ABOUT 1 o’clock of the night Jacques rose from his sleeping-cell, as he was in the habit of doing, to put more wood on the kitchen fire.

The window slits let in some moonlight of a bluish quality, but the larger part of this wide space lay in shadow until Jacques sent over it the ruddiness of a revived fire. Out of uncertainty came the doors of the sleeping-cells, the rafters and dried herbs which hung from them, heavy table and benches and stools, cooking-vessels, guns, bags of stored grain, and the figures of the four Hurons, two at each side of the hearth, stretched out in their blankets with their heels to the fire—and Jacques himself, disordered from sleep and imperfectly thrust into lower garments. He lingered stupidly looking at the magician fire while it rose and crackled and cast long oblique shadows with the cemented posts.

Dollard descended the stairway from his apartment, pressing down his sword-hilt to keep the scabbard from clanking on each step. He was entirely dressed in his uniform. As he approached the fire and Jacques turned towards him, his face looked bloodless, his features standing high, the forehead well reared back.

“I am glad you are awake,” he said to Jacques, half aloud. “Are the others asleep?” indicating those cells occupied by Louise and the Papillon family. There was no questioning the deep slumber which inclosed his Indians.

“Yes, m’sieur.”

“Have you packed the provisions I directed you to pack?”

“Yes, m’sieur. M’sieur, you do not leave at this hour?”

“At once.”

“But, m’sieur, the Lachine is hard enough to run in daytime.”

“There is broad moonlight. Are you sure you understand everything?”

“M’sieur, I hope I do. Have you told madame?”

Dollard wheeled and flung his clinched hands above his head as men do on receiving gunshot wounds.

“O saints! I cannot tell her! I am a wretch, Jacques. She has been happy; I have not caused her a moment’s suffering. Let her sleep till morning. Tell her then merely that I have gone to my fortress; that I would not expose her to the dangers of the route by night. It will soon be over now. Sometime she can forgive this cruelty if a deed goes after it to make her proud. She has proud blood, my boy; she loves honor. Oh, what a raving madman I was to marry her, my beloved! I thought it could do her no harm—that it could not shake my purpose! O my Claire! O my poor New France! Torn this way, I deserve shame with death—no martyr’s crown—no touch of glory to lighten my darkness for ever and ever!”

“M’sieur,” whimpered Jacques, crouching and wiping nose and eyes with his palms, “don’t say that! My little master, my pretty, my dear boy! These women have the trick of tripping a man up when he sets his foot to any enterprise.”

“Hear me,” said Dollard, grasping him on each side of the collar. “She is the last of the Des Ormeaux to you. Serve her faithfully as you serve the queen of heaven. If she wants to go back to France, go with her. Before this I bequeathed you St. Bernard. Now I am leaving you a priceless charge. Your wife shall obey and follow her to the ends of the earth. To-day I altered my will in Montreal and gave her my last coin, gave her my seigniory, I gave her you! Do you refuse to obey my last commands? Do you disallow my rights in you?”

Jacques’s puckered face unflinchingly turned upward and met the stare of his master.

“M’sieur, I will follow my lady’s whims and do your commands to the hour of my death.”

Dollard, like a mastiff, shook him.

“Is there any treachery in you, Jacques Goffinet, free follower of the house of Des Ormeaux? If there is, out with it now, or my dead eyes will pry through you hereafter.”

“M’sieur,” answered Jacques, lifting his hand and making the sign of the cross, “I am true man to my core. I do love to pile good stuff together and call land mine, but thou knowest I love a bit of cloth from one of thy old garments better than all the seigniories in New France.”

Dollard let go Jacques’s collar and extended his arms around the stumpy man’s neck.

“My good old Jacques! My good old Jacques!”

“How proud I have always been of thee!” choked Jacques.

“I have told her to depend on you, Jacques. The will I brought home in my breast and placed among her caskets. She will provide for Louise and you, and she will provide for poor RenÉe, also. Kick the Indians and wake them up. There is not another moment to spare.”

The Indians were roused, and stood up taciturn and ready for action, drawing their blankets around themselves. These Hurons, vagrants from Annahotaha’s tribe, were hangers-on about the fortress at Montreal. Jacques gave them each a careful dram, and lighted at the fire a dipped candle. With this feeble light he penetrated the darkness of the cellar floor, leading the party down its tortuous staircase.

Dollard, who had stood with his hand on the door-latch, was the last to leave the upper room. His questions followed Jacques around the turns of the stairs.

“You are well provisioned, Jacques?”

“Yes, m’sieur.”

“At daybreak you will remember to have Papillon help you bring in an abundant supply of water?”

“Yes, m’sieur.”

“Bar the doors when you see any one approaching and keep watch on all sides every day.”

“Yes, m’sieur.”

Jacques jammed his candle-end into a crack of the rock floor, undid the fastenings, and with a jerk let the moonlight in on their semi-darkness.

They went out to the palisade gate, the Indians dragged the boat carefully to its launching, and Jacques stored in it Dollard’s provisions.

“Good-bye, my man,” said Dollard.

“M’sieur,” said Jacques, “I have always obeyed you. There is but one thing in my heart against you, and I will cleanse myself of that now.”

“Quickly, then.” The young man had one foot in the boat.

“It is the same old hard spot. Thou wouldst rule me out of this expedition. A man that loves thee as I love thee!”

“Jacques, if I had reasons before on RenÉe’s account, what reasons have I not now?”

“Bless thee, my master Adam Daulac!”

“Bless thee, my Jacques!”

The boat shot off, and Jacques went in and fastened the gate and the door.