"Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario?"

It was in the third dance, in the middle of an intricate figure (and Mademoiselle Chouteau was proving herself a most bewitching partner), that I suddenly discovered that neither mademoiselle nor the chevalier was dancing; nor could I see them anywhere, though my glance shot rapidly into every leafy nook and corner.

An unreasoning terror seized me, and with all my might I tried to think what I could do. Should I leave my partner and fly in pursuit, as I longed to do, the figure would be broken up, and should my fears prove unfounded I could never again hold up my head among the St. Louis maidens. Yet I thought if I waited until the dance was over there would be time for the worst to happen, and I had promised not to let mademoiselle out of my sight. Now did I curse my folly (with many of my big d-inventions) that, since I had come to the picnic solely to look after mademoiselle, I had allowed myself to make any engagement with any other maiden, however bewitching.

In my agony of indecision, though I was still going through the figure in a dazed fashion, great drops of perspiration started out on my brow. At that moment there came a pause in the dance, while the figure was changing, and above the babble of talk that broke forth I heard the distant call of a whippoorwill. It was enough. I bent low and whispered to my partner:

"Mademoiselle, do you think you could invent a pretext by which we could both be excused from the dance? Could you be taken suddenly ill?"

Mademoiselle Chouteau looked up at me quickly; I think for a moment she thought I wanted to get her away for a cozy flirtation in a quiet little nook, such as some of the other young couples seemed to be enjoying. But when she saw my anxious face she spoke quickly, with the prompt resource I have ever noted in young maidens:

"Certainly, monsieur! In a moment you will see me grow quite pale, and then we will go and ask Gabriel CerrÉ and Marguerite Papin to take our places."

She was as good as her word: in a moment she really seemed to me to turn pale, and she said, quite distinctly, so that those standing near could hear:

"I am very tired, monsieur; I will have to ask you to excuse me from dancing. Perhaps we can persuade another couple to take our places."

I think Gabriel CerrÉ and Mademoiselle Papin were a little loath to give up their pleasant chat, but on Mademoiselle Chouteau's representing that the dance would be broken up, and she was really not able to take another step, they very amiably consented to take our places.

Then I had to explain to Mademoiselle Chouteau, very hurriedly, the reason for my strange request, and in doing so I was compelled to confide to her somewhat of my fears, and beg her to be silent if any one should notice that I too had disappeared. She proved a good ally, and, on my expressing my perplexity as to where to look, she suddenly remembered that she had seen mademoiselle and the chevalier, as the dance was beginning, enter the woodland path that led on around the lake to Rock Spring at its head.

"A favorite resort for young people, and especially," she added slyly, "les amants."

The dance had been moving rapidly and it was not yet over; they could not be so far away but that I could overtake them, and I felt a little relieved. Yet I must see Mademoiselle Chouteau disposed of among her friends; I could not leave her discourteously, and every second of delay fretted me greatly. When that was accomplished, I caught Yorke's eye (for he had arrived very shortly after us, and having made himself generally useful at the dÉjeuner, was now watching the dancers with grinning delight), and motioned to him to follow me.

I slipped into the woodland path, and Yorke did not keep me waiting long. As rapidly as possible I told him my suspicions, and bade him slip into the woods where the horses were tethered and bring his own horse and Fatima by some roundabout way, so as to be unseen, and follow me on the path to the head of the lake.

It was a comfort to feel that Yorke would not be many minutes behind me, for impatient as I often was with his pranks and his eternal grin, I knew him to be a good fighter, and true as steel. Still more of a comfort was it to know Fatima would be within calling of my whistle, for I knew not into what I was going, and if those dark forests overhanging the cliffs on the opposite shore of the lake were as full of the treacherous savages as the frequent call of the whippoorwills had led me to think, I might find that the only road to safety for both mademoiselle and myself was on Fatima's back.

So it was with better courage (though I will not deny that my heart was beating fast) that I set off at a round pace on the woodland path toward the head of the lake. I had ever an eye for the beauties of nature, and an ear attuned to all its voices, yea, and a nostril for its sweet odors, and engrossed as I was (rushing on lest I might be too late, yet dreading every step that I fall into some ambush of whippoorwills), I still could not but note how softly the November sun fell through the half-bare branches, flecking the path with shine and shadow; how glowing cardinals and flaming orioles, not yet started south, flitted through the trees in rollicking sport; and how the sweet odor of dying leaves mingled with the soft call of wood-thrushes. The cottonwoods had laid down a path of gold for me to walk upon, but, fortunately, it had rained the night before and the leaves were still damp and so did not rustle to my tread.

I had hurried on at a breathless pace, following the path that in its turn followed the windings of the lake for nearly a mile, when suddenly I heard voices at no great distance ahead of me. I stopped for a moment, my heart beating so fast I could scarce listen. Yes, it was a man's voice and a maiden's, speaking in low tones as if for each other's ears alone, and I did not doubt it was mademoiselle and the chevalier.

Now it was most distasteful to me to think of playing eavesdropper, and I was of half a mind to stop where I was and wait until they had finished what they had to say and were ready to return. I would at least be near enough at hand to prevent a capture should it be attempted. But as I waited, mademoiselle's voice was suddenly raised, and I heard her say in a tone of pain:

"Do not make me distrust my guardian! I can believe no wrong of him! He has been the only father I have known."

I caught nothing of the chevalier's reply but the two words "interested motives"; but I thought, since it was evidently no tender interchange of sentiment to which I would have to listen, but the rascal was maligning my good friend Dr. Saugrain, it was my duty to listen with all my ears. I crept forward softly, fearing lest a crackling twig or a dry leaf might betray my presence, and fearing, too, since I could not discover whence the voices came, that I might come upon them unawares and so reveal myself.

Which I came very near doing. Another step, and I would have stepped over the brink of a low bluff which encircled a cup-like depression. A cluster of tall oaks rose from the center of the little glen thus formed, sheltering a silvery fountain gushing from a great rock and then, in a bright rivulet, dancing merrily over moss and stones to the lake.

This, then, was Rock Spring, and the source of Chouteau's Pond! A sylvan retreat indeed for lovers, and I had heard it was much frequented by them. A fringe of crimson sumac-bushes screened the edge of the bluff and effectually screened me from two people just below me. I liked not to be spying, but I felt that duty and honor both, and my pledged word to the doctor, demanded that I keep mademoiselle in sight. So I cautiously leaned forward and looked.

Mademoiselle was seated on a boulder with her face turned toward me and uplifted to the chevalier, who was standing with his back to me, looking down on her. Her dark eyes were wide and startled, full of surprise and pain; I was not sure but there were tears in them. Her straight brows were drawn together in a deep furrow, and the scarlet lips, usually so like a Cupid's bow, were set and stern. I wondered what the chevalier could be saying in that low voice of his to move her so deeply. As he finished, mademoiselle sprang to her feet, generous indignation in her flashing eyes and ringing tones.

"I can never believe it! Either I have no such prospects, or he has some good reason for not telling me yet. I will never doubt his truth and honesty!"

Then I heard the chevalier's reply, low and distinct:

"Mademoiselle, your friends in France doubt both the friends of your father and mother. They have sent me here to find you and bring you back with me to your rich estates, to your rank and position, and to the friends who love you. But they know well Dr. Saugrain will never let go his hold on you, until he can get control of your property himself, and so they have instructed me to use all caution and secrecy.

"In the woods yonder, on the other side of the lake, is a trusty escort to ride to Cape Girardeau, where a boat is waiting to take you to New Orleans. In New Orleans is a ship ready to sail the moment mademoiselle puts her foot upon its deck, and in a little more than a month you will be in Paris, among friends who will receive you with outstretched arms, surrounded by every luxury, living the life of grande dame as you ought to live, among the great nobles where you rightfully belong, and not in this rude, rough country among Indians and boors. And mademoiselle will permit me to add, there is no great lady in France so fitted by nature to adorn her high station as she. She will have all Paris at her feet. Come with me now, mademoiselle! There is no time to be lost! Any moment we may be interrupted and it may be too late."

My eyes did not leave mademoiselle's face through all this long speech, and I saw her expression slowly change. The generous indignation was still there, but I saw that the picture that he presented of the life that awaited her in Paris began to fascinate her. She spoke slowly and doubtfully:

"I will tell Dr. and Madame Saugrain all you have told me, and if it is right, they will let me go with you. I will not doubt my friends."

The villain saw that he was gaining ground:

"They are not your friends! They are your bitterest foes. They are keeping you from everything that will make your life grand and beautiful, with the hope of their own gain some day. They will never let you go! If home and Paris and friends and wealth and rank and power are to be won at all, it must be at once. Five minutes more may be too late. That boy [with infinite scorn] may have discovered your absence and come to seek you."

Suddenly the chevalier dropped on one knee, his hand on his heart. I turned quickly away (for I would not listen to what I feared would be a declaration of love), and, as I turned, I saw Yorke coming up the path, leading the two horses, who were picking their way as cautiously as if they knew the occasion demanded the utmost secrecy. I motioned to Yorke to leave the horses where they were (I knew they were so trained they would stand perfectly still without tying) and to come silently to me. I felt that the moment of rescue could not be far distant.

He had crept cautiously up just as the chevalier ceased speaking. I was intent on noting the position of the horses and forming a plan of rescue, and so did not observe Yorke, or I might have prevented what followed. He had stolen up softly behind me, and, unconscious that he was on the edge of a bluff, had stepped a step beyond me. Of course he went over at once, heels over head, turning a complete somersault, and alighted erect, astride the neck of the kneeling chevalier.

At his terrified cry I turned quickly, just in time to see him alight; and if it had been a time for laughing it would have been a funny sight indeed: the look of startled terror on mademoiselle's face gradually changing in spite of herself to one of convulsive merriment; the chevalier, his nose ground in the dust, squirming helplessly and sputtering vigorously in French; and, lastly, the big black, the white balls of his eyes almost starting from his head in amazement and fright, and a ceaseless torrent of ejaculations pouring through his white teeth!

"Oh! Oh, Lordy! Oh, my gracious! Oh, de good Lord! Oh, massy!"

Yet he made no effort to rise, and I began to suspect he was enjoying the situation, for the more vigorously the Frenchman sputtered the louder the negro bellowed.

It was time for me to interpose, but I wished to avoid the appearance of having been spying on them, with Yorke, from above, otherwise I could easily have leaped down the low bluff. Looking around hastily, I discovered, what I had not noted before, that the main path led around the foot of the bluff into the little glen from below. I had followed a branch of it in coming to the top of the bluff. I ran quickly down to the lower entrance of the glen, but there I stopped a moment to assume an air as of one leisurely strolling. I did not pretend to see the group until I was well into the glen where I could also be seen. Then I struck an attitude of intense surprise for mademoiselle's benefit (who by this time had caught sight of me), and when I had sufficiently recovered from the surprise for utterance, I spoke to Yorke in tones of stern command:

"What are you doing, sir, on monsieur's back? Have you taken him for a horse? Or a donkey? Off, sir, this moment, and make your humble apologies to the chevalier."

Yorke was not much afraid of my stern tone. Still yelling bloody murder, he contrived a most audacious wink with the eye next to me, but he tumbled off slowly, and then I hastened to help the chevalier to his feet. He was a sorry spectacle, and I saw mademoiselle's look of suppressed amusement change to pity and concern. Blood was gushing from his nose all over his fine clothes, and his face was so begrimed and gory it would have been impossible to guess it was the dapper Parisian.

But he was in such a blind rage that for once he ignored his clothes. Stanching the blood as best he could with his flimsy lace handkerchief, he poured out a torrent of abuse in mingled French and English, on Yorke and on me, but principally on me. I tried to interpose a polite word of regret, but he would not listen to me.

"You air a sneak, a cowaird, sir! You spy on mademoiselle and me! Cowair-r-r-d! I will have the satisfaction! SacrÉ Dieu! You have no doubt told the negro to leap upon my back! I will have r-r-r-evenge!"

And as if reminded by that last word, he turned to mademoiselle and spoke in French:

"Fly with me at once, mademoiselle! You will not stay to be at the mercy of a sneaking spy. See! I will call my red friends. Do not be afraid! They will carry you off, but I will be with you, and we will find horses and fly."

And without waiting for an answer he turned and imitated three times the call of a whippoorwill.

I knew what that meant—that in a moment the Osages would be upon us; and hardly had his first call left his lips before I too had turned and uttered the shrill whistle that always brought Fatima to my side.

As I knew, the last whippoorwill call had not died away when from the woods on the opposite side of the lake, silently, swiftly stole first one dark figure and then another, until at least a dozen savages, armed and painted, were bearing down upon us with the fleetness of deer. In a moment more they would be upon us, and neither Yorke's life nor mine would be worth the asking, and, what was far harder to contemplate, mademoiselle would be captive in their hands.

She stood for a moment petrified with horror at the sight of the swiftly advancing savages, and then she turned to me in an agony of entreaty.

"Oh, fly, fly at once!" she said, "you and your black man, before it is too late."

I turned to Yorke:

"Go as mademoiselle bids you; get your horse and fly."

Yorke tried to remonstrate, but I would not let him open his lips.

"No; you will only hinder me now. If worse comes to worst, you can at least bear the news. Go at once!" And without waiting for further orders, Yorke turned, scrambled up the face of the bluff, and was off.

"But you will go, too!" she cried, as I turned again to her.

"And leave you?"

"Oh, do not mind me! They will not hurt me!" And then, as I stood perfectly still, with my pistols ready, but with no intention of leaving her to the tender mercies of the savages and the savage mercies of the chevalier, she grew desperate, grasping my arm and trying with her feeble strength to push me toward safety.

"I implore you," she entreated, "if you have any feeling of friendship for me, fly before it is too late!"

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I stir not one step from this spot unless you go with me."

"I will but hinder you," she cried, "and prevent all possibility of escape. Oh, do not stay for me!"

"Mademoiselle," said the chevalier, who had been enjoying this scene, with no attempt at concealing his relish for it, "go with monsieur, since he desires it."

Even as he spoke, the first of the Osages darted into the glen; the others were close at his heels; but at the same moment from the entrance of the glen nearer to us came the thunder of hoofs, and Fatima was at my side, her eyes flashing, her hoofs pawing the earth, her nostrils snorting with rage: for well she guessed that painted savages meant danger to her master.

I was on her back in a moment, and, stooping, lifted mademoiselle swiftly to the crupper in front of me. Holding her there with my left arm, I wheeled Fatima with the one word of command, "Go!" and turning my head as she flew over the rough earth, I leveled my pistol at the chevalier.

"Do not stir, monsieur, at the peril of your life!" I called to him, and kept him covered as we flew. I knew the savages were running to try to head me off but I paid no attention to them until, rounding a great boulder, the chevalier (his face ghastly with rage and disappointed revenge, for so sudden had it all been he had had no time even to draw his pistol to prevent the rescue until too late) was out of my range, as we were out of his. Then, turning my pistol swiftly on the Osage in the lead,—none too soon, for his rifle was leveled at us,—I fired. The poor fellow fell forward with a wild yell that turned my heart sick; yet none the less, the others rushing on with their wild whoops to avenge him, I drew my second pistol and fired once more.

But I knew not with what result, for mademoiselle, with a convulsive shudder and a look of mortal woe, cried out:

"You have killed the chevalier!"

"No, mademoiselle," I answered grimly; "I have killed the poor whippoorwill you asked me for"; and then had all I could do without paying any more attention to the savages, for mademoiselle had fainted and lay like one dead on my arm, her white face upturned to mine, her long black lashes sweeping the marble cheeks, and the dark curls falling backward from the white brow and floating on the wind, as Fatima flashed along the woodland path like a swallow on the wing.