie looked sincerely the pride she took in his simple courage.
”Yes, my lady, though much against my will. I was obliged to knock down a reverend shaveling and strip him. But the gown hath served fairly for the trouble.”
”Hath D'Aulnay many men?”
”He is well equipped.”
Edelwald took the packet from his belt and gave it to her. Marie broke the thread and sat down on the settle, spreading D'Aulnay's paper to the firelight. She read it in silence, and handed it to Edelwald. He leaned toward the fire and read it also.