The returning hunters were promptly admitted to the fort. The little garrison welcomed them joyfully. The West Country sailors were, for the moment, cordial even toward D'Antons, whom they usually ignored. The party had taken a hundred chances with death in the crossing of the narrow clearing. Arrows had followed them from the fringe of wood along the river, like bees from an overturned hive. Ouenwa's left arm had been scratched. D'Antons' fur cap had been torn from his head, pierced through and through. A hail of missiles had clattered against the gate as the good timbers swung to behind them. Cries of rage and chagrin, in which Ouenwa's name was repeated many times, rang from the retreat of the defeated warriors. The garrison answered with cheers. Ouenwa's shrill voice carried clear above the tumult, lifted in Beothic insults.

Sir Ralph himself was in command of the imperilled fortress. The excitement had stirred him out of his customary gloom. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flew a patch of colour. His sword was at his side, and he held a musket in his hand.

"That was their third attempt to get over the stockade," he said to Kingswell and D'Antons. "They are filled with the very devil to-day. But I scarcely think that they will come back for more, now that Trigget has got his growlers into working order."

"How did it begin?" asked the Frenchman.

"Why, about three score of them marched up and said they wanted to come in and trade," replied the baronet, "but, as they seemed to have nothing to trade save their bows and spears, Trigget warned them off. Then they went out on the river and began chopping up the Red Rose and the Pelican. At that we let off a musket, and they retired to cover, from which they soon emerged with reinforcements and tried to carry the place by weight of numbers."

"Hark," said the Frenchman. "What is that they are yelling?"

"My name," replied Ouenwa. "They are my enemies."

"Ah, and so it is our privilege to fight this gentleman's battles for him," remarked D'Antons, with an exaggerated bow to the lad. "Perhaps this is the explanation of the attack."

"I think not," answered Kingswell, crisply. "They are surprised at discovering him here. Also they are surprised and displeased at seeing me again. They have smelled our powder before, as you have heard, I think."

"Yes, I have heard the heroic tale, monsieur," replied the captain, smiling his thin, one-sided, Continental smile.

The blood mounted in Kingswell's cheek. He turned on his heel without any further words. Ouenwa followed him to the Trigget cabin, whence he was bound for something to eat.

Panounia and his braves retreated across the frozen river, and did not show themselves again that day. In the fort every musket was loaded, the improvised gun-shields were repaired and strengthened, and the guns were again got ready for action. In place of round shot, William Trigget charged them with scrap-iron and slugs of lead.

"When ye has a lot o' mowin' to do in a short time, cut a wide swath," he remarked to Tom Bent.

"Ay, sir," replied Kingswell's boatswain, turning a hawk-like eye on the dark edges of the forest. "Ay, sir, cut a wide swath, an' let the devil make the hay. It be mun's own crop."

At the time of the hunters' return, Mistress Beatrix was looking from the doorway of her father's cabin. Now she knelt in her own chamber, sobbing quietly, with her face buried in her hands. All the bitterness and insecurity of her position had come to her with overmastering force. The sight of Captain d'Antons' thin face and uncovered, bedraggled hair, as he leaned on his musket and talked with her father and the young Englishman, had melted the courage in her heart. She prayed confusedly, half her thoughts with the petitions which she made to her God, and half with the desperate state of her affairs and the features and attitude of the buccaneer.

She was disturbed by some one entering the outer room. She recognized the footsteps as those of Sir Ralph. She got up from her knees, bathed her face and eyes, touched her hair to order with skilful fingers, and opened the door of her chamber. The baronet looked up at the sound.

"Ah, lass," he said, "we've driven the rascals off. They have crossed the river."

With that he fell again to his slow pacing of the room.

"I do not fear the savages," she cried. "Oh, I do think their knives and arrows would be welcome."

"Poor child! poor little lass!" he said, pausing beside her and kissing her tenderly. "You have been weeping," he added, concernedly. "But courage, dear. The fellow is harmless for five long months to come. His fangs are as good as filed, shut off here and surrounded by the snow and the savages."

Evidently the sight of his daughter's distress had dimmed the finer conception of his promise to D'Antons. He looked about him uneasily and sighed.

She laid her face against his coat and held tight to his sleeves.

"I hate him," she whispered. "Oh, my father, I hate him for my own sake as much as I fear him for yours. His every covert glance, his every open attention, stings me like a whip. And yet, out of fear, I must smile and simper, and play the hypocrite."

"No—by God!" exclaimed Westleigh, trembling with emotion. Then, more quietly, "Beatrix, I cannot wear this mask any longer. The fellow is hateful to me. I despise him. How such a creation of the devil's can love you so unswervingly is more than I can fathom. I would rather see you dead than married to him. There—I have broken my word again! Let me go."

He freed himself from the girl's hands, caught up his hat and cloak, and left the cabin. He crossed over to the well-house, where some of the men were grinding axes and cutlasses, and joined feverishly in their simple talk of work, and battle, and adventure. Their honest faces and homely language drove a little of the bitterness of his shame from him. Presently Kingswell and Ouenwa joined the group about the complaining grindstone.

"Come," said Sir Ralph, "and look at the cannon."

He plucked Kingswell by the sleeve. Ouenwa followed them. All three ascended the little platform on which the guns were mounted, by way of a short ladder. The pieces, ready loaded, were snugly covered with tarpaulins that could be snatched off in a turn of the hand.

"A worthy fellow is William Trigget," remarked the baronet. "Ay, he is true as steel."

He laid a caressing hand on the breech of one of the little cannon. "I would trust him, yea, and his good fellows, with anything I possess," he said, "as readily as I trust these growlers to his care."

Just then Ouenwa pointed northward to the wooded bluff that cut into the white valley and hid the settlement from the lower reaches of the river. From beyond the point, moving slowly and unsteadily, appeared a solitary human figure. Its course lay well out on the level floor of the stream, and the forest growth along the shore did not conceal it from the watchers. It approached uncertainly, as if without a definite goal, and, when within a few hundred yards of the fort, staggered and fell prone.

"What the devil does it mean?" cried Sir Ralph.

Kingswell shook his head, and questioned Ouenwa. The lad continued to gaze out across the open. The sun was low over the western hills, and its light was red on the snow.

"Hurt," he said, presently. "Maybe starved. He is not of Panounia's band."

"How do you know that, lad?" asked the baronet.

"I know," replied the boy. "He is a hunter. He is not of the war-party. He is from the salt water."

"He is usually right when he maintains that a thing is so, without being able to give a reason for it," said Kingswell, quietly. "And, if he is, it seems a pity to let the man die out there under our very eyes."

"God knows I do not want any one to suffer," said the baronet, "but may it not be a trick of this Panounia's, or whatever you call him?"

"No trick," replied Ouenwa; and, without so much as "by your leave," he vaulted over the breastwork of faggots and landed lightly on the snow outside the stockade. Without a moment's hesitation, Kingswell followed. Together they started toward the still figure out on the river, at a brisk run. They had reached the bank before Sir Ralph recovered from his astonishment. He quickly descended to the square, and, without attracting any attention, informed William Trigget of what had happened. Trigget and his son immediately ascended to the guns and drew off their tarpaulins. "We'll cover the retreat, sir," said the mariner. They saw their reckless comrades bend over the prostrate stranger. Then Kingswell lifted the apparently lifeless body and started back at a jog trot. Ouenwa lagged behind, with his head continually over his shoulder. The elder Trigget swore a great oath, and smacked a knotty fist into a leathern palm.

"Them's well-plucked uns," he added.

The baronet and John Trigget agreed silently. They were too intent on the approach of the rescuers to speak. Also, they kept a keen outlook along the woods on the farther shore. But the enemy made no sign; and Kingswell, Ouenwa, and the unconscious stranger reached the stockade in safety. The stranger proved to be none other than Black Feather, the stalwart and kindly brave who had built his lodge beside the old arrow-maker's, above Wigwam Harbour, in the days of peace. He was carried into Trigget's cabin and dosed with French brandy until he opened his eyes. He looked about him blankly for a second or two, and then his lids fluttered down again. He had not recognized either Kingswell or Ouenwa.

"Oh, the poor lad, the poor lad," cried Dame Trigget. "Whatever has mun been a-doin' now, to get so distressin' scrawny? An' a fine figger, too, though he be a heathen, without a manner o' doubt."

"Never mind his religious beliefs, dame, but get some of your good venison broth inside of him," said Master Kingswell. "That's a treatment that would surely convert any number of heathen."

While they were clustered about Black Feather's couch, D'Antons entered. He peered over Dame Trigget's ample shoulders and looked considerably surprised at finding an unconscious, emaciated Beothic the centre of attraction.

"What's this?" he asked. "A tragedy or a comedy?"

His tone was sour, and too bantering for the occasion.

The baronet turned on him with an expression of mouth and eye that did not pass unnoticed by the little group.

"Certainly not a comedy, monsieur," he replied, coldly; "and we hope it will not prove a tragedy."