When Barbe Cavelier awoke next morning and saw around her the stone walls of Fort Frontenac instead of a familiar convent enclosure, she sat up in her bed and laughed aloud. The tiny cell echoed. Never before had laughter of young girl been heard there. And when she placed her feet upon the floor perhaps their neat and exact pressure was a surprise to battered planks used to the smiting tread of men.

Barbe proceeded to dress herself, with those many curvings of neck and figure, which, in any age, seem necessary to the fit sitting of a young maid in her garments. Her aquiline face glowed, full of ardent life.

Some raindrops struck the roof-window and ran down its panes like tears. When Barbe had considered her astounding position as the only woman in Fort Frontenac, and felt well compacted for farther adventures, she sprung upon the bunk, and stood with her head near the roof, looking out into the fortress and its adjacent world. Among moving figures she could not discern her uncle La Salle, or her uncle the AbbÉ, or even her brother. These three must be yet in the officers’ house. Dull clouds were scudding. As Barbe opened the sash and put her head out the morning air met her with a chill. Fort Frontenac’s great walls half hid an autumn forest, crowding the lake’s distant border in measureless expanse of sad foliage. Eastward, she caught ghostly hints of islands on misty water. The day was full of depression. Ontario stood up against the sky, a pale greenish fleece, raked at intervals by long wires of rain.

But such influences had no effect on a healthy warm young creature, freed unaccountably from her convent, and brought on a perilous, delightful journey to so strange a part of her world.

She noticed a parley going forward at the gate. Some outsider demanded entrance, for the sentry disappeared between the towers and returned for orders. He approached the commandant who stood talking with Jacques le Ber, the merchant of Montreal. Barbe could see Le Ber’s face darken. With shrugs and negative gestures he decided against the newcomer, and the sentinel again disappeared to refuse admission. She wondered if a band of Iroquois waited outside. Among AbbÉ Cavelier’s complaints of La Salle was Governor la Barre’s accusation that La Salle stirred enmity in the Iroquois by protecting the Illinois tribe they wished to exterminate.

“Even these Indians on the lake shore,” meditated Barbe, “who settled there out of friendship to my uncle La Salle, may turn against him and try to harm him as every one does now that his fortunes are low. I would be a man faithful to my friend, if I were a man at all.”

She watched for a sight of the withdrawing party on the lake, and presently a large canoe holding three men shot out beyond the walls. One stood erect, gazing back at the fort with evident anxiety. Neither the smearing medium of damp weather nor increasing distance could rob Barbe of that man’s identity. His large presence, his singular carriage of the right arm, even his features sinking back to space, stamped him Henri de Tonty.

“He has come here to see my uncle La Salle, and they have refused to let him enter,” she exclaimed aloud.

Stripping a coverlet from her berth she whipped the outside air with it until the crackle brought up a challenge from below.

Fort Frontenac was a seignorial rather than a military post, and its discipline had been lax since the governor’s Associates seized it, yet a sentinel paced this morning before the officers’ quarters. When he saw the signal withdrawn and a lovely face with dark eyelashes and a topknot of curls looking down at him, he could do nothing but salute it, and Barbe shut her window.

Dropping in excitement from the bunk, she ran across the upper room to knock at La Salle’s door.

A boy stood basking in solitude by the chimney.

Her uncle La Salle’s apartment seemed filled with one strong indignant voice, leaking through crevices and betraying its matter to the common hall.

“You may knock there until you faint of hunger,” remarked the lad at the hearth. “I also want my breakfast, but these precious Associates will let us starve in the fort they have stolen before they dole us out any food. I would not mind going into the barracks and messing, but I have you also to consider.”

“It is not anything to eat, Colin—it is pressing need of my uncle La Salle!”

“The AbbÉ has pressing need of our uncle La Salle. It was great relief to catch him here at Frontenac. I have heard every bit of the lecture: what amounts our uncle the AbbÉ has ventured in western explorations; and what a fruitless journey he has made here to rescue for himself some of the stores of this fortress; and what danger all we Caveliers stand in of being poisoned on account of my uncle La Salle, so that the AbbÉ can scarce trust us out of his sight, even with nuns guarding you.”

To Barbe’s continued knocking her guardian made the curtest reply. He opened the door, looked at her sternly, saying, “Go away, mademoiselle,” and shut it tightly again.

She ran back to her lookout and was able to discern the same canoe moving off on the lake.

“Colin,” demanded Barbe, wrapping herself, “You must run with me.”

“Certainly, mademoiselle, and I trust you are making haste toward a table.”

“We must run outside the fortress.”

Though the boy felt it a grievance that he should follow instead of lead to any adventure, he dashed heartily out with her, intending to take his place when he understood the action. Rain charged full in their faces. The sentry was inclined to hold them at the fortress gate until he had orders, and Barbe’s impatience darted from her eyes.

“You will get me into trouble,” he said. “This gate has been swinging over-much lately.”

“Let us out,” persuaded Colin. “The Associates will not care what becomes of a couple of Caveliers.”

“Where are you going?”

“My sister wishes to run to the Iroquois village,” responded Colin, “and beg there for a little sagamite. We get nothing to eat in Fort Frontenac.”

The soldier laughed.

“If you are going to the Iroquois village why don’t you say your errand is to Catharine Tegahkouita? It is no sin to ask an Indian saint’s prayers.”

Barbe formed her lips to inquire, “Has Tegahkouita come to Fort Frontenac?” But this impulse passed into discreet silence, and the man let them out.

They ran along the palisades southward, Barbe keeping abreast of Colin though she made skimming dips as the swallow flies, and with a dÉtour quite to the lake’s verge, avoided the foundation of an outwork.

Father Hennepin’s cross stood up, a huge white landmark between habitant settlement on the lake, and Indian village farther west but visible through the clearing. Ontario seemed to rise higher and top the world, its green curves breaking at their extremities into white spatter, the one boat in sight making deep obeisance to heaving water.

“Do you see a canoe riding yonder?” exclaimed Barbe to Colin, as they ran along wet sand.

“Any one may see a canoe riding yonder. Was it to race with that canoe we came out, mademoiselle?”

“Wave your arms and make signals to the men in it, Colin. They must be stopped. I am sure that one is Monsieur de Tonty, and they were turned away from the fortress gate. They have business with our uncle La Salle, and see how far they have gone before we could get out ourselves!”

“Why, then, did you follow?” demanded her brother, waving his arms and flinging his cap in the rain. “They may have business with our uncle La Salle, but they have no business with a girl. This was quite my affair, Mademoiselle Cavelier.”

A maid whose feet were heavy with the mud of a once ploughed clearing could say little in praise of such floundering. She paid no attention to Colin’s rebuke, but watched for the canoe to turn landward. Satisfied that it was heading toward them, Barbe withdrew from the border of the lake. She would not shelter herself in any deserted hut of the habitant village. Colin followed her in vexation to Father Hennepin’s mission house, remonstrating as he skipped, and turning to watch the canoe with rain beating his face.

They found the door open. The floor was covered with sand blown there, and small stones cast by the hands of irreverent passing Indian boys. The chapel stood a few yards away, but this whole small settlement was dominated by its cross.[11]

Barbe and Colin were scarcely under this roof shelter before Tonty strode up to the door. He took off his hat with the left hand, his dark face bearing the rain like a hardy flower. Dangers, perpetual immersion in Nature, and the stimulus of vast undertakings had so matured Tonty that Barbe felt more awe of his buckskin presence than her memory of the fine young soldier in Montreal could warrant. She wanted to look at him and say nothing. Colin, who knew this soldier only by reputation, was eager to meet and urge him into Father Hennepin’s house.

Tonty’s reluctant step crunched sand on the boards. He kept his gaze upon Barbe and inquired,—

“Have I the honor, mademoiselle, to address the niece of Monsieur de la Salle?”

“The niece and nephew of Monsieur de la Salle,” put forth Colin.

“Yes, monsieur. You may remember me as the young tiger-cat who sprung upon my uncle La Salle when you arrived with him from France.”

“I never forgot you, mademoiselle. You so much resemble Monsieur de la Salle.”

“It is on his account we have run out of the fort to stop you. He does not know you are here. I saw the sentinel close the gate against some one, and afterward your boat pushed out.”

“And did you shake a signal from an upper window in the fort?”

“Monsieur, I could not be sure that you saw it, though I could see your boat.”

“She made it very much her affair,” observed Colin, with the merciless disapproval of a lad. “Monsieur de Tonty, there was no use in her trampling through sand and rain like a Huron witch going to some herb gathering. It was my business to do the errand of my uncle La Salle. When she goes back she will get a lecture and a penance, for all her sixteen years.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Tonty, “I am distressed if my withdrawal from Fort Frontenac causes you trouble. I meant to camp here. I was determined to see Monsieur de la Salle.”

“Monsieur,” courageously replied Barbe, “you cause me no trouble at all. I thought you were returning to your fort on the Illinois. I did not stop to tell my brother, but made him run with me. It is a shame that the enemies of my uncle La Salle hold you out of Fort Frontenac.”

“But very little would you get to eat there,” consoled young Cavelier. “We have had nothing to break our fast on this morning.”

“Then let us get ready some breakfast for you,” proposed Tonty, as his men entered with the lading of the canoe. They had stopped at the doorstep, but Father Hennepin’s hewed log house contained two rooms, and he pointed them to the inner one. There they let down their loads, one man, a surgeon, remaining, and the other, a canoeman, going out again in search of fuel.

“Monsieur, it would be better for us to hurry back to the fortress and call my uncle La Salle.”

“Nothing will satisfy you, mademoiselle,” denounced Colin. “Out you must come to stop Monsieur de Tonty. Now back you must go through weather which is not fitting for any demoiselle to face.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Tonty, “if you return now it will be my duty to escort you as far as the fortress gate.”

Barbe drew her wrappings over her face, as he had seen a wild sensitive plant fold its leaves and close its cups.

“I will retire to the chapel and wait there until my uncle La Salle comes,” she decided, “and my brother must run to call him.”

“You may take to sanctuary as soon as you please,” responded Colin, “and I will attend to my uncle La Salle’s business. But the first call I make shall be upon the cook in this camp.”